Chapter LVI: Part V: They Sang (8)

It is scarcely necessary to add that the promise was observed, and during the next month or two he was almost constantly one of the gay little party which roved among the grand old ruins of Rome, wandered about its art‐ galleries and into its temples and churches, always consulting guide‐books with a faith in, and a dependence on them that undoubtedly made Mr. Lee winner of his wager. It is very remarkable what wonderful things can transpire in a little while, though we are not certain whether you consider it remarkable that Mr. Lee soon manifested extraordinary interest in the movements of Miss Kathleen. If that young person chose to stare an old statue out of countenance, she would not be long without the assistance of another pair of eyes that had suddenly remembered some never‐before‐known merit about the image, and were instantly intent on it. If Kathleen thought proper to sit among the ruins, he, completely overcome by fatigue, would rest by her side. We are much afraid this was not all that happened; for there were certainly some very ardent glances sent from his eyes to her sparkling black ones, that softened and glowed as they drank in the language of the blue ones. And at every new approach of the tall, manly figure didn’t the gray hat with the scarlet plume droop lower and lower; didn’t the round, dimpled cheeks beneath rival the feather in color; didn’t the little hands clasp each other tightly, that their trembling might not make too bold a confession of her happy agitation? You cannot be surprised that, standing together by the beautiful Trevi fountain one moonlight night, to her was told in eloquent tones the old, old story which every woman hears once in her life, be she ever so poor, so ugly, so disagreeable. But this woman was lovely, bewitching; and the tale seemed exquisite harmony when softly, beseechingly it fell upon such ears. Long after the low voice had ceased telling what was music to her soul Kathleen stood silent. The water dashed from and over rocks in playful sport, defying the peaceful glance of the moon, which bade it be quiet. The church‐bells rang out the hour of ten, and from the distance sounded Agathe’s laugh, with the accompanying expostulation from several ladies and gentlemen who were begging her to sing. At last clear and full to these lovers came the sweet old song, “Kathleen Mavourneen.” Howard waited till the music died away, then whispered,

“Why art thou silent,
Thou voice of my heart?
Oh! why art thou silent,
Kathleen Mavourneen?”

“Oh! spare me, spare me,” cried Kathleen. “I cannot, cannot answer! If you but knew!”

“And do I not know you are what I love with all my heart, what I long to call my own? Have you not encouraged me? allowed me to believe you cared for me?”

“Oh! I never meant it. I would not have had you know that I cared for you. Have pity on me, Mr. Lee, and do not ask why! I can give no answer to your kind words. Believe me that it is best as it is.”

“Miss Waring, your friends are coming—will interrupt us in one minute; can you give me _no_ hope? Is there nothing you will say to comfort my yearning heart?”

“All I can say is, Wait; in a little while you will cease to wish for my affection when you have learned what it is essential you should know before I can give an answer to your question.”

“Nothing can change my desire,” pleaded Howard, gazing upon the tear‐laden eyelashes and trembling lips. “Only tell me now what you think I must know, and then see if it makes the slightest difference.”

“No, Mr. Howard,” said Kathleen, regaining composure, “wait a few days; then I will either send for you or write what I have to communicate. With you will rest the decision. Remember always that I have cared for you, and that now it is a sad good‐night I wish you, knowing it may be my last.”

Here they were joined by their party, and Kathleen flying to the protection of her mother’s arm, Mr. Lee took his place by Agathe’s side, and thus they returned home. Poor Kathleen passed a miserable night, and awoke next morning with head aching so badly as to prevent her appearance at breakfast. Towards noon she improved, and by three o’clock presented herself in the drawing‐room, where were her mother and sister. Telling them she was going out for a little fresh air, and to feel no uneasiness if she did not immediately return, she left the house, ran across the piazza, up the steps, and stood in front of the Trinità di Monte. Pausing a minute, “This is the 8th of December, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, so certainly there must be Benediction here this afternoon, as they tell me the church belongs to the Ladies of the Sacred Heart. I’ll try, anyhow.”

