NEW PUBLICATIONSTheologia Moralis Novissimi Ecclesiæ Doctoris S. Alphonsi.Auctore A. Konings, C.S.S.R. Editio Altera, Aucta et Emendata. Benziger Fratres, 1876.We have already noticed the first edition of this work, which is certainly a valuable and excellent one in many respects. It has received the approbation of his Eminence the Cardinal, and of many others of the prelates of this country, has apparently been well received by the clergy in general, and it will not be at all surprising if it becomes the standard text-book of moral theology in the seminaries of the United States. This success it goes far to deserve. It supplies a great want in the treatises previously used, by bringing in many points relating to the laws and customs existing among us; and this alone might seem a sufficient reason for its adoption. It has also many other advantages, partly due to the ability of the author, partly to the works which he has taken (as all writers on this subject must at the present day) for his basis. Among these he has principally followed Gury, adhering more, perhaps, to his language than to that ofSt.Alphonsus.But, in spite of the many advantages and excellences of the book, we must enter a protest against its use, at least as the sole authority on which the minds of theological students are to be formed. And this protest is on account of the system of equi-probabilism taught in it, which we should be very sorry to have prevail, both on the ground of its unreasonableness, and on that of its bad practical effects.We should have no space in a notice of this kind to discuss fully this very important and much vexed question. But the point of our criticism can be sufficiently made by simply referring to the author’s definitions of the grades of probability in opinions (p.27).The obvious objection to these definitions, which are made the basis of his system, and which must, indeed, be made the basis of any system of equi-probabilism, is that, according to them, an opinioncannot be notably or decidedly more probable than its contradictory without making that contradictory “not solidly probable,” to use the author’s words, which are the usual technical ones.Now, we venture to think that such a statement as this with regard to probability would hardly be made in treating of any other subject than that at present in hand. Suppose, for instance, the question to be one of physical science,—that, for example, of the solar parallax. Now, we think we are not wrong in saying that it is decidedly more probable that this parallax is greater than 8-8⁄10seconds of arc than that it is less than this amount. Be that as it may, it is certain that there is some value, perfectly ascertainable by methods of computation on which astronomers would agree, for which, in the present state of science, we could say that the probability of the parallax exceeding this value is once and a half times as great as that of its falling short of it. Certainly in this case it would be decidedly more probable that it does exceed this value than that it does not. Yet who would say that the probability of its not exceeding that value was destitute of any solidity?We may take a case in which probability is susceptible of exact numerical computation. Suppose two balls, one white and one black, to be together in a box, and that we draw twice from this box, putting back the ball drawn the first time. The probability that we shall not draw the white ball twice is three times as great as that we shall; yet would any one say that there was no solid probability of so drawing it? If it was a question of drawing it five times, then the probability of this, being only1⁄31of that of the contradictory, might, indeed, not be “solid.”The whole case can, as it would seem, be put in the following form: It is agreed, by equi-probabilists, as well as by probabilists, that a solidly probable opinion against the law can be followed. If the former choose to call an opinion only slightly less probable than its contradictory, till its probability becomes so smallthat it really, in the common judgment of men, ceases to be solid, they depart from the common use of language, but the controversy between them and the latter is merely one of the use of words.But if the equi-probabilists refuse to call an opinion solidly probable as soon as its probability becomes what men would generally call decidedly less than that of its contradictory (two-thirds of it, for instance), they depart, as seems evident from the above cases, again from the common use of words, and the statement—the complement of the former one, and on which also both parties agree—that an opinion against the law not solidly probable cannot be followed, has, in their mouths, a new meaning, which the judgment of mankind will, it seems to us, hardly accept, and which will lead to perpetual and most embarrassing changes of doctrine and practice. The author undoubtedly believes that he is followingSt.Alphonsus in his system; it seems to us that he has, with other equi-probabilists, not rightly apprehended the meaning of certain passages in the works of that illustrious Doctor, which seem certainly at first sight to have such a sense. But to discuss this matter would lead us too far.The Faith of Our Fathers: Being a Plain Exposition and Vindication of the Church founded by Our Lord Jesus Christ. ByRt. Rev.James Gibbons,D.D., Bishop of Richmond and Administrator-Apostolic of North Carolina. Baltimore: Murphy &Co.; London: Washbourne. 1877.We have rarely met with a book which pleased us so thoroughly as this little volume of the Bishop of Richmond. It is popular, and is therefore not addressed to the few who are interested in the philosophical and scientific controversies of the age, but to the people, to the multitude, as were the words of Christ. It is a thoroughly honest book, written by a man who loves the church and his country and who is deeply interested in whatever concerns the welfare of mankind. From the start we are convinced of his perfect sincerity. Not to make a book has he written; but he believes, and therefore speaks. It is this that gives value to literature—the human life, the human experience, which itcontains. Bishop Gibbons has labored for several years with great zeal in North Carolina and Virginia, where there are few Catholics, where the opportunities of dispelling Protestant prejudice are rare, but where the people are generally not unwilling to be enlightened. Learned arguments are less needed than clear and accurate statements of the doctrines, practices, and aims of the church. Catholic truth is its own best evidence: is more persuasive than any logic with which the human mind is able to reinforce it.To the right mind and pure heart it appeals with irresistible force; and therefore the great work of those who labor for God is to put away the mental and moral obstructions which shut out the view of the truth as it is in Christ. In setting forth in clear and simple style “the faith of our fathers” Bishop Gibbons is careful to meet all the objections which are likely to be made to the church. He is thoroughly acquainted with the American people; is himself an American; and his book is another proof that the purest devotion to the church is compatible with the deepest love for the freest and most democratic of governments. Sympathy gives him insight, reveals the matter and the manner that suit his purpose best. The skill with which he has compressed into a small volume such a variety of topics, giving to each satisfactory treatment, is truly admirable. He seems to have forgotten nothing, and has consequently produced a complete popular explanation and vindication of Catholic doctrine. We cannot praise too highly the tone and temper of this book.The author is not aggressive; is never bitter, never sneers nor deals in sarcasm or ridicule; does not treat his reader as a foe to be beaten, but as a brother to be persuaded. His sense of religion is too deep to allow him to make light of any honest faith. We perceive on every page the reverend and Christian bishop who knows that charity and not hate is the divine power of the church; the fire that sets the world ablaze. It is not necessary that we should say more in commendation of this treatise. It will most certainly have a wide circulation, and its merits will be advertised by every reader. Bishop Gibbons has written chiefly for Protestants, but we hope his book will find entrance into every Catholic family in the land.Deirdre.Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.The poet who ventures on an epic in these days deserves well of literature. To turn from the puling, weak, or nauseous themes which form the subjects of most of the contemporary English poetry is in itself a sign of a strong and healthy temperament. Nevertheless, the venture is a bold one. Pretty and graceful lyric verse may pass easily enough and win a transient popularity without challenging any strong comparison, lost as it is in the crowd of its fellows. But when an epic is mentioned, Homer towers up with Virgil in his train; Dante sweeps along; the shade of Milton oppresses us; we are in the company of giants and breathe reverently. The men who grasp epochs of history and human life, and string them into numbers that resound through all the ages, are few indeed. So we say he is a bold man who would follow in their track; but, at least, his ambition is great, whatever be its execution.The author ofDeirdrèis not a Homer or a Virgil; he is not even equal to those fine English echoes of the great masters—Dryden and Pope; and although we do not know him, and are not sure as to who he is, we have little doubt that no man would be readier to concede what we here state than the author ofDeirdrèhimself. At least, he will consider it no dishonor that his song should wake the memory of those great singers in our mind.Deirdrèis an Irish story of pre-Christian times. Like theIliad, it has its Helen, who gives her name to the poem, and around her the story centres. The beauty of Deirdrè, like that of Helen, is her curse. Wherever she goes she is a brand of discord. Heroes fight for her, wars are waged for possession of her, great deeds are done in her name, and the end is disaster for all. She is unlike her Greek prototype only in her Irish chastity, pagan though she was. There have been Irish Helens, and the disaster of her race is to be traced to one of them; but they are only remembered to be cursed. Still, the author was at liberty, if he chose, to follow the prevailing taste of the day, and add a spurious interest to his poem by making its heroine unfaithful to her spouse. He has done the contrary. It is the very fidelity of Deirdrè that adds its chief interest to the poem. From the day when first the squirrelcried to her from the tree in the garden where she had been enclosed by the king:“Come up! come up! Come up, and see the world!”and she obeyed the promptings of her nature and went up, and for the first time looked over the garden wall and saw “the great world spread out,” she lost her heart, for here is what she saw:“Three youthful knights in all their martial pride,With red cloaks fluttering in the summer breeze,And gay gems flashing on their harnesses,And on the helm that guarded each proud head,And on each shield where shone the Branch of Red.And, as they passed, the eldest of the three,With great black, wistful eyes looked up at me;For he did mark this yellow head of mineAmid the green tree’s branches glint and shine.And oh! the look—the fond, bright look—he gave!…”These were the three heroic sons of Usna, and the eldest of the three is Naisi, who finds his way into the charmed forest where Deirdrè is kept by the king until she should grow to an age ripe enough to fit her to be made his queen. The young lady objects—as young ladies will do sometimes—to be disposed of in this manner, and Naisi, having first stolen her heart, completes his theft by stealing herself. They fly from Eman, and Clan Usna accompanies them. The rest of the poem is made up of their wanderings and final luring back to Eman, when the king wreaks his vengeance upon them. With the fate of the sons of Usna and Deirdrè the poem closes.There is much that is admirable in the whole work. The scenes are wonderfully well localized. One never strays into to-day. The author has completely mastered the difficult geographical terminology, and makes it sweet and pleasant to the ear. The men are cast in heroic mould, and a tinge of chivalry added to them that beautifies and ennobles them. Deirdrè is a sweet, pure, and loving woman; her early youth in the garden of the king is in itself an idyllic gem. The battle scenes are strong and vigorous, and not too long drawn out; a sea-fight in particular is wonderfully well described. The glimpses of natural scenery given here and there are varied and picturesque. Indeed, there is everything that is good in the poem, but nothing that can be calledgreat; and greatnessis the standard and measure of an epic.We think the author, too, has been careless in the construction of his verse. It is unequal. Half-rhymes abound: “bird” and “stirred,” “house” and “carouse,” “restored” and “board,” “hum” and “room,” “jollity” and “company,” “heath” and “breath,” cannot be considered good rhymes, yet they are all found within the first three pages. They are to too great an extent characteristic of the whole. Then there is an abundance of weak and commonplace couplets, such as the following:“The earth’s dark places, felt himself full sad,He knew not why, and sent, to make him glad.”* * * * *“From the bright palace straightway to his house,That they might hold therein a gay carouse.”* * * * *“Yet higher rose the joy and jollityOf the Great King and all that company.”* * * * *“Till morn’s gay star rose o’er the golden sea,And sent to slumber all that company.”* * * * *Now, such lines should never have passed the censorship of one who can give such other lines as these:“Whose fierce eye o’er the margin of his shieldHad gazed from war’s first ridge on many a field.”“Many a field” is weak, but the picture is very good. Strange to say, the two lines immediately following are these:“Unblinking at the foe that on him glared,And might be ten to one for all he cared.”The epic spirit contained in the last line needs no comment.Again, here is a strong picture:“Since Mananan, the Sea-God, first upthrewThe wild isle’s stony ribs unto the blue.”And here a sweet one:“… Then from her forehead fairShe brushed a silken ripple of bright hairThat from the flood of her rich tresses stole,And looked with wordless love into his soul.”Sometimes we fall upon lines that we fancy we have heard before—as these, for instance, which anybody might claim and not be proud of:“The merry village with its sheltering trees,The peaceful cattle browsing o’er the leas,The hardy shepherd whistling on the plainWith his white flock, by fields of ripened grain,” etc., etc.And here are lines which we fancy Mr. Tennyson might with justice claim:“… And velvet catkins on the willow shoneBy lowland streams,and on the hills the larchScented with odorous buds the winds of March.”One more objection we must make, and that is to the tiresomely frequent use of the word “full.” It occurs everywhere, sometimes twice or thrice in one page. Feilimid feels himself “full sad” (p.1). Inp.46 Caffa shakes his head “full dolefully.” Inp.49 “The east and north a strong Wind blewfull keen.” Inp.55 Deirdrè grows “full pale”; inp.58 she goes “to and fro” “full secretly”; inp.59 she has thoughts “full sad”; while Naisi (p.62) laughs to himself “full low,” his heart with love’s ardor grows “full warm” (p.65). Maini watches Naisi “full treacherously” (p.69), and three lines lower on the same page he is still watching him “full warily.” The loyal wife grasps her babe “full firm” (p.164)—an expression that, allowing even for poetic license, is very doubtful grammar; “full soon” adornsp.165; “full stern” shall be the fight (p.166); “full many” a mile (p.166); “full many” a festal fire (p.167); even the very babe crows “full lustily” (p.131).Of course repetition is allowable and, if rightly used, a beauty. In Homer Juno is always “white-armed,” Venus “ox-eyed,” Apollo “far-darting,” Agamemnon a “king of men,” Achilles “swift-footed,” the dawn “rosy-fingered,” the sea “hoarse-resounding,” and so on. But we need not dwell on the point that this is a very different kind of repetition from that inDeirdrè, which is faulty and tiresome in the extreme.The defects we have pointed out are such as might have been easily avoided by care in the supervision. As it is, they seriously mar a work of real power, much promise, and undeniable beauty.Religion and Education.By the veryRev.Thomas S. Preston,V.G.New York: Robert Coddington. 1876.There is much matter for thought and reflection in this pamphlet of forty-six pages. It treats of what is now an old subject, yet a subject about which new issues are constantly being raised, not only in this country but all the world over. And as the subject is far from being settled, and is likely so to remain for some time to come, one cannot but welcome the observations and pronouncedexpression of such a mind as that of the distinguished author regarding a vital question of this and all countries and of all time. The question of education has been treated time and again in these pages. Indeed, many of the articles which have appeared inThe Catholic Worldhave been collected and published in book-form (Catholics and Education), and combined make an excellent treatise in defence of Catholic education as opposed to the popular objections of non-Catholics. Father Preston necessarily travels over old ground here, but with a freshness, vigor, and clearness of statement and exposition that will amply repay the reader. His lecture—for such it was—bears all the marks of a strong and trained mind, fully alive to the difficulties that beset the vexed question of which he treats, yet of one who knows exactly where strength ends and extravagance begins. There is, perhaps, no question to-day more open to extravagant demands and declamation on both sides than this of education. The tendency of the times regarding it is in a radically wrong direction. Hot words will not mend matters, but calm reason, such as this pamphlet affords, will in the long run tell. To sincere and rightly-instructed Catholics there is no question at all in the matter. Education is as much a subject of religious discipline as is the guiding of a man’s life, and to banish God from the school is no more justifiable than to banish him from the church or the home. No Catholic dare say to God: We will admit you here, but not there. At the same time we must take into serious account the opinions of men who, having practically lost faith, cannot be expected to look upon everything in the same light as ourselves. More especially is this the case in a country like our own, where all things are still more or less in a state of formation. It is very certain that the Fathers of this Republic, to whom in our emergencies we often vaguely appeal, never dreamed that the whole machinery of a republic which, in its present vastness, power, and future import, could scarcely have flashed even on their happiest dreams, would