"Not a word for you,Not a look or kissGood-by.We, one, must part in two;Verily death is this,I must die."
The metre generally throughout this book is in fact simply execrable. Miss Rossetti cannot write contentedly in any known or human measure. We do not think there are ten poems that are not in some new-fangled shape or shapelessness. With an overweening ambition, she has not the slightest faculty of rhythm. All she has done is to originate some of the most hideous metres that "shake the racked axle of art's rattling car." Attempting not only Browning's metrical dervish-dancings, but Tennyson's exquisite ramblings, she fails in both from an utter want of that fine ear that always guides the latter, and so often strikes out bold beauties in the former. Most of Miss Rossetti's new styles of word-mixture are much like the ingenious individual's invention for enabling right-handed people to write with the left hand—more or less clever ways of doing what she don't wish to do. What possible harmony, for instance, can any one find in this jumble, which, as per the printer, is meant for a "song:"
"There goes the swallow—Could we but follow!Hasty swallow, stay,Point us out the way;Look back, swallow, turn back, swallow, stop, swallow.{843}There went the swallow—Too late to follow,Lost our note of way,Lost our chance to-day.Good-by, swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.After the swallow—All sweet things follow;All things go their way,Only we must stay,Must not follow; good-by, swallow, good swallow."
Where on earth is sound or sense in this? Not a suggestion of melody, not a fraction of a coherent idea. People must read such trash as they eatmeringues à la crême: we never could comprehend either process.
Truth to tell, we have in this book some of the very choicest balderdash that ever was perpetrated; worthy to stand beside even the immortal Owl and Goose of Tennyson. There is a piece at p. 41 which we would give the world to see translated into some foreign language, we have such an intense eagerness to understand it. Its subject, so far as we have got, seems to be the significance of the crocodile, symbolically considered. We glanced over, or rather at it once, and put it by for after reading, thinking the style probably too deep for love at first sight. On the second perusal we fell in with some extraordinary young crocodiles that we must have missed before. They had just been indulged in the luxury of being born, but Miss Rossetti's creative soul, not content with bestowing upon them the bliss of amphibious existence, made perfect their young beauty by showing them "fresh-hatched perhaps, and—daubed with birthday dew."
We are strong of head—we recovered from even this—we became of the very select few who can say they have read this thing through. There was a crocodile hero; he had a golden girdle and crown; he wore polished stones; crowns, orbs and sceptres starred his breast (why shouldn't they if they could); "special burnishment adorned his mail;" his punier brethren trembled, whereupon he immediately ate them till "the luscious fat distilled upon his chin," and "exuded from his nostrils and his eyes." He then fell into an anaconda nap, and grew very much smaller in his sleep, till at the approach of a very queer winged vessel (probably a vessel of wrath), "the prudent crocodile rose on his feet and shed appropriate tears (obviously it is the handsome thing for all well-bred crocodiles to cry when a Winged ship comes along) and wrung his hands." As a finale, Miss Rossetti, too nimble for the unwary reader, anticipates his question of "What does it all mean?" and triumphantly replying that she doesn't know herself, but that it was all just so, marches on to the nextmonumentum aere perennius. In the name of the nine muses, we call upon Martin Farquhar Tupper to read this and then die.
There are one or two other things like thislonga intervallo, but it is reserved for the Devotional Pieces to furnish the only poem that can compete with it in its peculiar line. This antagonist poem is not so sublime an example of sustained effort, but it has the advantage that the rhyme is fully equal to the context. Permit us then to introduce the neat little charade entitled
"AMEN.It is over. What is over?Nay, how much is over truly!—Harvest days we toiled to sow for;Now the sheaves are gathered newly,Now the wheat is garnered duly.It is finished. What is finished?Much is finished known or unknown;Lives are finished, time diminished;Was the fallow field left unsown?Will these buds be always unblown?It suffices. What suffices?All suffices reckoned rightly;Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,Roses make the bramble sightly,And the quickening suns shine brightly,And the latter winds blow lightly,And my garden teems with spices."
Let now the critic first observe how consummately the mysticism of the charade form is intensified by the sphinx-like answers appended. Next note the novelties in rhyme, The rhythmic chain that links "over" and and "sow for" is the first discovery in the piece, closely rivalled by "ice is" and "spices" in the last verse. But{844}far above all rises the subtle originality of the three rhymes in the second. A thousand literati would have used the rhyming words under the unpoetical rules of ordinary English. Miss Rossetti alone has the courage to inquire "Was the fallow field leftunsown? Will these buds be alwaysunblown?" We really do not think Shakespeare would have been bold enough to do this thus.
But despite this, the religious poems are perhaps the best. They seem at least the most unaffected and sincere, and the healthiest in tone. There are several notably good ones: one, just before the remarkable Amen, in excruciating metre, but well said; one, The Love of Christ which Passeth Knowledge, a strong and imaginative picture of the crucifixion; and Good Friday, a good embodiment of the fervor of attrite repentance. The best written of all is, we think, this one (p. 248):
"WEARY IN WELL-DOING.I would have gone; God bade me stay;I would have worked; God bade me rest.He broke my will from day to day,He read my yearnings unexpressedAnd said them nay.Now I would stay; God bids me go;Now I would rest; God bids me work.He breaks my heart, tossed to and fro,My soul is wrung with doubts that lurkAnd vex it so.I go, Lord, where thou sendest me;Day after day, plod and moil:But Christ my God, when will it beThat I may let alone my toil,And rest with thee?"