The little portress, in her very ugly cap, informed _la signorina_, “Yes, benediction would be given in one hour from that time. Would she walk into the chapel now and wait, or would she prefer going away to return?” _La signorina_ would wait; so she was shown into the church, and there left to her own reflections, which were one long struggle with feelings so contrary that to make them agree was impossible. The poor child had, ever since leaving the convent of Mt. de C——, been praying for courage to avow a faith which she knew would anger her father, distress that darling mother, and call forth words of bitter ridicule from Agathe. Now to these considerations was added the fear of losing Howard Lee’s affection.

“Ah! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she cried, “help me in this my agony. Send down upon me your blessing, that I may be strengthened in the path which has become so difficult to my faltering feet! Endow my heart with that courage I once boasted I would ask for when its need should be discovered. O my Father in heaven! look upon thy child with pity, and heed her earnest supplication.”

For an entire hour she wavered between the earthly devotion that awaited but a word to be hers, and the higher Love, that requires many crosses and sacrifices before it recompenses the heart. It will never desert, never wound. The sun sank lower in the heavens, and the light in the chapel took a soft, mysterious tone that lent supernatural quiet and stillness to the place, greatly soothing Kathleen’s restless mind. Her head leaning on the railing in front of her, her lips moving in unconscious prayer, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep that was only disturbed when over her senses stole the faint sound of music, gradually, gradually unclosing those delighted eyes shining with blissful wonder, as she supposed it all must have been a dream, from which she waked to find herself safe in the dear old convent. Surely, there was the beautiful altar, the Blessed Sacrament exposed, many candles burning amid vases of exquisite flowers, the venerable priest kneeling at the altar’s foot; above all, the convent girls, in blue uniforms and white veils, entering two by two, making their genuflections, and standing in their places till all were ready, when tap! from the Sisters’ bench, and down they sat. From the organ‐loft the sweet litany she knew so well came pouring into her ears just as of yore; as of yore the priest, the Sisters, and convent girls sang in familiar tones:

“Mater Christi,
Mater divinæ gratiæ,
Mater purissima.”

With happy heart and tearful eyes she sang out the _Ora pro nobis_, while many looked to see from whence came the joyful notes, so splendidly swelling their chorus. Through the litany, the _O Salutaris!_ and the _Tantum Ergo_ her strong, young voice was clear and sweet, and none guessed that in the girl’s heart a fearful struggle had taken place, and that there the good Lord had come and left a gift which would never decay, never be worthless, but ever bright and glorious. A last prayer for strength was uttered during Benediction, and Kathleen felt half her difficulties were overcome when she stood up at the _Laudate Dominum_.

That night she confessed to her parents her intention of becoming a Catholic, and besought their permission to take the step. Mr. Waring was furious at first, and vowed she shouldn’t—not if he knew himself; but three days’ fussing and fuming brought him to the conclusion she might do as she chose, “but, for heaven’s sake, never expect him to love her as much again,” and enforced his resolution by hugging and kissing her on the spot. Mrs. Waring was very sad at the aspect of affairs, but had so long anticipated it as to be little surprised. Deeming a refusal of her sanction worse than useless, she also said her daughter might do as she pleased. Only Agathe was inexorable; for, having begun by condemning her sister’s course, she considered it incompatible with firmness ever to change.

“How you can have allowed yourself to be so wound about the little fingers of those priests and nuns I can’t divine,” she cried. “It indicates such contemptible weakness to turn from the religion in which you were born to that of a Papist—above all things, a Papist! Were I to live a hundred years, I could not do it.”

“No, my poor sister,” thought Kathleen; “with all your character, I fear you have not the daring courage required to combat the distress of parents, the anger of friends, the loss of a beloved object. No; it is a precious gift of God, and must be prayed for.”

Next Kathleen wrote to Mr. Lee, informing him of all that had taken place, of her intention to become a member of the Catholic Church in a few weeks, and renewed her request that he would forgive the pain she had caused him in remembering the grief she herself endured; with many wishes for his future prosperity, she remained his true friend. No answer came to this at all, and the Warings saw nothing more of Howard Lee. Delicacy prevented their asking an explanation from Kathleen, and, as she proffered none, his name was never mentioned among them.

