Chapter IX: A Bright Evening (5)

To know Schubert well, we must see how he has expressed the different sentiments of the human heart――not love and terror simply, but infinite varieties of intermediate and moderate feeling; and in these we shall find, as his common characteristics, grace and brilliancy.

“Haud ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco.”

Who shall sing of love unless he knows its pains? Schubert has felt it all――its timid tenderness, its ardent passion, and it may be its despair. In his “Pensées d’Amour” are not these six bars the unfolding, as it were, of a heart which is opening for the first time, like a bud in the sunshine of a spring morning?――when

“Eden revives in the first kiss of love”

(thus sings yron). A happy dream; a tenderness as shy as it is deep――were these ever rendered with a more delicate charm?

After this sweet and tranquil reverie follows impassioned devotion. The “Serenade” is too well known to require that we should linger over it. Who does not recall the appeals of that supplicating voice, and the plaintive answers of the accompaniment?

How immensely inferior for the most part are the serenades to which public favor has given a celebrity! All the masters of the modern Italian school have sung under a balcony; and without going so far back as Stradella, whose lovely romance in D minor has nothing in common with the modern _Lied_, we will say a few words on the serenades of _Le Barbier_ and _Don Pasquale_, which appear to be the most extensively known.

The one addressed by Almaviva to Rosina――or, to speak more accurately, to the public――seems to us unworthy of Rossini’s reputation. A phrase, rather wanting in fulness, some passages for the voice, a few organ touches――this is all; the whole, however, very well written for giving relief to the fine notes of a tenor. But this is not enough to constitute a _chef d’œuvre_; and probably Rossini was thinking of this kind of music when he boasted before Bellini that he wrote from his mind rather than from his heart, at the same time assuring the young man’s simplicity that this was “_quite sufficient for the worthy public_.”

The serenade in _Don Pasquale_ is graceful and coquettish. If Donizetti intended this declaration of love to be taken merely as a jest, he has perfectly succeeded.

M. Gounod has written several serenades, without including his “Aubades.” To speak of the former only, the serenade of Mephistopheles “Vous qui faites l’endormie,”[162] in _Faust_, is not wanting in charm, though something more incisive would be better suited to an infernal singer. The famous serenade, “_Quand tu dors_,”[163] has less originality than the foregoing, although agreeably written for the voice. It is an excellent vocalization, which, more than once, Bordogni must have regarded with a jealous eye. It is not until the _andante amoroso_ that it expresses anything like passion. As to the serenade of the page in _Romeo and Juliet_, it is inferior again to its two elders.

To find a serenade comparable to those of Schubert, we must address ourselves to Mozart. Who that has heard _Don Juan_ does not remember the marvellous contrast, long since remarked by critics, between the melodious phrase, full of character and tenderness, and the light accompaniment which falsifies every word uttered by Don Juan? Love is on his lips, while mocking indifference is in his heart.

In the expression of suffering, desolation, and despair we shall find that Schubert is greater still; and mention as examples “Rosemonde,” “Marguérite,” and “Les Plaintes de la Jeune Fille.” The artist, following his inspiration, renders the same thought under very different forms; he finds in his soul deep and varying shades which escape the vulgar and are the marks of true genius. In all these three works Schubert has to express the grief of a forsaken maiden, but with what consummate art, and yet what truth, he has known how to vary his accents! In reading these melodies in the order already named the emotion goes on increasing up to the end.

In “Rosemonde” we hear the complaint of a soul which knows the sufferings of abandonment, but not the pangs of despair. After an introduction in F major full of sweetness and tenderness, the opening of the melody in F minor impresses us painfully; but about the middle of each of these strophes the young girl, recovering, with the A natural, the original key, lets us plainly see that she still has hope.

Marguérite hopes no more. From the very opening we feel troubled by the agitated movement of the accompaniment: it is like the sorrowful murmur of the soul preceding sobs of anguish, and is prolonged still for a moment after the unhappy girl has said for the last time, “_C’en est fait; il m’oublie――l’ingrat que j’aimais!_”[164] What accents of abandonment have we here! On the words, _Mes jours sont flétris_,[165] grief swells almost to madness. But Marguérite, presently recovering herself, retraces the past, and seems to see again her lover. Again she cries:

“Pour moi tout va finir.
Un seul moment reviens encore,
Un seul moment te revoir et mourir!”[166]

Her suffering has become almost insupportable. She stops, and the agitation continues only in her heart. After a few bars she resumes in a low voice: “_C’en est fait, il m’oublie_,” etc., and the melody ends on the fifth, then a very new effect, though now frequently employed.