This is good style (nosimplessehere) and real pathos—in short; poetry. We do not see a word to wish changed, and the conclusion in particular is excellent: there is a weariness in the very sound of the last lines.
It is remarkable how seldomthoughtfurnishes the motive for these poems. With no lack at all of intelligence, they stand almost devoid of intellect. It is always a sentiment of extraneous suggestion, never a novelty in thought, that inspires our authoress. She seems busier depicting inner life than evolving new truths or beauties. Nor does she abound in suggestive turns of phrase or verbal felicities. In fact, as we have seen, she will go out of her way to achieve the want of ornament. But there is one subject which she has thought out thoroughly, and that subject is death. Whether in respect to the severance of earthly ties, the future state, or the psychical relations subtly linking the living to the dead, she shows on this topic a vigor and vividness, sometimes misdirected, but never wanting. Some of her queer ideas have a charm and a repulsion at once, like ghosts of dead beauty:e.g.this strange sonnet:
"AFTER DEATH.The curtains were half-drawn, the floor was sweptAnd strewn with rushes; rosemary and mayLay thick upon the bed on which I lay,Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.He leaned above me, thinking that I sleptAnd could not hear him; but I heard him say,"Poor child, poor child!" and as he turned awayCame a deep silence, and I knew he wept;He did not touch the shroud, or raise the foldThat hid my face, or take my hand in his,Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head;He did not love me living, but once deadHe pitied me, and very sweet it isTo know he still is warm though I am cold."
There is somechiaro-oscuroabout this. Under all the ghastliness of the conception, we detect here a deep, genuine, unhoping, intensely human yearning, that is all the better drawn for being thrown into the shadow. We do not know of a more graphic realization of death. Miss Rossetti seems to be lucky with her sonnets. We give the companion piece to this last—not so striking as the other, but full of heart's love, and ending with one of the few passages we recall which enter without profaning the penetralia of that highest love, which passionately prefers the welfare of the beloved one to its own natural cravings for fruition and fulfilment:
"REMEMBER.Remember me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you no more can hold me by the handNor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.Remember me when no more, day by day,You tell me of our future that you planned;Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray,Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve;For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had.Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
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Another marked peculiarity often shadowed forth is our authoress's sharply defined idea that the dead lie simply quiescent, neither in joy nor sorrow. There are several miserable failures to express this state, and one success, so simple, so natural, and so pleasant in measure, that we quote it, though we have seen it cited before:
"When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dew-drops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows;I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on as if in pain;And dreaming through that twilightThat doth not rise not set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget."
Such bold insight into so profound a subject says more for the soul of an author than a whole miss's paradise of prettinesses.
In singular contrast with this religious fervency and earnestness, the sincerity of which we see no reason to impeach, comes our gravest point of reprehension of this volume. We think it fairly chargeable with utterances—and reticences—of morally dangerous tendency; and this, too, mainly on a strange point for a poetess to be cavilled at—the rather delicate subject of our erring sisters. Now, we are of those who think the world, as to this matter, in a state little better than barbarism; that far from feeling the first instincts of Christian charity, we are shamefully like the cattle that gore the sick ox from the herd. The only utterly pitiless power in human life is our virtue, when brought face to face with this particular vice. We hunt the fallen down; hunt them to den and lair; hunt them to darkness, desperation, and death; hunt their bodies from earth, and their souls (if we can) from heaven, with the cold sword in one hand, and in the other the cross of him who came into the world to save, not saints, but sinners, and who said to one of these: "Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and now sin no more."
But there is also such a thing as misdirected mercifulness; a dangerous lenity, all the more to be guarded against for its wearing the garb of charity; and we think Miss Rossetti has leaned culpably far in this direction. Two poems are especially prominent examples—Cousin Kate, and Sister Maude. In each the heroine has sinned, and suffered the penalties of discovery, and in each she is given the upper hand, and made a candidate for sympathy, for very bad reasons. There is no word to intimate that there is anything so very dreadful about dishonor; that it may not be some one else's fault, or nobody's fault at all—a mere social accident. A few faint hinting touches there may be of conventional condemnation, but somehow Miss Rossetti's sinners,as sinners, invariably have the best of the argument and of the situation, while virtue is, put systematically in the wrong, and snubbed generally. The Goblin Market too, if we read it aright, is open to the same criticism. We understand it, namely, to symbolize the conflict of the better nature in us, with the prompting of the passions and senses. If so, what is the story translated from its emblematic form? One sister yields; the other by seeming to yield, saves her. Again there is not a syllable to show that the yielding was at all wrong in itself. A cautious human regard for consequences is the grand motive appealed to for withstanding temptation. Lizzie tells Laura, not that the goblin's bargain is an evil deed in the sight of God, but that Jennie waned and died of their toothsome poisons. She saves her by going just so far as she safely can. What, if anything, is the moral of all this? Not "resist the devil and he will flee from you," but "cheat the devil, and he won't catch you." Now, all these sayings and silences are gravely wrong and false to a writer's true functions. With all deference then, and fully feeling that we may mistake, or misconstrue, we sincerely submit that some of these poems go inexcusably beyond the bounds of that strict moral{846}right, which every writer who hopes ever to wield influence ought to keep steadily, and sacredly in view. We are emboldened to speak thus plainly, because we have some reason to believe that these things have grated on other sensibilities than our own, and that our stricture embodies a considerable portion of cultivated public opinion.