The days passed on, and Kathleen, being at last considered sufficiently instructed, had prevailed on the Sisters of Trinità di Monte to allow her retreat to be made with them, and her baptism and first communion to take place in their church. Christmas was the time appointed for the consummation of Kathleen’s desire. The chapel had been beautifully decorated by the nuns and girls; and a little Bethlehem, removed some slight distance from the altar, was the emblem of the glorious feast. A new Mass had been learned, and, while the organ pealed forth its first tones, the white‐robed girls filed in, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Waring and Agathe, who, by dint of persuasion, had been induced to appear on the occasion. Last entered Kathleen, and knelt in front of the altar. She was faint and trembling, but did not lose a syllable of the words that made her a Christian, a Catholic, and soldier of heaven. She was baptized, of course, before the celebration of Mass, and during it received for the first time the Holy Communion. Mr. Waring seemed much moved, his wife cried outright, and Agathe’s flushed face and shining eyes belied the unconcern she tried so hard to assume.

No one noticed the tall, dark figure standing in the furthest corner of the church, nor saw the gaze riveted upon the fair, sweet girl at the altar. As everything here must have an end, so did the music, the lights, all that had brightened the chapel. The dark figure had hurried away, the girls in white had disappeared, the Warings were gone; only the little Babe of Bethlehem still lay in the manger, and one lamp shed its faint lustre in honor of that Blessed Sacrament which is for you, for me, for all who but seek it.

On the evening of the same day Kathleen was playing soft chords on the piano, and indulging in waking dreams, when she was greatly disturbed by the entrance of a man bearing in his arms a huge package of something very delicate, to judge from the care with which said package was deposited on the table. Before Kathleen could frame a question concerning the matter the man was gone. Approaching the very remarkable bundle, she perceived a card suspended bearing these words:

“A Christmas gift for Miss K. Waring.”

Still wondering, she gently detached the paper cover, and there, delighting her eyes, was a tiny Christmas‐tree literally filled with bon‐ bons, colored candles, and children’s toys, while two or three small papers concealed some more valuable presents no doubt. In perfect amazement she ran to the door and called father, mother, and sister, who, hastening to the room, uttered exclamations of pleasure at the sight. The candles were instantly lighted, and the tree admired from every point, though a thorough mystification ensued as to the donor. Each surmise only seemed to make the matter worse; so they instituted a search among the separate parcels. The first opened displayed a gold locket with the initials A. W. in pinheads of pearls; the next contained a handsome silver tobacco‐box for Mr. Waring; the next, a musical work‐box with Mrs. Waring’s name; yet still there was nothing for Kathleen. More astonished than ever, they examined once again; and right on the very top of the tree, buried deep in its branches, was a round pasteboard box about the size of a lady’s watch. Being opened, it disclosed a knot of hard‐twisted note‐paper, which Kathleen unwrapped and unfolded until she came upon an old, worn medal of the Immaculate Conception, from which hung a blue ribbon. As the paper in her hand had something written on it, she made haste to read, and here is the secret:

“Will my dear one take for a Christmas gift the little medal herein enclosed, which was put around my neck by my mother when I made my first communion eighteen years ago? I have kept away from you, that you might have a pleasant surprise for this Christmas day, though I went to communion for you this morning, and also saw the triumph of your brave spirit in the Church of the Trinità di Monte. If, when I come to you this evening, my little medal is about your neck, I shall know you accept me as your devoted HOWARD LEE.”

Kathleen stood looking at the words through gathering tears, and was not conscious of the quiet withdrawal of her parents and sister until the door opened gently to admit Howard, who, glancing quickly at the blue ribbon on her bosom, advanced eagerly, and, bending low, exultantly murmured:

“Why art thou silent,
Thou voice of my heart?
Oh! why art thou silent,
Kathleen Mavourneen?”

New Publications.

THOMAS GRANT, FIRST BISHOP OF SOUTHWARK. By Grace Ramsay. With two
portraits. London: Smith, Elder & Co. 1874. (New York: Sold by The
Catholic Publication Society.)