be perfectly adjusted in a century. We must make the best of things as they exist, work earnestly, untiringly, and hopefully to make them still better, but not slap the whole world in the face for the poor satisfactionof the slap. Father Preston is an excellent guide in this matter. There is not a waste word in all that he says. He has a reason, and gives it, for every statement, and he strengthens his position by the testimony of honored men among those opposed to him. It is strange that this country should be behind every other civilized nation in the fair adjustment of the educational question. They do the best they can for all denominations; we seem to have one predominating idea—to wit, that Catholic children, so far as the States can prevent it without absolute force, shall not have the right of Catholic education. Education is not and never can be a purely abstract affair as regards religion. It must have some informing moral principle, which will be right or wrong according to circumstances. Catholics refuse, on their conscience, to have any doubt about the matter. Others may do as they think fit under a government which professes to respect absolute freedom of conscience.Theirfreedom of conscience recognizes and claims education for their children in the spirit of their faith. To deny this is coercion. To make them contribute to a system of education based on its denial is coercion and extortion. To see how fully enlightened Protestants and enlightened governments uphold this view, we can recommend nothing better in a brief form than the pages of this admirable pamphlet.Wit, Humor, and Shakspeare.Twelve Essays. By John Weiss. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.There could be no better proof of the large tolerance of literary charlatanism by the American public than that a shrewd Boston firm should in such times as the present consent to publish a book like this. Mr. Weiss evidently has nothing to say which can be of interest to a sensible man, and his style is as bad as his thought. His chief aim, it would appear, is to be odd, unnatural, and barbarous. Like the clown in the circus, he hopes to amuse us by his antics, if not by his wit. But fantastic and affected phraseology cannot hide poverty or barrenness of thought. If a man has nothing to say, grimaces only make him ridiculous in the eyes of the judicious. It would seem, too, that the author is under the delusion that he may succeed in making us believe that he means something by strivingto render it as difficult as possible to find out what he means. Here are specimens of his style: “The life-breaths of joy and grief tend primitively to the lungs, and they voice the mother-tongue of all emotions.” “What a wide range of nature’s curiousfreakerya forest has!” “Only those who are capable of annihilating capricious distinctions by feelings of common humanness are capable of enjoying the union of heterogeneous ideas.”It is Mr. Weiss’ great misfortune to believe that he is witty; and the attempts which reveal this deep conviction might indeed make us laugh, if they did not make us grieve.“What mutual impression do a dog and a duck make? He runs around with frolic transpiring in his tail, and barks to announce a wish to fraternize; or perhaps it is a short and nervous bark, and indicates unsettled views about ducks. Meantime, the duck waddles off with an inane quack, so remote from a bark that it must convince any well-informed dog of the hopelessness of proposing either business or pleasure to such a doting and toothless pate.” “But as yet no cosey couples of clever apes have been discovered in paroxysms of laughter over the last sylvan equivoque; nor have elephants been seen silently shaking at a joke too ponderous for their trunks to carry.” “We cannot imagine that a turtle’s head gets tired lying around decapitated for a week or more.”We cannot pardon Mr. Emerson for having made such men as Mr. Weiss possible. He is a morbid product—one of the sick multitude whose disease he has himself diagnosed. “Multitudes of our American brains are badly drained in consequence of a settling of the wastage of house-grubbing and street-work into moral morasses which generate many a chimera.” This is on the twelfth page, and to this point we followed the author with a kind of interest; for it was still possible to hope that he might not be an American. The English critics, however, may find his humor capital, since they think Walt Whitman our greatest poet; and Mr. Weiss finds examples of wit and humor in this country truly Shaksperean:“There was a man who stood on his head under a pile-driver to have a pair of tight boots driven on. He found himself shortly after in China, perfectly nakedand without a cent in his pocket.” “There is a man in the West so bow-legged that his pantaloons have to be cut out with a circular saw.” “Some of the Texan cows have been lately described as so thin that it takes two men to see one of them. The men stand back to back, so that one says, ‘Here she comes!’ and the other cries, ‘There she goes!’ Thus between them both the cow is seen.”“All these American instances”—we quote the thoughtful and profound observation of Mr. Weiss—“are conceived in the pure Shakesperean blending of the understanding and the imagination.” But one more of them, perhaps the most artistically perfect of all, must suffice. “A coachman, driving up some mountains in Vermont, was asked by an outside passenger if they were as steep on the other side also. ‘Steep! Chain lightnin’ couldn’t go down ’em witheout the breechin’ on!’”Nothing could be finer than the epigrammatic style in which Mr. Weiss throws some of Shakspere’s characters into a crisp Emersonian sentence: “Pistol is the raw article of poltroonery done in fustian instead of a gayly-slashed doublet. Bardolph is the capaciousness for sherry, without the capacity to make it apprehensive and forgetive; it goes to his head, but, finding no brain there, is provoked to the nose, where it lights a cautionary signal. Nym is the brag stripped of resource, shivering on prosiness.” We are quite prepared, after all this, to find that Mr. Weiss belongs to the class of enlightened men who, in the name of science, sneer at religion. It is hardly worth while to attempt his conversion.Poems: Devotional and Occasional.By Benjamin Dionysius Hill,C.S.P.New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1877.In his last sermon on “Subjects of the Day” (“The Parting of Friends”), Dr. Newman exclaims: “O my mother, whence is this unto thee, that thou hast good things poured upon thee and canst not keep them, and bearest children, yet darest not own them? Why hast thou not the skill to use their services, nor the heart to rejoice in their love? How is it that whatever is generous in purpose, and tender or deep in devotion, thy flower and thy promise, falls from thy bosom and finds no home within thine arms?”The author of these poems gives to his Mother the whole—not a part—of a delicate poetic talent that would have found a warm welcome in the world which knows her not. The art in the poems is unaffected and genuine; there is no pretence of artistic ambition, nor any provoking involution of the thought in order to display the tricks and pretty devices of metre which would have come easily to one whose sense of poetic tune is so true. The verse, although by no means monotonous, is uniformly simple; the rhymes are never weak and are always sweet—qualities rarely combined—and the infallible poetic instinct fills the lines with melody, which, at first so subtle and fine that it almost eludes, is soon discovered to be exquisitely and permanently sweet.The dominant thought is religious rapture. Father Hill was not always under the benign influence which has brought this guerdon to his gifts. He was outside the only church which offers man’s heart an ideal of absolute perfection.“A barren creed had starved me.”God called him“to fill the place of someIngrate who had thrown his childhood’s faith away,”and within the consecrated precincts of the priesthood he discovered a gracious light upon his imagination—the light of Our Lady. So he has proved her poet; and the tributes that he lays at her feet are rich and warm with the full beating ardor of manhood’s love. The pure sensuousness which gives strikingly what the painters would call “fine flesh-tint” to the poems will prove a strong attraction to the fervent hearts of thousands who, like Father Hill, love the Mother of our Lord with an uncontrollable intensity of human affection, but who, unlike him, are unable fittingly to express that affection to her, or even to define it to themselves or to others. Father Hill is literally the knight of Mary, and he does more than the obligations of knighthood required; for, in addition to loving, fighting for, and seeking his reward from her, he sings her praise. He gives her at once his sword and his lyre. The beauty of this chivalry of the soul is not easily to be understood by the shallow or the thoughtless; yet even the irreverent will acknowledge its holiness, and the commonest mind will be unableto resist its singular charms. Who can be insensible to such loyalty to the religious ideal as this?“TO BE FORGIVEN.“I call thee ‘Love’—‘my sweet, my dearest Love’Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.Yet I forget not that, in realms above,The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.“If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needsAdore to all melodious excessWhat cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.“And then thou art my Mother—God’s, yet mine!Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best:And I as tenderly, intimately thineAs He, my Brother, carried at the breast.“My Mother! ’tis enough. If mine the rightTo call thee this, much more to muse and sighAll other honeyed names. A slave I might—A son, I must. And both of these am I.”This exquisite piety is entitled “Love’s Prisoner”:* * * * *“But is He lonely? Bend not hereAdoring angels as on high?Ah yes: but yet, when we appear,A softer glory floods His eye.’Tis earth’s frail child He longs to see;And thus He is alone—for me!* * * * *“Then, best of lovers, I’ll draw nearEach day to minister relief.For tho’ the thought of year on yearOf sin should make me die of grief,Yet day by day my God I see‘Sick and in prison’—all for me!”Those whose imagination is without devotion, or whose devotion lacks imagination, will look upon the author of these poems as one indeed “set apart.” Yet even Dr. Newman, the giant intellect of modern thought, looked upon Keble, as he tells us himself, with awe, simply because Keble was a true religious poet; and these two came to love each other with a tenderness that did not expire, but was rather increased, when the one passed within the gates of Mother Rome, and the other, faltering in tears, sadly loitered, then suffered himself to be led away. So many a lesser Newman will learn to love this lesser and more melodious poet within the sanctuary, and his glowing soul will distribute some of its own warmth into the hospitable recesses in which this little book will find nooks the hosts never thought of.Life of Mother Maria Teresa, Foundress of the Congregation of the Adoration of Reparation.By the Abbé Hulst. Translated by Lady Herbert. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)To many people there is no reading so pleasant as a biography; but when, as in the life of a great servant of God, solid instruction and sweet devotion are found united in the details of personal history, the work becomes a hand-book in a Christian’s library. Of this kind is the present work, which, although only a small volume, contains a great deal of matter, and is written with all that ease andnaïvetéwhich are so often found in French biographies. It is translated into English by Lady Herbert, who is thoroughly competent for the task.Theodolind Dubouché was born at Montauban, in France, on the2dof May, 1809; but her mother was of Italian origin, and it is a little singular that the daughter’s portrait prefixed to thisLifebears a remarkable resemblance to that of Dante. Neither of her parents was more than a nominal Catholic, and Theodolind grew up in a cold and formal atmosphere of morality which would have chilled for ever the heart of one less naturally generous, pure-minded, and energetic, and over whom God had not extended a particular protection. Her path to perfection was long and beset with many dangers—although not at any time of the grosser sort—but the Lord was her shepherd, and she was led on, step by step, to the crowning-point of her career, which was the establishment of an Order for women whose special object should be the perpetual adoration of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, and the continual reparation to his divine Majesty. Theodolind assumed the name in religion of Maria Teresa, and her congregation, which was originally engrafted on the vigorous and venerable stem of Carmel, was begun at Paris on the 6th of August, 1848. In the year 1853 it received aLaudatine Brieffrom the Holy See. This was the first step towards thefull official approbation of the Sovereign Pontiff, which was given only three years after the death of the foundress. Her death occurred at Paris on Sunday, 30th of August, 1863. The congregation or Institute of “L’Adoration Réparatrice” has already four houses in France, in each of which adorers in large numbers, consecrated by religious profession, succeed one another day and night before the Blessed Sacrament exposed, and in a spirit of deep recollection make the adoration of reparation the principle of a special vocation and the occupation of a whole life.The Order will certainly continue to spread, and we hope to see it introduced into this country, where devotion to the Blessed Sacrament is comparatively cold and scattered. We recommend the present work to all the holy spouses of Christ and true lovers of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist.Githa of the Forest; or, the Burning of Croyland.A Romance of early English History. By the author ofLord Dacre of Gilsland,Royalists and Roundheads, etc., etc. London: D. Stewart, 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)This is just one of those books that are in every way to be commended. It illustrates an early and most interesting period of English and Catholic history with remarkable power and vividness. It is a constant wonder to us that Catholics who have a taste for the writing of fiction do not more frequently take up such epochs as this, which are full of heroic deeds and romantic episodes, instead of vainly attempting to weave a romantic interest about the commonplace subjects and persons of the day. The history of the world for the last eighteen centuries is theirs to choose from, all its interest centres around Christianity; and we are not quite so much in love with to-day that we cannot thoroughly enjoy a trip back into the past when led by so skilful and true a hand as that of the author ofGitha.
Theologia Moralis Novissimi Ecclesiæ Doctoris S. Alphonsi.Auctore A. Konings, C.S.S.R. Editio Altera, Aucta et Emendata. Benziger Fratres, 1876.
We have already noticed the first edition of this work, which is certainly a valuable and excellent one in many respects. It has received the approbation of his Eminence the Cardinal, and of many others of the prelates of this country, has apparently been well received by the clergy in general, and it will not be at all surprising if it becomes the standard text-book of moral theology in the seminaries of the United States. This success it goes far to deserve. It supplies a great want in the treatises previously used, by bringing in many points relating to the laws and customs existing among us; and this alone might seem a sufficient reason for its adoption. It has also many other advantages, partly due to the ability of the author, partly to the works which he has taken (as all writers on this subject must at the present day) for his basis. Among these he has principally followed Gury, adhering more, perhaps, to his language than to that ofSt.Alphonsus.
But, in spite of the many advantages and excellences of the book, we must enter a protest against its use, at least as the sole authority on which the minds of theological students are to be formed. And this protest is on account of the system of equi-probabilism taught in it, which we should be very sorry to have prevail, both on the ground of its unreasonableness, and on that of its bad practical effects.
We should have no space in a notice of this kind to discuss fully this very important and much vexed question. But the point of our criticism can be sufficiently made by simply referring to the author’s definitions of the grades of probability in opinions (p.27).
The obvious objection to these definitions, which are made the basis of his system, and which must, indeed, be made the basis of any system of equi-probabilism, is that, according to them, an opinioncannot be notably or decidedly more probable than its contradictory without making that contradictory “not solidly probable,” to use the author’s words, which are the usual technical ones.
Now, we venture to think that such a statement as this with regard to probability would hardly be made in treating of any other subject than that at present in hand. Suppose, for instance, the question to be one of physical science,—that, for example, of the solar parallax. Now, we think we are not wrong in saying that it is decidedly more probable that this parallax is greater than 8-8⁄10seconds of arc than that it is less than this amount. Be that as it may, it is certain that there is some value, perfectly ascertainable by methods of computation on which astronomers would agree, for which, in the present state of science, we could say that the probability of the parallax exceeding this value is once and a half times as great as that of its falling short of it. Certainly in this case it would be decidedly more probable that it does exceed this value than that it does not. Yet who would say that the probability of its not exceeding that value was destitute of any solidity?
We may take a case in which probability is susceptible of exact numerical computation. Suppose two balls, one white and one black, to be together in a box, and that we draw twice from this box, putting back the ball drawn the first time. The probability that we shall not draw the white ball twice is three times as great as that we shall; yet would any one say that there was no solid probability of so drawing it? If it was a question of drawing it five times, then the probability of this, being only1⁄31of that of the contradictory, might, indeed, not be “solid.”
The whole case can, as it would seem, be put in the following form: It is agreed, by equi-probabilists, as well as by probabilists, that a solidly probable opinion against the law can be followed. If the former choose to call an opinion only slightly less probable than its contradictory, till its probability becomes so smallthat it really, in the common judgment of men, ceases to be solid, they depart from the common use of language, but the controversy between them and the latter is merely one of the use of words.