In conclusion, we repeat our first expressed opinion, that Miss Rossetti is not yet entitled to take a place among today's poets. The question remains, whether she ever will. We do not think this book of hers settles this question.[Greek text], she has done nothing in poetry yet of any consequence. These verses may be as well as she can do. They contain poetical passages of merit and promise, but they show also a defectiveness of versification, a falseness of ear, and occasionally a degree of affectation and triviality that, we can only hope, are not characteristic. To borrow a little of the style and technology of a sister branch of thought, the case, as now presented, can be accounted for as in essence a simple attack of the old and well-known endemic,cacaethes scribendi. Probably it befell her at the usual early age. Only instead of the run of gushing girls, we have Dante Gabriel Rossetti's sister, Jean lngelow's intimate friend, and a young lady of intelligence and education, constantly in contact with real literary society, and—what is thoroughly evident in this book—read in our best poets. Add all these complicating symptoms, and is there not something plausible about the diagnosis? We do not say, observe, and do not mean to say, that this is Miss Rossetti's case; only all she has done so far seems explicable on this hypothesis. For ourselves, we lean to the view that she will do more. We judge hers a strong, sensuous, impulsive, earnest, inconsiderate nature, that sympathizes well, feels finely, keeps true to itself at bottom, but does not pause to make sure that others must, as well as may, enter into the spirit that underlies her utterances, and so buries her meaning sometimes beyond Champollion's own powers of deciphering. But her next book must determine how much is to be ascribed to talent, and how much to practice and good models; and show us whether genius or gilt edges separate her from the[Greek text].
She stands with head demurely bent,A village maiden, young and comely,And he beside her, talking lowAnd earnestly, is Lord of Bromleigh."Now raise thine eyes, and look at me,And place thy little hand in mine,And tell me thou my bride will be,And I and Bromleigh shall be thine;In richest silks thou shalt be drest—Have diamonds flashing on each hand,And in all splendor shalt outshineThe proudest lady in the land.{847}On softest carpets thou shalt tread,On velvet cushions shalt recline;Whatever is most rich and rareThat thou mayst wish for shall be thine.""I do not covet silk attire,Nor glittering gold, nor flashing gem;There is no longing in my heartTo change my simple dress for them.A village maiden I was born—A Village maiden I was bred—A happy life for eighteen yearsIn that low station I have led.How do I know if I should changeMy state for one so high, but thenThe world might change, and never beThe thing it is to me again;But from the field, and from the sky,The glory and the joy would go;The greenness from the meadow grass,The beauty from all flowers that blow;The sweetness from the breath of spring,The music from the skylark's song:Content, and all sweet thoughts that bringA gladness to me all day long?""Thy fears are idle fears," he said;"Love, loyal heart, and generous mind,Can happiness in lordly hallsAs well as in a cottage find.For this is of the soul, and boundTo no degrees of wealth or state:Then put thy little hand in mineAnd speak the word that seals my fate!I love thee, Marian, more than life—Have loved thee, ah! thou dost not guessHow long, unknown to thee, my soulHath shrined in thee its happiness.More precious than the light of day,Thy beauty is unto mine eyes;More sweet than all earth's music elseThy voice that now to me replies.Oh! would it speak the words I longMore than all other words to hear,I were the happiest man this dayThat breathes the breath of earthly air."She raised her head, and in her eyesA tender look his glances met,But 'twas not love—though kin to it—A look of pity and regret."It pains me more than I can tellTo speak the words I ought; but yetThey must be said; and for your sakeI would that we had never met{848}For if you love me as you say,I can conceive how great the painI give when I declare the troth,I cannot love you, sir, again.And I should sin a grievous sin,Should do a grievous wrong to you,If I should put my hand in yoursUnless my heart went with it too.Not joy and pride, but grief and shame,Go with the bridegroom and the brideInto the house where they shall dwell,Unless love enter side by side.And I, because my heart is givenTo one I love beyond my life.Could find no joy in Bromleigh HallAm all unfit for Bromleigh's wife:But did I love you, then, indeed,Although my state be poor and mean,I were as worthy Bromleigh Hall,As were I daughter of a queen.For love hath such divinityThat it ennobles every oneThat owns its mast'ry, and can makeA beggar worthy of a throne.This I have learned—love taught me this;The love that is my breath of life:That will not leave me till I die,That will not let me be your wife.Forbear to urge me more, my lord;It gives me pain to give such pain;Here let us part, and for the sakeOf both, to never meet again.""Stay yet a little, Marian, stay!My heart was wholly thine before.Or what thou sayst would make me swearThat now I love thee more and more.A beauty brighter than a queen's,A mind with noble thoughts so graced.Among the highest in the land,Were best esteemed, and fittest placed.Yes, there thy rightful station is.Amongst the noble of the earth:And 'twere a sin unto a clownTo mate such beauty and such worth.Thou could'st not live thy truest life;Thy fullest joy thou could'st not find.Chained to a poor cot's drudgery.Wed to a dull, unlettered hind."Then flushed her face with maiden scorn.And thrilled her voice with proud disdain;And proudly looked her eyes at himWho dared not look at her again.