If, after a short pause, we read the “Plaintes de la Jeune Fille,” we are soon under the influence of an entirely different emotion. The agitation of the preceding melody is changed for a more self-contained but even more poignant pain. The maiden, ripened by long suffering, confides to the tossing waves the woe which consumes her. A solemn and lugubrious phrase escapes her; her words are slow, her sorrow fearfully calm. Ten years of tears and contemplation were needed to change Marguérite to this.

To find repose from violent emotions we need not have recourse to any other than Schubert, among whose eminent characteristics are those of sweetness, gracefulness, and contrasting brilliancy and splendor. From among a multitude of admirable melodies we will mention only “La Truite,” “Le Nautonnier,” and “Le Départ” (“The Trout,” “The Sailor,” and “The Departure”).

In “La Truite” Schubert unexpectedly finds himself met by a great difficulty. If it be true that people are soon tired of descriptive poetry, it is still more incontestable that the descriptive style is ill suited to music.

We must make an exception for certain powerful physical effects, such as tempest under all its forms; and yet here again what we are most sensible of in the storms of Gluck, Beethoven, and Weber is the troubled state of the human mind in presence of the disturbance of nature.

One day, when the genius of the great and good Haydn was taking a nap, it came into his head to attempt to express in his _Creation_ the roaring of lions and tigers, the swiftness of the stag, together with other equally unmusical ideas; he consequently fell into the grotesque. Schubert had to describe the joyous sportings of the trout “in its limped crystal.” He had the good taste to trouble himself very little about it. To find a melodic phrase full of charm and feeling was his first care; and need we say that he succeeded? The light and graceful design of the accompaniment may perhaps remind us of the trout――“His graceful dartings and his rapid course” (“_Ses élans gracieux, sa course volage_”)――but it is nothing more than a detail of the description which comes merely as an addition to the dominant sentiment.

“Le Nautonnier” is the triumphal song of the mariner who, after braving the violence of the tempest, returns safely into port. Rapid as the wind which fills the sails of his bark, agitated as the waves which threaten to engulf him――such is the rhythm of the two first phrases; but soon, with the major and the E flat of the treble, the song of victory bursts forth: man has conquered the force of the elements. This is undeniably one of the most vigorous melodies ever written by Schubert.

“Le Départ” is a no less powerful production. It is not a little surprising to read, as the title of a song by the melancholy Schubert: “Le Départ: Chant de Joie.” It is, in fact, the song of one carried away by a love of change and a thirst for new pleasures――one who can say with Byron that

“I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.”[167]

This song is remarkable for the proud loftiness of its melodious march, and for the ardor which impregnates its rhythm. It is a wonderful intermingling of carelessness and eagerness, the more observable because it was so rarely that Schubert was called upon to express feelings too exterior and noisy for his timid and concentrated nature.

Beethoven, who had made deep acquaintance with human suffering, and in whose wondrous pages it is expressed with so much power, would nevertheless at times sing also his notes of gladness. He built the immensely grand finale of the “Symphony and Chorus” upon Schiller’s “Hymn of Joy.”

It is a wondrous hymn! After a splendid opening by the orchestra alone follows the phrase in D major, of antique nobleness and simplicity; but, alas! this moment of interior calm is cruelly expiated. The grand phrase is made to undergo successive tortures; after changing into a plaint of sorrow, it becomes a cry of despair, almost of madness.

Elsewhere again, in the incomparable finale of the Symphony in A, Beethoven has sung of joy――joy carried to its utmost limits of enthusiasm and ecstasy. To follow Beethoven in his impetuous course produces an indescribable emotion, less akin to pleasure than to pain, since violent feeling, from whatever cause it may arise, is invariably attended by suffering. Excess, whether of joy or love, is pain, very pure but very penetrating; for it is one of the conditions of our human nature to be unable to rise on high without suffering here below.

“Jamais entière allégresse:
L’âme y souffre de ses plaisirs,
Les cris de joie ont leur tristesse,
Et les voluptés leurs soupirs.”[168]

Besides, after the mysterious nuptial march of the Symphony in A can we be surprised that the joy of Beethoven is only a delusion of the heart, and beneath this feverish ardor must not some great moral suffering be hidden?