The late Bishop Grant was remarkable for learning, ability, and sanctity. The events of his life, both before and after the period of his ordination, are interesting. As rector of the English College in Rome, and as bishop, his administration was successful and filled with great services to the Catholic Church in England, particularly in respect to the re‐establishment of the regular hierarchy. The story of his life is told in a lively and pleasing manner, and the publisher has issued the volume in a style which makes it attractive, though somewhat costly. The author, whose _nom de plume_ is Grace Ramsay, is one of the best of our English Catholic writers. We have been indebted to her graceful pen for some of the most agreeable articles in our magazine, and we are pleased to learn that some remarks in THE CATHOLIC WORLD on the character of the late illustrious Bishop of Southwark first suggested to her the idea of writing his biography.

BLESSED MARGARET MARY ALACOQUE. A brief account of her life. To
which are added a selection from her sayings and the Decree of her
Beatification. By the Rev. Charles B. Garside, M.A. London: Burns
& Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication
Society.)

This tiny and pretty little book costs only fifty cents. We make its small size and price thus prominent, in order to encourage those who have not money or time to bestow on large books to buy this one and to help its circulation. It contains the substance of the larger biographies of a saint who has done one of the most wonderful works of modern times, and has become justly the object of an extraordinary devotion among the faithful.

The devotion to the Sacred Heart of our Lord has become the great devotion of our day, to the incalculable benefit of the church and the promotion of the most solid piety among the faithful. Pius IX. has constituted himself the Superior‐General of the Congregation of Missionaries of the Sacred Heart, and has expressed to several of its members his desire to consecrate the universal church to the Adorable Heart of our Lord, if he is asked to do it. We trust that the petition to the Holy See will not long be delayed, and that it will be made in such a way as to show most conclusively how ardent is the sympathy of the members of the church with their august head in his pious sentiments. It is most natural that all who love this devotion should desire to know something of the favored recluse of Paray‐le‐Monial who was chosen by our Lord as the medium of his revelation, making known his will that it should be universally promulgated and cherished. There can be no doubt of the real, supernatural, and divine character of the extraordinary graces conferred upon her for this intention. The Sovereign Pontiff, in his Decree of Beatification, declares that “whilst she devoted herself day and night to continuous prayer, being often rapt in ecstasy, the gifts of divine grace were most plenteously showered upon her” (p. 89). Again, that “it was now, as she was praying before the august Sacrament of the Eucharist, that Christ our Lord intimated to her that it would be most pleasing to him if the worship of his most Sacred Heart, burning with love for mankind, were established, and that he wished the charge of this to be consigned to her” (p. 90). When the Pope speaks in this manner, and the most learned and holy bishops, theologians, and other sound and judicious Catholic writers everywhere re‐echo, amplify, and confirm by solid reasoning and evidence the calm and cautious statements of the supreme authority, hesitation, criticism, and doubt are out of place. Infidels and heretics may scoff; we expect them to do it. But devout Catholics do not need to wait for a positive command under pain of sin in order to believe readily and joyously; and to let their hearts take fire with the devotion that burns everywhere among the faithful, kindled by a spark from heaven which fell into a virgin bosom, and has been communicated from her, under the fanning of the wings of the divine Dove, until it has enkindled the whole world. We trust the time may soon come when the canonization of the Blessed Margaret Mary will give to the whole church the privilege of celebrating Mass in her honor, and make her day a universal feast.

In the meantime, we welcome and most earnestly recommend the little book of F. Garside, and wish for it the widest possible circulation.

THE SPIRITUAL CONFLICT AND CONQUEST. By Dom J. Castaniza, O. S. B.
Edited with Preface and Notes by Canon Vaughan, Monk of the
English Benedictine Congregation. Reprinted from the Old‐English
translation of 1652. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold
by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Vast numbers of Catholics have read the treatise which in English has been known by the title of _The Spiritual Combat_, and has been widely circulated in many other languages besides the Italian, from which the English translation was made. It has been always attributed to F. Scupoli, a Theatine, who in reality only translated and adapted it, with alterations and additions, from the Spanish of Dom Castaniza, a Benedictine who lived at the same time with S. Teresa. In this altered form it has been generally esteemed as second only to the _Imitation of Christ_, which, by the bye, has lately been conclusively proved not to be the work of Thomas à Kempis, Gerson, or any other writer to whom its authorship has been ascribed. The complete work of Dom Castaniza, which was translated into English in 1652, is now once more brought to light, and republished in the most perfect manner, with a preface and notes, increasing its value very considerably, by a member of the remarkable Vaughan family, a brother, we presume, of our illustrious and highly‐ honored friend, the Bishop of Salford. We are disposed to regard this treatise in its present complete form as decidedly the best spiritual guide in the English language for the great majority of devout Catholics. This is very high praise, but it is, in our opinion, not exaggerated. Let our readers examine for themselves, and we are inclined to think they will find our judgment correct.