{849}"For shame! my lord; for shame! my lord;You shame your rank to slander soA man, I doubt if you have seen;A man I'm sure you do not know.The man I love is no base churl,No poor unlettered village hind;But in my soul he lives and reigns,The wisest, noblest of mankind.I grant him poor; I know he worksWith head and hands for daily bread;And nobler so in my esteemThan if a useless life he led.'Tis not the accident of birthThough with the flood the line began,Nor having lands and countless wealth,That makes and marks the gentleman.For these are earthly, of the earth,And by the vilest oft possessed;But 'tis the spirit makes the man,The soul that rules in brain and breast:The generous heart, the noble mind,The soul aspiring still to climbTo higher heights, to truer truths,To faith more heavenly and sublime.These make the noble of the earth;And he I love is one of these:—And shall I for a title fallFrom such a soul and love as his?Believe me, no! Ten thousand times,A cot with him I'd rather shareThan yonder hall with you, my lord,"And then she turned and left him there.Off fell the curls and thick moustacheThat hid the true look of his face.A step—and ere she was awareShe struggled in a strong embrace;Whilst kisses rained on cheek and lips,She would have cried for help; but, lo!The voice was one she knew so well,Not that which spoke awhile ago."Forgive me, oh! my dear, true love,If I have seemed thy love to test;I knew 'twas good, and pure, and true,As ever filled a maiden's breast:But I had something to reveal,And so I put on this deceit.Deceit! not so—for now I'm true,The past it is that was a cheat;For I this happy twelvemonth past,This year that gave thy love to me,Have lived a life not truly mine,Have lived it for the sake of thee.{850}And though I Harry Nugent am,The master of the village school,So am I Harry Nugent Vane,Lord of a higher rank and rule,The which I left to win thy love;And now I know that it is mine,I take it back, my own true wife.And Bromleigh Hall is mine and thine.
"It ought to be stopped, and it's all nonsense."
"It is all very well to say 'it ought to be stopped,' and that 'it is all nonsense,' but, my dear sir, we cannot stop it, for the people will have it; and I beg leave to differ with you, for I think it is very far from being nonsense."
It was in a Seventh Avenue railway car, and as I sat next to the last speaker, a clerical-looking person, I could not help overhearing the conversation. The other appeared to be one of those old gentlemen who are positive about everything—who, even in the tie of their cravat, say as plain as can be, "This is the way I intend to have it, and Iwillhave it."
"I perfectly agree with the Bishop of Oxford," said he. "See here"— and he opened a newspaper and read as follows: "'I have no great fear that as to the majority of the people there is any tendency toward Rome; and, on the contrary, I believe that in many cases this development of English ritualism tends to keep our people from Rome. It may, however, happen that the tendency of these things is to what I consider to be at this moment the worst corruption of the church of Rome—its terrible system of Mariolatry.' There, you see what it tends to, and it is plain enough, although the bishop did not like to say so, of course, that ritualism in our churches will educate our people to become Catholics; and so he adds, very properly: 'I regard it with deep distress. My own belief is that to stop these practices it will only be necessary for the bishop to issue an injunction to the clergymen to surcease from them—to surcease from incensing the holy table—to surcease from prostration after the consecration of the holy elements—to surcease from incensing at themagnificat.' My opinion precisely."
"Have you ever considered the true sense of these things?" inquired his clerical friend.
"Can't see any sense in it at all," tartly responded the old gentleman.
"No?" returned the other; "surely there must be some good reason for this wide-spread desire of both clergy and laity for a more elaborate ritual in divine service."
"Fashionable, fashionable—nothing else."
"It gives dignity and solemnity to public worship."
"Mere show."
"It adds to the apparent reality of the sacred functions of religion, in the administration of the sacraments particularly."
"Ha! ha! yes, it would be an apparent reality for us. I read about that 'apparent reality' lately in the report of the ordination of one of our bishops, and I thought it a very appropriate remark."
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"But you must admit that it tends to edify the worshippers, and afford them more ample means of lifting up the heart to God."
"It don't edify me."
"Then it is, besides, so full of instruction, for every ceremony fixes the mind upon the religious truth to which the ceremony points, as, for instance, making the sign of the cross must keep the truth of redemption forcibly before the mind."
"Make the sign of the cross!" ejaculated the old gentleman, almost jumping out of his seat, at which movement half a dozen ladies, standing up and holding on the leathern straps, made a simultaneous rush for the place.