But if the equi-probabilists refuse to call an opinion solidly probable as soon as its probability becomes what men would generally call decidedly less than that of its contradictory (two-thirds of it, for instance), they depart, as seems evident from the above cases, again from the common use of words, and the statement—the complement of the former one, and on which also both parties agree—that an opinion against the law not solidly probable cannot be followed, has, in their mouths, a new meaning, which the judgment of mankind will, it seems to us, hardly accept, and which will lead to perpetual and most embarrassing changes of doctrine and practice. The author undoubtedly believes that he is followingSt.Alphonsus in his system; it seems to us that he has, with other equi-probabilists, not rightly apprehended the meaning of certain passages in the works of that illustrious Doctor, which seem certainly at first sight to have such a sense. But to discuss this matter would lead us too far.
The Faith of Our Fathers: Being a Plain Exposition and Vindication of the Church founded by Our Lord Jesus Christ. ByRt. Rev.James Gibbons,D.D., Bishop of Richmond and Administrator-Apostolic of North Carolina. Baltimore: Murphy &Co.; London: Washbourne. 1877.
We have rarely met with a book which pleased us so thoroughly as this little volume of the Bishop of Richmond. It is popular, and is therefore not addressed to the few who are interested in the philosophical and scientific controversies of the age, but to the people, to the multitude, as were the words of Christ. It is a thoroughly honest book, written by a man who loves the church and his country and who is deeply interested in whatever concerns the welfare of mankind. From the start we are convinced of his perfect sincerity. Not to make a book has he written; but he believes, and therefore speaks. It is this that gives value to literature—the human life, the human experience, which itcontains. Bishop Gibbons has labored for several years with great zeal in North Carolina and Virginia, where there are few Catholics, where the opportunities of dispelling Protestant prejudice are rare, but where the people are generally not unwilling to be enlightened. Learned arguments are less needed than clear and accurate statements of the doctrines, practices, and aims of the church. Catholic truth is its own best evidence: is more persuasive than any logic with which the human mind is able to reinforce it.
To the right mind and pure heart it appeals with irresistible force; and therefore the great work of those who labor for God is to put away the mental and moral obstructions which shut out the view of the truth as it is in Christ. In setting forth in clear and simple style “the faith of our fathers” Bishop Gibbons is careful to meet all the objections which are likely to be made to the church. He is thoroughly acquainted with the American people; is himself an American; and his book is another proof that the purest devotion to the church is compatible with the deepest love for the freest and most democratic of governments. Sympathy gives him insight, reveals the matter and the manner that suit his purpose best. The skill with which he has compressed into a small volume such a variety of topics, giving to each satisfactory treatment, is truly admirable. He seems to have forgotten nothing, and has consequently produced a complete popular explanation and vindication of Catholic doctrine. We cannot praise too highly the tone and temper of this book.
The author is not aggressive; is never bitter, never sneers nor deals in sarcasm or ridicule; does not treat his reader as a foe to be beaten, but as a brother to be persuaded. His sense of religion is too deep to allow him to make light of any honest faith. We perceive on every page the reverend and Christian bishop who knows that charity and not hate is the divine power of the church; the fire that sets the world ablaze. It is not necessary that we should say more in commendation of this treatise. It will most certainly have a wide circulation, and its merits will be advertised by every reader. Bishop Gibbons has written chiefly for Protestants, but we hope his book will find entrance into every Catholic family in the land.
Deirdre.Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.
The poet who ventures on an epic in these days deserves well of literature. To turn from the puling, weak, or nauseous themes which form the subjects of most of the contemporary English poetry is in itself a sign of a strong and healthy temperament. Nevertheless, the venture is a bold one. Pretty and graceful lyric verse may pass easily enough and win a transient popularity without challenging any strong comparison, lost as it is in the crowd of its fellows. But when an epic is mentioned, Homer towers up with Virgil in his train; Dante sweeps along; the shade of Milton oppresses us; we are in the company of giants and breathe reverently. The men who grasp epochs of history and human life, and string them into numbers that resound through all the ages, are few indeed. So we say he is a bold man who would follow in their track; but, at least, his ambition is great, whatever be its execution.
The author ofDeirdrèis not a Homer or a Virgil; he is not even equal to those fine English echoes of the great masters—Dryden and Pope; and although we do not know him, and are not sure as to who he is, we have little doubt that no man would be readier to concede what we here state than the author ofDeirdrèhimself. At least, he will consider it no dishonor that his song should wake the memory of those great singers in our mind.
Deirdrèis an Irish story of pre-Christian times. Like theIliad, it has its Helen, who gives her name to the poem, and around her the story centres. The beauty of Deirdrè, like that of Helen, is her curse. Wherever she goes she is a brand of discord. Heroes fight for her, wars are waged for possession of her, great deeds are done in her name, and the end is disaster for all. She is unlike her Greek prototype only in her Irish chastity, pagan though she was. There have been Irish Helens, and the disaster of her race is to be traced to one of them; but they are only remembered to be cursed. Still, the author was at liberty, if he chose, to follow the prevailing taste of the day, and add a spurious interest to his poem by making its heroine unfaithful to her spouse. He has done the contrary. It is the very fidelity of Deirdrè that adds its chief interest to the poem. From the day when first the squirrelcried to her from the tree in the garden where she had been enclosed by the king:
“Come up! come up! Come up, and see the world!”
“Come up! come up! Come up, and see the world!”
“Come up! come up! Come up, and see the world!”
and she obeyed the promptings of her nature and went up, and for the first time looked over the garden wall and saw “the great world spread out,” she lost her heart, for here is what she saw:
“Three youthful knights in all their martial pride,With red cloaks fluttering in the summer breeze,And gay gems flashing on their harnesses,And on the helm that guarded each proud head,And on each shield where shone the Branch of Red.And, as they passed, the eldest of the three,With great black, wistful eyes looked up at me;For he did mark this yellow head of mineAmid the green tree’s branches glint and shine.And oh! the look—the fond, bright look—he gave!…”
“Three youthful knights in all their martial pride,With red cloaks fluttering in the summer breeze,And gay gems flashing on their harnesses,And on the helm that guarded each proud head,And on each shield where shone the Branch of Red.And, as they passed, the eldest of the three,With great black, wistful eyes looked up at me;For he did mark this yellow head of mineAmid the green tree’s branches glint and shine.And oh! the look—the fond, bright look—he gave!…”
“Three youthful knights in all their martial pride,
With red cloaks fluttering in the summer breeze,
And gay gems flashing on their harnesses,
And on the helm that guarded each proud head,
And on each shield where shone the Branch of Red.
And, as they passed, the eldest of the three,
With great black, wistful eyes looked up at me;
For he did mark this yellow head of mine
Amid the green tree’s branches glint and shine.
And oh! the look—the fond, bright look—he gave!…”
These were the three heroic sons of Usna, and the eldest of the three is Naisi, who finds his way into the charmed forest where Deirdrè is kept by the king until she should grow to an age ripe enough to fit her to be made his queen. The young lady objects—as young ladies will do sometimes—to be disposed of in this manner, and Naisi, having first stolen her heart, completes his theft by stealing herself. They fly from Eman, and Clan Usna accompanies them. The rest of the poem is made up of their wanderings and final luring back to Eman, when the king wreaks his vengeance upon them. With the fate of the sons of Usna and Deirdrè the poem closes.