But we must return from the digression into which we have been led by the consideration of the “Chant de Joie,” whose great author, however, would not reproach us for it, being himself a profound admirer of Beethoven. We have now to see how Schubert has rendered the sentiment of terror.

Only to name “The Erl King” and “The Young Nun” is a sufficient reminder of the greatness of this composer in the expression of dramatic feeling. These two _Lieder_ are known all over the world; “The Erl King,” more especially, popularized by Mme. Viardot, is one of those few melodies of Schubert which have crossed the Alps and become favorites in Italy.

Criticism has for so long past awarded its admiration to the strangely fascinating song of the black spectre and the terrified cries of the child that it would be superfluous to do more than allude to them; but it will be well to devote a few lines to the consideration of “The Young Nun,” which has been very little studied.

In the first part what an intermingling there is of terror and wild love! Listen to this fragment of two bars, thrice interrupted, more by the storm within the heart than the outward fury of the elements, and thrice resumed with a chromatic scale.[169] After the triple reiteration of ascendants, three new fragments descend, also chromatically, with a bass accompaniment of a lugubrious character, and a harmonic sequence expressive of acute distress:

“Partout l’ombre,
Et la nuit sombre;
――Deuil et terreur.”[170]

From the depths of this abyss, with the words _souvenir de douleur_ (remembered pain), which evoke a whole past, there springs up a new thought of exquisite tenderness; and here we have a glimpse of the key of F major, but only for a moment, the melody falling back into F minor.

“_L’orage grondait ainsi en mon cœur_” (Thus rolled the storm within my heart). Here, for the moment, passion carries the day; the three cries of terror, interrupted at the opening, are uttered again, more hurriedly, at the remembrance of this distracting love “which agitated her by day and night,” then a fresh burst of despair recurs in the chromatic descent which takes us back to F minor.

“Ainsi flétrie, ma triste vie se consumait.”[171]

In this line we hear once more, but for the last time and very softly, the gloomy burden of the bass, immediately after which reappears the A natural, which victoriously restores the key of F major. Light has banished darkness, and life has vanquished death.

“_La paix est rentrée à jamais dans mon cœur_” (Peace has returned to dwell for ever in my heart), sings the young nun in an inspired voice. This time the triumph is complete. At the words, “Descend, my Saviour, from the eternal home,” the musical phrase mounts like a thanksgiving hymn. The effect is marvellous, and what is not less so is the fact that Schubert has recourse only to the most natural means to produce it. A simple change of key, the passage in the major――a form so frequently insipid――is, in his hands, invested with a surprising power.

Among the other _Lieder_ of the sombre kind is one deserving especial attention――namely, “The Young Girl and Death” (_La Jeune Fille et la Mort_). In this we are attracted not so much by the beauty of the melody as by the musical problem which it may help us to solve. How ought music to speak of supernatural beings? How is it to be made suitable to the utterances of the Divinity, of demons, or of Death? We have here a serious difficulty. Is it fitting that the musician should put a melody into the mouths of abstract beings? Whatever may be the beauty of the phrase that is _sung_, the effect does not meet the requirements of the case or answer our expectations. Is it, then, needful to have recourse to recitative? But recitative has not the depth demanded by the subject. What, then, must be done? Let us refer to Gluck; this great master has more than one secret to reveal to those who thoroughly study him.

Gluck was the first to discover the most suitable form in which to represent spiritual voices, and so well has he succeeded that no one has been able to ignore his influence. At the risk of being otherwise either cold or ridiculous, it has been necessary for all to adopt, in this particular, his manner.

“_Tremble, ton supplice s’apprête_” (Thy doom is even now prepared), says a mysterious voice to Thoas (_Iphigenia in Tauris_). The phrase, given slowly and softly by voices and trombones in unison, on _re_ penetrates us with a mysterious fear.

In _Alcestis_, listen to the lugubrious effect of the voice of the oracle, saying on a sustained note: “The king to-day must die, if in his stead none other offers up his life.”[172] It is full of a sombre beauty, and the terrible persistency of the rhythm is very expressive of the antique fatalism.

Must it be added that Gluck has proved by his own example the inevitable absurdity of a melodic phrase in the mouth of a divinity who is made to intervene in human events?

Diana appears in order to save Iphigenia and her brother; the goddess sings her _aria_, and we see with pain one of the most admirable _chefs-d’œuvre_ of dramatic music finish as miserably as the utterly forgotten _Iphigenia_ of Piccini.