"Why not?" said the other. "I am ready to do anything that will remind me that my Saviour died for me. Then it is only fulfilling the prophecy of St. Paul to bow or bend the knee at the mention of his holy name, and to genuflect before the altar is very proper and right, if we believe in the presence of Jesus Christ in the sacred elements."
"But we Protestants don't believe it."
"You must not be too sure of that; I know many who do. You know the Scripture is very strong in its favor: 'This is my body—this is my blood;' and I, as a good Protestant, who take my belief from the Bible, may have the right to believe it, may I not?"
"H'm, h'm, but our church don't teach any thing of the kind."
"Not as a church, I grant you, but she has no right to trammel private judgment; and if I choose to believe it, and act upon my belief, what is to hinder me."
"It seems to me that as a minister of the church you ought toministerjust what the church teaches and no more."
"If you follow that out, my friend, you will become a Romanist. A Protestant cannot stand on that ground."
"Oh dear!" exclaimed the old gentleman drawing a deep breath, and scratching his head. "I don't know what we are coming to. A man don't want to be a papist, and yet he goes to his own Protestant church and must put up with all the bowings and scrapings and genuflections and candies and flowers, and all the rest of the popish fiddle·de·dees."
"Now you mention candles and flowers," said the clerical gentleman, "what can be more appropriate symbols of joy and festivity? And when the Christian is rejoicing on those solemn and joyful festivals of the church, as, for instance, the birth of our Saviour at Christmas, and his resurrection at Easter, how very natural it is that the sanctuary of religion should be adorned with lights and flowers, than which nothing could express more fitly the joy and thankfulness of the heart. If you crush out all expression of these sentiments in the service of the church you will render it a dull, cold formality; and in this matter the church of Rome has been much wiser than we in retaining all those things which, after all, are of apostolic origin, and used by the earliest Christians."
"Incense, too, I suppose," added the old gentleman with a snarl.
"Incense too," repeated the other, "not the least doubt of it, as is plain from the discoveries in the catacombs, and a beautiful emblem it is of prayer. You know the scripture, 'My prayer shall ascend as incense in thy sight.'"
The old gentleman here looked around the car with an air that seemed to say, Will somebody have the kindness to tell me if I am asleep or awake? Turning to his friend, he said: "Then I suppose that all our protestations on this score against the Roman church have no foundation either in reason or in holy Scripture?"
"That is not only my own opinion," replied the clerical gentleman, "but I have every reason to believe it is the conviction of a very large number of enlightened Protestants of our day."
"A conviction I sincerely deplore," said the old gentleman. "Good morning," and he abruptly rose and left the car.
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"Excuse me, sir," said I, "if I, as a Catholic, have been deeply interested in your conversation just now; but may I ask on what principle those ritualistic forms and ceremonies are being adopted by Protestants, and being introduced into their services?"
"The principle is this, that they are all deeply significant of the different truths of the Christian religion, a visible expression of the faith of the worshipper."
"We understand that perfectly as Catholics," said I, "but as your congregations differ so widely in their individual belief, these forms and ceremonies would possess no significance to the half of anyone congregation of Protestant worshippers. Now, with us Catholics, the ceremonies have a universal significance, as all our people are united in one faith."
"We will educate our people to it," said he.
"That is, you would make the faith of your worshippers an expression of the ceremonies you perform, and not the ceremonies an expression of their faith. In the Catholic church the faith is all one to start on, and the appropriate ceremonies follow as a matter of course."
"I acknowledge," returned he, "that we have not paid sufficient attention to the vital necessity of a ritual which would embody and show forth the faith of our church."
"But when you have gotten a ritual which supposes, as it must, certain doctrines, and which, as you said to your friend, instructs the people in these doctrines, are you not trammelling the private judgment of those worshippers who do not believe these doctrines and wish to have a ritual which is consistent with their belief? What right have you to impose a ritual upon them inconsistent with their belief?"
"We do not impose any particular ritual," he replied; "if they do not like it they can go elsewhere."
"But then you would have, or ought to have, as many different rituals as your people have individual differences of belief, and that would end in endless division and dissension."
"It is excessively warm, don't you think so?" said the minister.
"It is," said I, "but I think we are going to have a storm soon; I see it is getting quite cloudy."
O hapless tree! which doth refuseThy fruit to him who thee hath made:Cursed and withered none may useThy barren limbs for fruit or shade.O Cross of death! which man did make,Barren and fruitless though thou be,Thy sapless branches life shall takeFrom that sweet fruit he gave to thee.O happy tree! divinely blest!True, thou hast neither leaves nor root;Yet 'neath thy shade a world shall rest,And feast upon thy heavenly fruit!