We ought to say that even now, as it stands, a considerable portion of the first part of the book is made up of Scupoli’s additions. In the main, we have no fault to find with the translation. We like that old‐fashioned, terse, strong English which is found in Old English writers. But it is sometimes rude and even coarse, and in the present work there are a few passages which are revolting to the more correct modern taste, and which therefore become really irreverent.

The _Month_ has a very severe, though, as is always the case in that periodical, a courteous and polite, _critique_ on the preface and notes of Canon Vaughan. It accuses him of boasting too much of his order, and of “girding” at other people. We have looked through the book with this criticism in our hand, and we must say that we find it overstrained. We cannot see any evidence that Canon Vaughan is disposed to undervalue other orders different from his own, or that his remarks upon methods of direction used in other societies are intended to censure anything except indiscretion and exclusiveness in their application.

GRAPES AND THORNS. By M. A. T., Author of _The House of Yorke_.
New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.

Another story from the pen of the author of _The House of Yorke_. Turning as the interest of the tale does on the discovery of a criminal in whose stead an innocent man is imprisoned and actually condemned, it is yet so skilfully conducted that none of the disgusting realistic details of what is known as the sensational school are brought in to mar the work. It really is a case of touching pitch, and yet not being, in a literary sense, defiled. The circumstantial evidence on which the supposed murderer is condemned is very well managed, and, until the facts are thrust upon the reader, there is no chance of his discovering the real criminal. This is a very great attainment in novel‐writing, and, in this day of hackneyed “situations,” one very seldom reached. It is difficult nowadays to take up any book, especially one referring to such events as are treated in _Grapes and Thorns_, without at once seeing through the conventional skeleton of the story, and picking out the main points in it beforehand. As to style, we can only say of this book what all the literary world said of _The House of Yorke_—that it alone would recommend even the flimsiest web of story. The author has, in addition to this rare charm of style, a faculty, so far as we know peculiar to herself among current novelists, of investing with poetical grace the most commonplace things of every‐day life, even such hopelessly prosaic subjects as the engine and engine‐ driver of a night‐train, and, worse still, a grocer’s shop and a palette full of syrups! The descriptions of Rome are a feature of the book, but so are the delineations of New England scenery, in snow‐storm and autumn glories as well as in its summer dress of fresh greenery and moistness, which is so delicately sketched in the picture of the Pond farm, the water‐lilies, and the strong, beautiful young boat‐woman.

But to come to the chief point, the characters; for of the story itself we say nothing, hoping that every reader of this notice has either read the book or will immediately do so. Annette is unquestionably the only heroine of the tale, although in the beginning one may be induced to consider the beautiful, conscientious, high‐principled Honora Pembroke as entitled to that place of honor.

Mrs. Gerald is another well‐drawn female character in the story. The most touching thought in the whole story is contained in her gentle words after she has found her son’s footsteps on the fresh mould of the violet‐bed under her window: “I mean to sow little pink quill daisies in those two foot‐prints.... When they come back, the tracks will be green.” Anita, the little convent‐flower, is a very beautiful conception; she is like one of the ethereal angels of Fra Angelico, not a common mortal. Mrs. Ferrier is the very reverse, but her generous championship of Max Schöninger goes far to redeem the vulgarity that shocks one in the early part of the book, where she constitutes herself spy over Lawrence’s actions, and lectures him to the verge of insanity.