Again, Mozart wishes to evoke the shade of the Commander; the statue becomes animated and speaks:

“Before the dawning thou wilt cease to smile.”[173]

This phrase, by its harmonies and rhythm, reminds us of the voice of the oracle:

“Le roi doit mourir aujourd’hui.”

Here an objection will probably be made that the statue lays aside this uniform tone, and that Mozart ventures to entrust it with a more melodic phrase. The answer is simple: the form created by Gluck is necessary when the supernatural being preserves its mysterious character, and issues not from the cloud that conceals it from our eyes. But if the statue descends from its pedestal and again becomes the Commander, if the oracle or the god takes a body, if you allow him human feelings, there can be no reason against his expressing them. It is no longer the hidden divinity who dictates an inevitable decree, but one who, having taken the form of a man, speaks in man’s language.

In the same way Wagner, when making gods and genii the personages of his dramas, gives them the accents of the human voice. Mingling among men, they too may well love and suffer, weep and sing.

After Gluck and Mozart,[174] Schubert also makes Death speak; he also accepts as necessary the form given by Gluck. To the young girl’s supplication Death answers by a phrase the rhythm and harmonies of which perhaps too much recall the voice of the oracle in _Alcestis_.

If we may venture to say so, Schubert seems to have found himself in one of those exceptional cases in which the Gluckist form was not suitable. Why this sombre coloring, when Death was doing his utmost to _charm_ the young girl?

“Give me thy hand, nor tremble thus,
Enfolded in my arms, thou’lt sink
Into a sleep more sweet than life.”[175]

Here a more melodic phrase would appear to us more suitable.

Having no intention of giving a catalogue of the works of Schubert,[176] we will not group together his _Lieder_, but merely observe that all his melodies belong to one of three divisions, which express either love, or splendor, joy, and triumph, or, lastly, terror. Many combine two of these divisions. In “Marguérite” the principal idea is that of love, and the secondary one the drama; on the contrary, in “La Jeune Religieuse” the drama occupies the first place, and the earthly love is subordinate.

Our notice would be too incomplete without at least a rapid survey of the other works of Schubert besides the _Lied_, in which he is unequalled, but he has also tried symphonies, operas, and oratorios. Of his operas, which are numerous, two only have obtained some reputation――namely, _Alfonso and Estrella_, chiefly famous for its reverses, and _La Guerre Domestique_ (The Domestic War), known in France by the name of _La Croisade des Dames_. This charming opera in one act was played with success a few years ago at the Théâtre des Fantaisies in Paris, and in every page could be recognized with pleasure the author of the _Lieder_. Its distinguishing qualities are the touching tenderness of the melody, the brilliancy and delicacy of the organ accompaniment, and the perfection in the manner of writing for the voices.

Schubert undertook also some more extensive works, many of which, unfortunately, were never completed, while the rest are lost in consequence of that absence of care and order which has probably cost us the loss of more than one valuable composition. Ought we to regret that Schubert has not left one great opera in which he might have displayed all his faculties? We think so, although we do not say that he would have proved himself to be a musician like Mozart, a master of tragedy like Gluck or gifted with Weber’s power of fantastic coloring, capable of the sustained passion of Meyerbeer or the powerful developments of Wagner. But tenderness and sweetness would have flowed in streams from his heart, and the work would have been so full of poetry and so rich in characteristic beauties that his place would still have been a glorious one. Who can deny that M. Gounod is a great composer? And yet it would be difficult to name a really powerful page, unless it be the church scene in _Faust_, and the finale in _Sappho_. Posterity will say of him that he was deficient in force, but that Marguérite is very enchanting, _Romeo and Juliet_ full of tenderness, and _Mireille_ of poetry; and doubtless as much as this would have been said of Schubert.

In his symphonies and drawing-room music Schubert, no longer carried on by feeling, frequently fails. The subscribers to the popular concerts of the _Cirque d’hiver_ in Paris have not forgotten the fragments of his symphonies which were at various times executed under the able direction of M. Pasdeloup. These selections were taken from the best, and there was certainly here and there a page which breathed inspiration. But praise like this is no small blame, and it is a severe criticism on a symphony to detach merely an isolated portion from it, and condemn the remainder to oblivion.

What was the reason of this inferiority in Schubert’s symphonic music? One of the most serious appears to be the fact that he had not made a very deep or advanced study of music. He was preparing to study the fugue when carried off by death. Now, it is precisely symphonic composition that demands the most extensive and thorough knowledge of the science of music. Grétry and Montigny, who were but ordinary contrapuntists, have written admirable operas, but we might seek in vain for a great symphonist who had not at the same time a deep knowledge of music as a science.