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A Peculiar Conglomerate.—Mr. John Keily, of the Irish Geological Society, has addressed a letter to the editor of theGeological Magazine, describing a peculiar conglomerate bed which is on the shore at Cushendeen, in the county of Antrim. The mass is about fifty feet above the sea, and some thirty yards long and wide. It is composed of round pebbles of quartz rock, from two to four inches in diameter; and they occur so closely packed that everyone is in contact with another, and no room left, except for the sand which cements them, and which fills the openings between the pebbles, when originally heaped together. These pebbles, as just stated, are of quartz rock, and therefore all of one kind. There is no actual rock of the same kind, on the shore, nearer than—(1) Malin Head, or Culdaff, in Donegal; (2) Belderg, east of Belmullet in Mayo, where it occupies the shore for fourteen miles; and (3) in the twelve bins, near Clifden, in Connemara, where it forms bands interstratified with mica slate. This mass is backed by a hill of brown Devonian grits and shales interstratified, which extends from Cushendeen to Cushendal. In both those rocks are a few round pebbles of quartz rock, similar to those in the mass on the shore, but in the rocks of the hill they are thinly disseminated, perhaps six or ten of them to a cubic yard. Mr. Kelly desires to know how the quartz pebbles came together unmixed with any other species of rock. The answer which the editor of theGeological Magazinegives in a foot-note seems very like the correct one. It is to the effect that, in the grinding of the several elements which were being rubbed together to form the conglomerate, the softer ones became reduced to powder.—Popular Science Review.
Old Roman Mines in Spain.—In the mines of San Domingo, in Spain, some discoveries of Roman mining implements and galleries have been made, which show us the colossal character of the labors undertaken by that ancient nation. In some instances, draining galleries nearly three miles in length were discovered, and in others the remains of wheels used to raise water were found in abundance. The wood, owing, it is thought, to penetration by copper, is in a perfect state of preservation, and there appears to be evidence that the wheels were worked by a number of men stepping on the flanges somewhat after the manner of prisoners on a tread-mill. There were eight of these water-wheels, the water being raised by the first into the first basin, by the second into the second basin, and so on, till it was conveyed out of the mine. The age of these relics has been set down at 1500 years.—Ibid.
Blood Relationship in Marriage.—At a late meeting of the London Anthropological Society, a paper was read by Dr. Mitchell on the above subject. The conclusions arrived at are: 1. That consanguinity in parentage tends to injure the offspring. That this injury assumes various forms: "as, diminished viability; feeble constitution; bodily defects; impairment of the senses; disturbance of the nervous system; sterility.", 2. That the injury may show itself in the grand-children: "so that there may be given to the offspring by the kinship of the parents apotential defectwhich may becomeactualin their children, and thenceforth perhaps appear as an hereditary disease." 3. That idiocy and imbecility are more common than insanity in such cases.
Gigantic Birds'-Nests.—Mr. Gould describes the Wattled Talegalla, or Bush Turkey, of Australia, as adopting a most extraordinary process of nidification. The bird collects together an immense heap of decaying vegetable matter as a depository for the eggs, and trusts to the heat engendered by decomposition for the development of the young. The heap employed for this purpose is collected by the birds during several weeks previous to the period of laying. It varies in size from two to four cartloads, and is of a perfectly pyramidal form. Several birds work at its construction, not by using their bills, but by grasping{854}the materials with their feet and throwing them back to one common centre. In this heap the birds bury the eggs perfectly upright, with the large end upward; they are covered up as they are laid, and allowed to remain until hatched, when the young birds are clothed with feathers, not with down, as is usually the case. It is not unusual for the natives to obtain nearly a bushel of eggs at one time from a single heap; and as they are delicious eating, they are as eagerly sought after as the flesh. The birds are very stupid, and easily fall a victim to the sportsman, and will sit aloft and allow a succession of shots to be fired at them until they are brought down.—Lamp.
The Muscular Fibres of the Heart of Vertebrates.—We have received from Dr. J. B. Pettigrew, the accomplished sub-curator of the Royal College of Surgeons' Museum, a copy of his excellent monograph on the above subject. The memoir is certainly the finest which has yet been produced; for it is comprehensive, clear, and accurate, and is accompanied by a great number of beautiful lithographs, which have been taken from photographs of actual dissections. The arrangement of the muscular fibres, as demonstrated by the author, sheds much light upon the peculiar movements of the heart. For this reason the essay has a great physiological importance, and, from the circumstance that the anatomy of the heart in the four vertebrate classes is fully explored by Dr. Pettigrew, it is of equal import and interest to the comparative anatomist. We have also received Dr. Pettigrew's paper on the valvular apparatus of the circulatory system, and we commend it likewise to our readers' favorable notice.—Science Review.
LIFE OF CATHERINE McAULEY.Foundress of the institute of Religious Sisters of Mercy. By a member of the order (belonging to the Convent of Mercy, at St. Louis), etc. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 500. New York. D. & J. Sadlier & Co., 1866.
This biography introduces a new, and hitherto generally unknown, character to the acquaintance, and, we are sure, to the admiration of the English-speaking Catholic public. The anonymous religious authoress has shown herself well qualified for her filial task, and has conferred a great benefit both on her order and on the cause of religion in general. The nearness of the period in which her venerable subject lived, the testimony of a number of the best informed and most trustworthy witnesses who were personally acquainted with her, and the materials furnished by other memoirs and letters, have given the writer of this biography an abundance of the most authentic data from which to produce a truthful and complete sketch of the Foundress of the Sisters of Mercy.