There is much that is admirable in the whole work. The scenes are wonderfully well localized. One never strays into to-day. The author has completely mastered the difficult geographical terminology, and makes it sweet and pleasant to the ear. The men are cast in heroic mould, and a tinge of chivalry added to them that beautifies and ennobles them. Deirdrè is a sweet, pure, and loving woman; her early youth in the garden of the king is in itself an idyllic gem. The battle scenes are strong and vigorous, and not too long drawn out; a sea-fight in particular is wonderfully well described. The glimpses of natural scenery given here and there are varied and picturesque. Indeed, there is everything that is good in the poem, but nothing that can be calledgreat; and greatnessis the standard and measure of an epic.
We think the author, too, has been careless in the construction of his verse. It is unequal. Half-rhymes abound: “bird” and “stirred,” “house” and “carouse,” “restored” and “board,” “hum” and “room,” “jollity” and “company,” “heath” and “breath,” cannot be considered good rhymes, yet they are all found within the first three pages. They are to too great an extent characteristic of the whole. Then there is an abundance of weak and commonplace couplets, such as the following:
“The earth’s dark places, felt himself full sad,He knew not why, and sent, to make him glad.”* * * * *“From the bright palace straightway to his house,That they might hold therein a gay carouse.”* * * * *“Yet higher rose the joy and jollityOf the Great King and all that company.”* * * * *“Till morn’s gay star rose o’er the golden sea,And sent to slumber all that company.”* * * * *
“The earth’s dark places, felt himself full sad,He knew not why, and sent, to make him glad.”* * * * *“From the bright palace straightway to his house,That they might hold therein a gay carouse.”* * * * *“Yet higher rose the joy and jollityOf the Great King and all that company.”* * * * *“Till morn’s gay star rose o’er the golden sea,And sent to slumber all that company.”* * * * *
“The earth’s dark places, felt himself full sad,
He knew not why, and sent, to make him glad.”
* * * * *
“From the bright palace straightway to his house,
That they might hold therein a gay carouse.”
* * * * *
“Yet higher rose the joy and jollity
Of the Great King and all that company.”
* * * * *
“Till morn’s gay star rose o’er the golden sea,
And sent to slumber all that company.”
* * * * *
Now, such lines should never have passed the censorship of one who can give such other lines as these:
“Whose fierce eye o’er the margin of his shieldHad gazed from war’s first ridge on many a field.”
“Whose fierce eye o’er the margin of his shieldHad gazed from war’s first ridge on many a field.”
“Whose fierce eye o’er the margin of his shield
Had gazed from war’s first ridge on many a field.”
“Many a field” is weak, but the picture is very good. Strange to say, the two lines immediately following are these:
“Unblinking at the foe that on him glared,And might be ten to one for all he cared.”
“Unblinking at the foe that on him glared,And might be ten to one for all he cared.”
“Unblinking at the foe that on him glared,
And might be ten to one for all he cared.”
The epic spirit contained in the last line needs no comment.
Again, here is a strong picture:
“Since Mananan, the Sea-God, first upthrewThe wild isle’s stony ribs unto the blue.”
“Since Mananan, the Sea-God, first upthrewThe wild isle’s stony ribs unto the blue.”
“Since Mananan, the Sea-God, first upthrew
The wild isle’s stony ribs unto the blue.”
And here a sweet one:
“… Then from her forehead fairShe brushed a silken ripple of bright hairThat from the flood of her rich tresses stole,And looked with wordless love into his soul.”
“… Then from her forehead fairShe brushed a silken ripple of bright hairThat from the flood of her rich tresses stole,And looked with wordless love into his soul.”
“… Then from her forehead fair
She brushed a silken ripple of bright hair
That from the flood of her rich tresses stole,
And looked with wordless love into his soul.”
Sometimes we fall upon lines that we fancy we have heard before—as these, for instance, which anybody might claim and not be proud of:
“The merry village with its sheltering trees,The peaceful cattle browsing o’er the leas,The hardy shepherd whistling on the plainWith his white flock, by fields of ripened grain,” etc., etc.
“The merry village with its sheltering trees,The peaceful cattle browsing o’er the leas,The hardy shepherd whistling on the plainWith his white flock, by fields of ripened grain,” etc., etc.
“The merry village with its sheltering trees,
The peaceful cattle browsing o’er the leas,
The hardy shepherd whistling on the plain
With his white flock, by fields of ripened grain,” etc., etc.
And here are lines which we fancy Mr. Tennyson might with justice claim:
“… And velvet catkins on the willow shoneBy lowland streams,and on the hills the larchScented with odorous buds the winds of March.”
“… And velvet catkins on the willow shoneBy lowland streams,and on the hills the larchScented with odorous buds the winds of March.”
“… And velvet catkins on the willow shone
By lowland streams,and on the hills the larch
Scented with odorous buds the winds of March.”
One more objection we must make, and that is to the tiresomely frequent use of the word “full.” It occurs everywhere, sometimes twice or thrice in one page. Feilimid feels himself “full sad” (p.1). Inp.46 Caffa shakes his head “full dolefully.” Inp.49 “The east and north a strong Wind blewfull keen.” Inp.55 Deirdrè grows “full pale”; inp.58 she goes “to and fro” “full secretly”; inp.59 she has thoughts “full sad”; while Naisi (p.62) laughs to himself “full low,” his heart with love’s ardor grows “full warm” (p.65). Maini watches Naisi “full treacherously” (p.69), and three lines lower on the same page he is still watching him “full warily.” The loyal wife grasps her babe “full firm” (p.164)—an expression that, allowing even for poetic license, is very doubtful grammar; “full soon” adornsp.165; “full stern” shall be the fight (p.166); “full many” a mile (p.166); “full many” a festal fire (p.167); even the very babe crows “full lustily” (p.131).
Of course repetition is allowable and, if rightly used, a beauty. In Homer Juno is always “white-armed,” Venus “ox-eyed,” Apollo “far-darting,” Agamemnon a “king of men,” Achilles “swift-footed,” the dawn “rosy-fingered,” the sea “hoarse-resounding,” and so on. But we need not dwell on the point that this is a very different kind of repetition from that inDeirdrè, which is faulty and tiresome in the extreme.
The defects we have pointed out are such as might have been easily avoided by care in the supervision. As it is, they seriously mar a work of real power, much promise, and undeniable beauty.
Religion and Education.By the veryRev.Thomas S. Preston,V.G.New York: Robert Coddington. 1876.