Besides, Schubert, whose inspirations, as we have already remarked, were essentially lyric, was not in the habit of working out his thoughts, and lacked the capacity for giving them the powerful developments required by the symphony. Spoiled also by his extraordinary facility, he wrote too fast. In a lyric composition like the _Lied_ the facility of the hand is no hindrance to the inspiration, which should be ardent and rapid, but the formation and unfolding, as it were, of a symphony require a powerful inspiration joined to the patient reflection and incessant labor which twenty times over modifies its work before giving its definitive form.

The symphonic music of Schubert will pass away, but he will find a place in the hearts of posterity as the inspired singer of the _Lieder_, the beautiful completeness of which, as a whole, is the result of his having known how to enshrine in these short poems rapid and living dramas, full by turns of joy and sorrow, love and triumph, or despair He was one of those men whose greatness is rather of the heart than the intellect; and if to others great conceptions are due, few like him have given expression to the deepest feelings of the heart, and the most refined and elevated accents of the soul.

[160] _Critique et Littérature Musicales_, vol. i. p. 322.

[161] _Franz Schubert: sa Vie et les Œuvres._ Par Mme.
Audley. Paris: Didier.

[162] Thou who seemest to be sleeping.

[163] When thou sleepest.

[164] All is over; he forgets me――the ungrateful one whom I
have loved.

[165] My days are withered.

[166] “All soon will end for me. Return again, return one
moment more, that I once more may see thy face and die.” In
the _Faust_ of M. Gounod we have Marguérite at the wheel.
The French composer has treated this scene in a very
touching and striking manner, especially on the words, “_Il
ne revient pas_.” It is a beautiful page, but not so deep as
Schubert.

[167] _Childe Harold._

[168] REBOUL. Not here is perfect joy:
Suffering attends the soul’s delights,
Our notes of gladness have their sadness,
And every pleasure has its sighs.

[169] M. Gounod, in the duo of the first act of _Romeo and
Juliet_, has found a chromatic ascendant which has some
analogy with that of Schubert, but which, in the hands of
the French composer, takes quite a different coloring.
Sombre in _La Jeune Religieuse_, it is in _Roméo et
Juliette_ sparkling with light. In the line “_Vois ces
rayons jaloux dont l’orient se dore_” (“Behold these envious
beams which gild the east”) the brilliant ground-work added
by M. Gounod contributes not a little to render the effect
of light.

[170] Gloom over all
And the dark night;
――Terror and woe.

[171] Thus withered, my sad life consumed away.

[172] Le roi doit mourir aujourd’hui,
Si quelqu’autre au trépas ne se livre pour lui.

[173] _Tu cesseras de rire avant l’aurore._

[174] Not having space to multiply examples, we say nothing
of the Oracle of Spontini, which, moreover, has the form of
Gluck.

[175] “_Donne ta main. Ne tremble pas.
Tu vas dormir entre mes bras.
D’un sommeil plus doux que la vie._”

[176] Schubert is known to have composed more than five
hundred melodies, most of which are admirable. Those we
mention are merely taken as examples from among numerous
others of equal beauty.

NEW PUBLICATIONS

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 of St. 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 opinion cannot 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 8-8/10 seconds 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 only 1/31 of 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 small that 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 following St. 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. By Rt. 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 it contains. 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 of _Deirdrè_ is 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 of _Deirdrè_ himself. At least, he will consider it no dishonor that his song should wake the memory of those great singers in our mind.

_Deirdrè_ is an Irish story of pre-Christian times. Like the _Iliad_, 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 squirrel cried 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 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 called _great_; and greatness is 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 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 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.”

The epic spirit contained in the last line needs no comment.

Again, here is a strong picture:

“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 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 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 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). In p. 46 Caffa shakes his head “full dolefully.” In p. 49 “The east and north a strong Wind blew _full keen_.” In p. 55 Deirdrè grows “full pale”; in p. 58 she goes “to and fro” “full secretly”; in p. 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” adorns p. 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 in _Deirdrè_, 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 very Rev. 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 pronounced expression 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 in THE CATHOLIC WORLD have 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 satisfaction of 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. _Their_ freedom 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 striving to 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 curious _freakery_ a 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 naked and 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.