We have had the pleasure of learning something of the history of Catherine McAuley, and of the foundation of her institute, from one of her own earliest and most trusted pupils, who has planted the same institute, and brought it to a flourishing condition in four of the New England States. The portrait of her drawn by her biographer, corresponds with, and completes the preconceived idea of her character we had received from this authentic source.
It is eighty-one years since Catherine McAuley was born, forty years since she made the first beginning of her institute, and twenty-five years since her death. Her period of active life embraced only fourteen years. Yet there are now more than two hundred convents, and three thousand sisters, belonging to the congregation of Our Lady of Mercy, scattered over Ireland, England, the United States, British America, South America, and Australia; although the mortality among the sisters is at the high rate of ten per cent a year.
These facts prove better than any eloquence the value of the life and works of the foundress of the institute. Her personal history is uncommonly interesting and highly romantic. She was the daughter of highly respectable Catholic parents residing in Dublin. Losing her parents at an early age, she came under the guardianship of relatives who were strict Protestants and intensely hostile{855}to the Catholic religion. Consequently, she was not able to receive any instruction, to go to mass, or much less to receive the sacraments, before she became a young lady. Her brothers and sisters were easily induced to give up their minds to the influence of Protestant teaching and example. Catherine, however, steadily refused to attend the Protestant church; and, as soon as she was capable of doing so, made a studious and thorough examination of the grounds of the two religions, which resulted in establishing her forever in a faith which was not only firm but intelligent. She eventually succeeded in bringing back her sister and her nephew and niece to the Catholic church. While still a child, Catherine McAuley was adopted by an elderly couple named Callahan, who were very kind-hearted, very wealthy, and, childless. They allowed her to practise her religion, although quite indifferent to religion themselves, and gave her the means of practising many of those acts of charity to which she was always inclined.
This part of her history is strikingly interesting, as throwing light on the state of the Catholic religion among the higher classes in Ireland, during the latter part of the last century and the former part of the present one. It contains some scenes of tragic pathos taken from domestic life. Few are aware of the hatred, the contempt, the cruelty, the bitter, unrelenting persecution, with which the Catholic religion has had to contend in Ireland. Miss McAuley was once obliged to fly from the house of her brother-in-law, at night, through the streets of Dublin, to save herself from death at his hands. Nevertheless, she conquered, as the holy faith has always conquered, by undaunted courage joined with angelic meekness. The same brother-in-law who had pursued her with a drawn dagger, declared to her on his death-bed, that if he had time he would candidly examine into the Catholic religion, and died repeating acts of contrition, faith, hope and charity, which she suggested to him, leaving his children to her guardianship.
At the age of thirty-five Miss McAuley was left, by the death of her adopted parents, both of whom had become Catholics during their last illness, mistress of a fortune, the exact amount of which is not stated, but which appears to have at east equalled the sum of fifty thousand pounds sterling. The whole of this fortune was devoted by her to the foundation of her institute, which was opened about five years afterward, that is, in the year 1827. She does not seem to have cherished any aspirations after the religious state for herself, during her youth, much less to have dreamed of becoming the foundress of an order. In founding her institute in Dublin, she had in view the plan of combining the efforts of charitable ladies for the benefit of the poor, the sick, the ignorant, and particularly servant-girls who were out of place. The community-life, and the whole religious routine, grew up naturally and of itself. After a time, the judgment of prelates, clergymen, and other persons of weight, induced Miss McAuley and her associates to adopt a rule, and take perpetual vows. The scope of the institute embraces choir duties to a moderate extent, almost every kind of charitable work for the poor, a particular care for respectable servant-girls out of place, poor-schools, and high-schools or academies for girls of the middling classes.
The noble woman who planned all this vast scheme of good works, and lavished her fortune with princely generosity to set it in motion, died in the year 1841, at the age of fifty~four, ten years after making her vows as a Sister of Mercy. It is an interesting circumstance that the great and good Daniel O'Connell was one of her warmest friends during her life, and one of her staunchest supporters in her undertakings. These two magnanimous souls who loved their country, their country's faith, and the patient, oppressed, but unconquerable poor of their country, better than all earthly things, could appreciate and honor each other. Our readers will thank us for quoting the following description of the scenes which usually occurred at the great Liberator's visits to the convents of the Sisters of' Mercy:
"In his journeys through Ireland, O'Connell nearly always visited the convents in his route. On these occasions his reception was a kind of ovation. The Te Deum was sung, the reception-room hung with green, the national emblems—harp, shamrock, and sun-burst—displayed, addresses were read by the pupils, and any request he asked implicitly granted. His manner at such scenes was particularly happy. To a young girl who had delivered q flattering address to the 'Conquering Hero,' he said, very{856}graciously, that he 'regretted her sex precluded her from that distinguished place in the imperial senate to which her elocutionary abilities entitled her.' Then glancing at the girls who surrounded the oratress, he continued with emotion: 'Often have I listened with nerve unstrung and heart unmoved to the calumny and invectives of our national enemies; but to-day, as I look on the beautiful young virgins of Erin, my herculean frame quivers with emotion, and the unbidden tear moistens my eye. Can such a race continue in ignoble bondage? Are you born for no better lot than slavery? No,' he continued, with increasing vehemence, 'you shall be free; your country shall yet be a nation; you shall not become the mothers of slaves.'" (pp. 146-47.)