We have now mentioned the name of the hero of the story, Schöninger, the Jewish musician, on whom falls the false accusation of murder. His character is all but faultless, the only exceptions, perhaps, being his rather uncontrolled and fierce burst of joy when released from his seven months’ imprisonment, and his general attitude towards F. Chevreuse. The latter is more excusable than the former; but if the hero of a book were faultless, he would be unnatural as a man. Schöninger is a wonderful conception; so self‐reliant, self‐contained, and yet not harsh, not repulsive even, in his defiance. The opinion of the world is nothing to him; he has his own standard of right and wrong, and he lives up to it; he would think martyrdom a trifle, if endured for the truth; he sees straight to the core of things, and will be as uncompromising a Christian after his conversion as he was an earnest Jew before it. We think, however, that the author has made a mistake in making him a Reformed Jew. Doubtless it was meant to enable him to parade the superior spirituality which was the only form of religion possible for such a man; but the _Reformed_ Jews are no nearer to a high spiritual standard, as contrasted with the orthodox Jews, than the Lutheran or Calvinist sects are as contrasted with the true Church. They are mere secessionists from the old faith, and, like all branches divided from the parent trunk, are more or less withering into atheism and infidelity. An orthodox Jew is much more likely to be converted to Catholicity than a Reformed Jew.

F. Chevreuse is a very beautiful character, especially after the scene in Lawrence’s room, where the priest and his penitent are alone with their solemn secret, and face to face with God. Some one once said of _The House of Yorke_ that there was an undefinable “something” wanting in the character of the priest of that story, and that doubtless it was not given to any one to be able to delineate truly a perfect priest. Perhaps it is so, for it is most difficult to portray a life in which the supernatural mingles with and effaces the natural to such an extent as it does in the life of a true priest; but in F. Chevreuse the author has gone as near to the ideal as any one could well go. Lawrence Gerald is a very difficult character to analyze—a peculiar product of American civilization (this assertion would be very hard to prove categorically, but every one who has read the book will understand what we mean); a man for whom our feelings change, during the progress of the tale, to a degree that almost gives him at the last the moral pre‐eminence which at the beginning would have been difficult to award even to saintly F. Chevreuse. Truly, in his case, as he himself says, “Nothing but utter ruin could have brought him to his senses.” There are souls whose salvation God works in this way, and Lawrence’s penance certainly reads like some biography of a mediæval sinner gradually turning into the life of a grand saint. The human element is not absent, either, in this picture, of a most unusual expiation, and no scene in the book will be read with more emotion than that of the artist sketching the sleeping Lawrence, and adding, at the eager suggestion of the “woman under the arch,” the “cluster of yellow flowers which touched his head in the form of a crown.” We venture to say that nothing short of the influence of a sojourn at Rome and the personal contact with a life of exuberant, all‐pervading Catholicity, such as that of the Italians, could have suggested such a remarkable ending to Lawrence’s career. Of the subordinate characters of _Grapes and Thorns_—John, the shrewd, hard, honest footman; Jane, the faithful but exasperating housekeeper of F. Chevreuse; Dr. Porson, the Crichton cynic and man of the world; F. O’Donovan, the fast friend at need of his brother‐priest; Mother Chevreuse, the bright, tender, brave woman, of whom we get but a glimpse; Sister Cecilia, a counterpart of Honora—we can only say that they show the varied acquaintance of the author with many and widely different types of mankind. The pettiness and prejudice of “liberal” Crichton are well defined in the hue‐and‐cry which soon follows Schöninger’s arrest, and the equally intemperate revulsion in his favor when he is proved innocent. It is remarkable that no one but F. Chevreuse and Mrs. Ferrier believed firmly in his innocence while circumstances all pointed so suspiciously to him as the murderer, except, of course, those who already knew the miserable secret.

In spite of the great merits of this story, it has, nevertheless, like _The House of Yorke_, one great defect which mars its excellence, not perhaps as a work of art, but as a specimen of the Catholic ideal in art. Annette, the heroine, acts foolishly, unreasonably, and against the sense of personal dignity and worth which the perfect Christian maiden must cherish, as next to her faith and honor, in marrying the unhappy Lawrence Gerald. This shows that the author’s ideal woman is not the highest type of her sex, and that she fails to appreciate the lofty, Christian idea of conjugal love and of marriage. Honora Pembroke ought to have been the heroine, and although she has not been fortunate enough to win the sympathy of critics and readers generally, especially of the fair sex, we are glad to see that the author has given us at least one specimen of a woman who is governed by conscience and reason, and not by sentiment.