There is much matter for thought and reflection in this pamphlet of forty-six pages. It treats of what is now an old subject, yet a subject about which new issues are constantly being raised, not only in this country but all the world over. And as the subject is far from being settled, and is likely so to remain for some time to come, one cannot but welcome the observations and pronouncedexpression of such a mind as that of the distinguished author regarding a vital question of this and all countries and of all time. The question of education has been treated time and again in these pages. Indeed, many of the articles which have appeared inThe Catholic Worldhave been collected and published in book-form (Catholics and Education), and combined make an excellent treatise in defence of Catholic education as opposed to the popular objections of non-Catholics. Father Preston necessarily travels over old ground here, but with a freshness, vigor, and clearness of statement and exposition that will amply repay the reader. His lecture—for such it was—bears all the marks of a strong and trained mind, fully alive to the difficulties that beset the vexed question of which he treats, yet of one who knows exactly where strength ends and extravagance begins. There is, perhaps, no question to-day more open to extravagant demands and declamation on both sides than this of education. The tendency of the times regarding it is in a radically wrong direction. Hot words will not mend matters, but calm reason, such as this pamphlet affords, will in the long run tell. To sincere and rightly-instructed Catholics there is no question at all in the matter. Education is as much a subject of religious discipline as is the guiding of a man’s life, and to banish God from the school is no more justifiable than to banish him from the church or the home. No Catholic dare say to God: We will admit you here, but not there. At the same time we must take into serious account the opinions of men who, having practically lost faith, cannot be expected to look upon everything in the same light as ourselves. More especially is this the case in a country like our own, where all things are still more or less in a state of formation. It is very certain that the Fathers of this Republic, to whom in our emergencies we often vaguely appeal, never dreamed that the whole machinery of a republic which, in its present vastness, power, and future import, could scarcely have flashed even on their happiest dreams, would be perfectly adjusted in a century. We must make the best of things as they exist, work earnestly, untiringly, and hopefully to make them still better, but not slap the whole world in the face for the poor satisfactionof the slap. Father Preston is an excellent guide in this matter. There is not a waste word in all that he says. He has a reason, and gives it, for every statement, and he strengthens his position by the testimony of honored men among those opposed to him. It is strange that this country should be behind every other civilized nation in the fair adjustment of the educational question. They do the best they can for all denominations; we seem to have one predominating idea—to wit, that Catholic children, so far as the States can prevent it without absolute force, shall not have the right of Catholic education. Education is not and never can be a purely abstract affair as regards religion. It must have some informing moral principle, which will be right or wrong according to circumstances. Catholics refuse, on their conscience, to have any doubt about the matter. Others may do as they think fit under a government which professes to respect absolute freedom of conscience.Theirfreedom of conscience recognizes and claims education for their children in the spirit of their faith. To deny this is coercion. To make them contribute to a system of education based on its denial is coercion and extortion. To see how fully enlightened Protestants and enlightened governments uphold this view, we can recommend nothing better in a brief form than the pages of this admirable pamphlet.
Wit, Humor, and Shakspeare.Twelve Essays. By John Weiss. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.
There could be no better proof of the large tolerance of literary charlatanism by the American public than that a shrewd Boston firm should in such times as the present consent to publish a book like this. Mr. Weiss evidently has nothing to say which can be of interest to a sensible man, and his style is as bad as his thought. His chief aim, it would appear, is to be odd, unnatural, and barbarous. Like the clown in the circus, he hopes to amuse us by his antics, if not by his wit. But fantastic and affected phraseology cannot hide poverty or barrenness of thought. If a man has nothing to say, grimaces only make him ridiculous in the eyes of the judicious. It would seem, too, that the author is under the delusion that he may succeed in making us believe that he means something by strivingto render it as difficult as possible to find out what he means. Here are specimens of his style: “The life-breaths of joy and grief tend primitively to the lungs, and they voice the mother-tongue of all emotions.” “What a wide range of nature’s curiousfreakerya forest has!” “Only those who are capable of annihilating capricious distinctions by feelings of common humanness are capable of enjoying the union of heterogeneous ideas.”
It is Mr. Weiss’ great misfortune to believe that he is witty; and the attempts which reveal this deep conviction might indeed make us laugh, if they did not make us grieve.
“What mutual impression do a dog and a duck make? He runs around with frolic transpiring in his tail, and barks to announce a wish to fraternize; or perhaps it is a short and nervous bark, and indicates unsettled views about ducks. Meantime, the duck waddles off with an inane quack, so remote from a bark that it must convince any well-informed dog of the hopelessness of proposing either business or pleasure to such a doting and toothless pate.” “But as yet no cosey couples of clever apes have been discovered in paroxysms of laughter over the last sylvan equivoque; nor have elephants been seen silently shaking at a joke too ponderous for their trunks to carry.” “We cannot imagine that a turtle’s head gets tired lying around decapitated for a week or more.”
We cannot pardon Mr. Emerson for having made such men as Mr. Weiss possible. He is a morbid product—one of the sick multitude whose disease he has himself diagnosed. “Multitudes of our American brains are badly drained in consequence of a settling of the wastage of house-grubbing and street-work into moral morasses which generate many a chimera.” This is on the twelfth page, and to this point we followed the author with a kind of interest; for it was still possible to hope that he might not be an American. The English critics, however, may find his humor capital, since they think Walt Whitman our greatest poet; and Mr. Weiss finds examples of wit and humor in this country truly Shaksperean:
“There was a man who stood on his head under a pile-driver to have a pair of tight boots driven on. He found himself shortly after in China, perfectly nakedand without a cent in his pocket.” “There is a man in the West so bow-legged that his pantaloons have to be cut out with a circular saw.” “Some of the Texan cows have been lately described as so thin that it takes two men to see one of them. The men stand back to back, so that one says, ‘Here she comes!’ and the other cries, ‘There she goes!’ Thus between them both the cow is seen.”
“All these American instances”—we quote the thoughtful and profound observation of Mr. Weiss—“are conceived in the pure Shakesperean blending of the understanding and the imagination.” But one more of them, perhaps the most artistically perfect of all, must suffice. “A coachman, driving up some mountains in Vermont, was asked by an outside passenger if they were as steep on the other side also. ‘Steep! Chain lightnin’ couldn’t go down ’em witheout the breechin’ on!’”
Nothing could be finer than the epigrammatic style in which Mr. Weiss throws some of Shakspere’s characters into a crisp Emersonian sentence: “Pistol is the raw article of poltroonery done in fustian instead of a gayly-slashed doublet. Bardolph is the capaciousness for sherry, without the capacity to make it apprehensive and forgetive; it goes to his head, but, finding no brain there, is provoked to the nose, where it lights a cautionary signal. Nym is the brag stripped of resource, shivering on prosiness.” We are quite prepared, after all this, to find that Mr. Weiss belongs to the class of enlightened men who, in the name of science, sneer at religion. It is hardly worth while to attempt his conversion.
Poems: Devotional and Occasional.By Benjamin Dionysius Hill,C.S.P.New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1877.
In his last sermon on “Subjects of the Day” (“The Parting of Friends”), Dr. Newman exclaims: “O my mother, whence is this unto thee, that thou hast good things poured upon thee and canst not keep them, and bearest children, yet darest not own them? Why hast thou not the skill to use their services, nor the heart to rejoice in their love? How is it that whatever is generous in purpose, and tender or deep in devotion, thy flower and thy promise, falls from thy bosom and finds no home within thine arms?”The author of these poems gives to his Mother the whole—not a part—of a delicate poetic talent that would have found a warm welcome in the world which knows her not. The art in the poems is unaffected and genuine; there is no pretence of artistic ambition, nor any provoking involution of the thought in order to display the tricks and pretty devices of metre which would have come easily to one whose sense of poetic tune is so true. The verse, although by no means monotonous, is uniformly simple; the rhymes are never weak and are always sweet—qualities rarely combined—and the infallible poetic instinct fills the lines with melody, which, at first so subtle and fine that it almost eludes, is soon discovered to be exquisitely and permanently sweet.
The dominant thought is religious rapture. Father Hill was not always under the benign influence which has brought this guerdon to his gifts. He was outside the only church which offers man’s heart an ideal of absolute perfection.
“A barren creed had starved me.”
“A barren creed had starved me.”
“A barren creed had starved me.”
God called him
“to fill the place of someIngrate who had thrown his childhood’s faith away,”
“to fill the place of someIngrate who had thrown his childhood’s faith away,”
“to fill the place of some
Ingrate who had thrown his childhood’s faith away,”
and within the consecrated precincts of the priesthood he discovered a gracious light upon his imagination—the light of Our Lady. So he has proved her poet; and the tributes that he lays at her feet are rich and warm with the full beating ardor of manhood’s love. The pure sensuousness which gives strikingly what the painters would call “fine flesh-tint” to the poems will prove a strong attraction to the fervent hearts of thousands who, like Father Hill, love the Mother of our Lord with an uncontrollable intensity of human affection, but who, unlike him, are unable fittingly to express that affection to her, or even to define it to themselves or to others. Father Hill is literally the knight of Mary, and he does more than the obligations of knighthood required; for, in addition to loving, fighting for, and seeking his reward from her, he sings her praise. He gives her at once his sword and his lyre. The beauty of this chivalry of the soul is not easily to be understood by the shallow or the thoughtless; yet even the irreverent will acknowledge its holiness, and the commonest mind will be unableto resist its singular charms. Who can be insensible to such loyalty to the religious ideal as this?