What a contrast between such genuine heroic characters as these, the true glory of their people, and the mock-heroic charlatans, whose genius show itself only in gathering in money from laboring men and servant-girls, and organizing raids which end only in the death and imprisonment of their most unlucky dupes, and bitter mutual accusations of treachery and cowardice among the leaders. The worst enemies of the Irish people are those who seek to alienate them from their clergy, and to lead them astray from the true mission given them by divine providence, which is identified with their traditions of faith and loyalty to the church. They are like Achaz and the false prophets of Judah, who contaminated the people of God with the false maxims of the nations around them. Men and women like Daniel O'Connell and Catherine McAuley are the Macchabees and Judiths of their nation. Through such as these, the faith of Ireland may yet conquer England, as the trampled faith of Judaea conquered Rome; and her long martyrdom obtain the due meed of glory from the children of her old oppressors.
We recommend this book to all those who claim kindred either in nationality or in faith with its subject, and who wish to rekindle their devotion or renew the memories of their ancestral home. We recommend it especially to our wealthy Catholics, that they may meditate on the example of princely charity given them by this young heiress, who gave away a fortune more readily than most others would give one twentieth of a year's income. We request our fair young readers also, to lay aside their novels for a while, and read the life of one who was beautiful, gifted, highly educated, beloved of all, rich in worldly goods, and with all earthly happiness courting her acceptance; and who, amid these allurements and the severest temptations to her faith, shone forth a bright model of all high Christian virtues to her sex. We wish that all those who are prejudiced against the Catholic faith, and who nevertheless have the candor which pays tribute to virtue, conscientiousness, and self-sacrifice, wherever seen, might also read it. The history of Catherine McAuley and her institute adds another to the many practical, living proofs, more powerful than any speculative arguments, of the truth and power of the Catholic religion. Such a history never has been or will be possible outside the fold of the Catholic church. Its occurrence in our own times shows that the church is now, as of old, the fruitful mother of saints, and that the old Catholic ideas which once made martyrs of young maidens, and raised up Claras and Teresas, retain all their power over the souls of those who have inherited the same faith. We have no fear of incurring the displeasure of Urban VIII. or of his successor, in giving our judgment that Catherine McAuley was a true Christian heroine, a woman of the same high stamp of character with St. Teresa, whom she resembles in many striking respects.
It is superfluous to say that this biography will be a most useful book in religious houses. Example is more powerful than precept, and a recent example is more powerful than a remote one. It were to be wished that similar biographies were more numerous. There are materials in the recent history of other orders, as well as in that of the institute of Mercy, which might be used to great advantage. The history of the American foundress of the Order of the Visitation would be worthy of a place, even in the annals of that ancient order. Books of this kind are not only instructive, but, when well written, superior in that charm which captivate's the feelings and imagination of the young, to the romantic tales over which their time and sensibilities are too often wasted. The present volume is written in that lively and piquant style, with a dash of humor to flavor it, which makes a biography most readable and entertaining. Religion wears its most cheerful and attractive countenance in{857}these pages, and even the couch of the dying sisters are lit up with gayety. Mother Catherine's life was a perpetualLaetareSunday in Lent, spiritual joy ever decking with flowers the altar of sacrifice, and changing the violet of penance and self-denial to rose-color. Her tranquil and benignant countenance, as represented in the portrait which graces her biography, expresses this type of spirituality which she communicated to her order. The mirthful laugh of the common-room resounds through the pages which relate of the unremitting labors and continual prayer, whose effect decimates the ranks of the Sisters of Mercy every year. We are not treated to any prosy disquisitions or abstracts of ascetic treatises, which make some of the lives of saints such tiresome reading, especially to young people. But we have something better; a picture of virtue, of piety, of devotion to Jesus Christ, in their most heroic form, blended with a joyousness to which, the boudoir and the drawing-room are strangers, and which may well attract pure and generous hearts to imitate such an engaging model of sanctity.
There are numerous episodes and sketches of the many persons with whom Mother Catherine was associated, such as that of her little niece Mary; of the good Welsh sister from Bridgenorth; of the English earl's daughter, who entered the convent with her two waiting-maids; of the accomplished but somewhat eccentric authoress of Geraldine; and the inimitable Dr. Fitzgerald. Some of these are pathetic, and others comic in the extreme. We have but one criticism to make, which is, that a little more restraint and forbearance toward some who are deemed to have erred in their duty to the order, would have added another grace to the narrative. There are also some faults of typography and slight clerical oversights, which will doubtless be corrected in a second edition.
We hope we have piqued the curiosity of our readers enough to make every reader buy the book, or tease papa to buy it. And if the desire to read it is not enough to wake up our somewhat apathetic Catholic public, let them remember that by buying the book they are contributing to that unfailing spring of mercy which flows from the convents of Catherine McAuley's daughters to relieve the poor.