“TO BE FORGIVEN.
“I call thee ‘Love’—‘my sweet, my dearest Love’Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.Yet I forget not that, in realms above,The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.“If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needsAdore to all melodious excessWhat cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.“And then thou art my Mother—God’s, yet mine!Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best:And I as tenderly, intimately thineAs He, my Brother, carried at the breast.“My Mother! ’tis enough. If mine the rightTo call thee this, much more to muse and sighAll other honeyed names. A slave I might—A son, I must. And both of these am I.”
“I call thee ‘Love’—‘my sweet, my dearest Love’Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.Yet I forget not that, in realms above,The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.“If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needsAdore to all melodious excessWhat cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.“And then thou art my Mother—God’s, yet mine!Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best:And I as tenderly, intimately thineAs He, my Brother, carried at the breast.“My Mother! ’tis enough. If mine the rightTo call thee this, much more to muse and sighAll other honeyed names. A slave I might—A son, I must. And both of these am I.”
“I call thee ‘Love’—‘my sweet, my dearest Love’Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.Yet I forget not that, in realms above,The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.
“I call thee ‘Love’—‘my sweet, my dearest Love’
Nor feel it bold, nor fear it a deceit.
Yet I forget not that, in realms above,
The thrones of Seraphs are beneath thy feet.
“If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needsAdore to all melodious excessWhat cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.
“If Queen of angels thou, of hearts no less:
And so of mine—a poet’s, which must needs
Adore to all melodious excess
What cannot sate the rapture that it feeds.
“And then thou art my Mother—God’s, yet mine!Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best:And I as tenderly, intimately thineAs He, my Brother, carried at the breast.
“And then thou art my Mother—God’s, yet mine!
Of mothers, as of virgins, first and best:
And I as tenderly, intimately thine
As He, my Brother, carried at the breast.
“My Mother! ’tis enough. If mine the rightTo call thee this, much more to muse and sighAll other honeyed names. A slave I might—A son, I must. And both of these am I.”
“My Mother! ’tis enough. If mine the right
To call thee this, much more to muse and sigh
All other honeyed names. A slave I might—
A son, I must. And both of these am I.”
This exquisite piety is entitled “Love’s Prisoner”:
* * * * *“But is He lonely? Bend not hereAdoring angels as on high?Ah yes: but yet, when we appear,A softer glory floods His eye.’Tis earth’s frail child He longs to see;And thus He is alone—for me!* * * * *“Then, best of lovers, I’ll draw nearEach day to minister relief.For tho’ the thought of year on yearOf sin should make me die of grief,Yet day by day my God I see‘Sick and in prison’—all for me!”
* * * * *“But is He lonely? Bend not hereAdoring angels as on high?Ah yes: but yet, when we appear,A softer glory floods His eye.’Tis earth’s frail child He longs to see;And thus He is alone—for me!* * * * *“Then, best of lovers, I’ll draw nearEach day to minister relief.For tho’ the thought of year on yearOf sin should make me die of grief,Yet day by day my God I see‘Sick and in prison’—all for me!”
* * * * *
“But is He lonely? Bend not here
Adoring angels as on high?
Ah yes: but yet, when we appear,
A softer glory floods His eye.
’Tis earth’s frail child He longs to see;
And thus He is alone—for me!
* * * * *
“Then, best of lovers, I’ll draw near
Each day to minister relief.
For tho’ the thought of year on year
Of sin should make me die of grief,
Yet day by day my God I see
‘Sick and in prison’—all for me!”
Those whose imagination is without devotion, or whose devotion lacks imagination, will look upon the author of these poems as one indeed “set apart.” Yet even Dr. Newman, the giant intellect of modern thought, looked upon Keble, as he tells us himself, with awe, simply because Keble was a true religious poet; and these two came to love each other with a tenderness that did not expire, but was rather increased, when the one passed within the gates of Mother Rome, and the other, faltering in tears, sadly loitered, then suffered himself to be led away. So many a lesser Newman will learn to love this lesser and more melodious poet within the sanctuary, and his glowing soul will distribute some of its own warmth into the hospitable recesses in which this little book will find nooks the hosts never thought of.
Life of Mother Maria Teresa, Foundress of the Congregation of the Adoration of Reparation.By the Abbé Hulst. Translated by Lady Herbert. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)
To many people there is no reading so pleasant as a biography; but when, as in the life of a great servant of God, solid instruction and sweet devotion are found united in the details of personal history, the work becomes a hand-book in a Christian’s library. Of this kind is the present work, which, although only a small volume, contains a great deal of matter, and is written with all that ease andnaïvetéwhich are so often found in French biographies. It is translated into English by Lady Herbert, who is thoroughly competent for the task.
Theodolind Dubouché was born at Montauban, in France, on the2dof May, 1809; but her mother was of Italian origin, and it is a little singular that the daughter’s portrait prefixed to thisLifebears a remarkable resemblance to that of Dante. Neither of her parents was more than a nominal Catholic, and Theodolind grew up in a cold and formal atmosphere of morality which would have chilled for ever the heart of one less naturally generous, pure-minded, and energetic, and over whom God had not extended a particular protection. Her path to perfection was long and beset with many dangers—although not at any time of the grosser sort—but the Lord was her shepherd, and she was led on, step by step, to the crowning-point of her career, which was the establishment of an Order for women whose special object should be the perpetual adoration of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist, and the continual reparation to his divine Majesty. Theodolind assumed the name in religion of Maria Teresa, and her congregation, which was originally engrafted on the vigorous and venerable stem of Carmel, was begun at Paris on the 6th of August, 1848. In the year 1853 it received aLaudatine Brieffrom the Holy See. This was the first step towards thefull official approbation of the Sovereign Pontiff, which was given only three years after the death of the foundress. Her death occurred at Paris on Sunday, 30th of August, 1863. The congregation or Institute of “L’Adoration Réparatrice” has already four houses in France, in each of which adorers in large numbers, consecrated by religious profession, succeed one another day and night before the Blessed Sacrament exposed, and in a spirit of deep recollection make the adoration of reparation the principle of a special vocation and the occupation of a whole life.
The Order will certainly continue to spread, and we hope to see it introduced into this country, where devotion to the Blessed Sacrament is comparatively cold and scattered. We recommend the present work to all the holy spouses of Christ and true lovers of Jesus in the Holy Eucharist.
Githa of the Forest; or, the Burning of Croyland.A Romance of early English History. By the author ofLord Dacre of Gilsland,Royalists and Roundheads, etc., etc. London: D. Stewart, 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)
This is just one of those books that are in every way to be commended. It illustrates an early and most interesting period of English and Catholic history with remarkable power and vividness. It is a constant wonder to us that Catholics who have a taste for the writing of fiction do not more frequently take up such epochs as this, which are full of heroic deeds and romantic episodes, instead of vainly attempting to weave a romantic interest about the commonplace subjects and persons of the day. The history of the world for the last eighteen centuries is theirs to choose from, all its interest centres around Christianity; and we are not quite so much in love with to-day that we cannot thoroughly enjoy a trip back into the past when led by so skilful and true a hand as that of the author ofGitha.