Another fault, against which we beg leave here to caution all our writers of light articles and stories for the magazine, is the introduction of the writer’s private and personal opinions on matters connected with religion and the church. We request, once for all, that such matters may be left to the editor of the magazine and those whom he judges competent to treat of them expressly.

AN ESSAY CONTRIBUTING TO A PHILOSOPHY OF LITERATURE. By B. A.
Philadelphia: Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger. 1874.

The aim of this essay is to give such principles as are calculated to counteract the false and baneful ideas proposed in our text‐books on English literature. The author, one of the Brothers of the Christian Schools, who modestly conceals his name, is a worthy _confrère_ of Gerald Griffin. Evidently, his reading is extensive, his taste fine and accurate, and his mind truly philosophical. The unassuming book he has put forth is one which teachers in the department of English literature and intelligent students of the same will find to be of great service.

AMELIA; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF PIETY. Translated from the French.
Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham & Son. 1874.

This is a story quite romantic and sensational in its character, but withal very pious, and showing very dramatically high virtue in contrast with great wickedness, and triumphing over it. In one part of it Amelia makes a promise which a Catholic could not make without grievous sin. She promises, namely, her supposed parents, who were Protestants, that if they will listen to a discussion between a priest and a minister, she will embrace their religion, provided they declare their conviction that the minister has the best of it. The use of the word “Catholicism” to express the Catholic religion, though sometimes allowable, is awkward and unsuitable as it occurs in the story. Critically speaking, this story is not much, but it may amuse children, who are generally not very critical if there are plenty of remarkable incidents to excite their emotions. There are hosts of stories like this in the French language, many of which are much better. It is a pity that more care and taste are not sometimes shown in selecting among them for translation.

THE CHURCH AND THE EMPIRES, HISTORICAL PERIODS. By Henry William
Wilberforce. Preceded by a Memoir of the Author by J. H. Newman,
D.D. With a portrait. London: Henry S. King & Co. 1874. (New York:
Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

The essays contained in this volume are reprints of articles from the _Dublin Review_. The memoir, by the dear friend of the author, Dr. Newman, though brief, is a complete little biography of a justly distinguished and most estimable man, who honored the illustrious name of Wilberforce by his sacrifices, his virtues, and his valuable literary labors.

ALEXANDER THE GREAT. A DRAMATIC POEM. By Aubrey de Vere, Author of
“Legends of S. Patrick.” London: Henry S. King & Co. 1874. (New
York: For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.).

A dramatic poem by Aubrey de Vere could not be other than noble in theme and thoughtful and delicate in execution. Almost alone among the poets of the day, not many of whom equal, and not one of whom surpasses, him in the higher qualities of insight and subtle imagination, he seems never to have felt the debasing touch of that materialism which in one department of letters seeks to elevate science at the expense of faith, and in another to degrade poetry to be the beautiful but shameless minister to all that is lowest in man’s nature. Religion, which he has served so faithfully, has rewarded his devotion by lifting him into a clearer atmosphere than can be breathed by men devoid of faith, and has made him worthy to be ranked with those true poets who sing not alone for the busy, itching ears of their contemporaries, but for a wider, because a more enduring, audience.

Nevertheless, Mr. de Vere’s lyric poetry, subtle and delicate as it is, could hardly, we should say, have prepared his readers for the power shown in his conception and delineation of the hero of his drama, Alexander, the greatest of the great conquerors whom the world has seen. His poem is absolutely simple in aim and in detail, and gains interest, if not solely, yet almost solely, from the manner in which he has strongly though briefly expressed his idea of what a great conqueror, a man with aims truly imperial, swayed by no mean passion, and filled with the idea of welding into one all peoples, and informing them by the highest purely human intelligence, should be. What literal truth there is in the picture—how nearly the Alexander of the play resembles him who died at thirty‐three, the master of half the world—is not a question of any special interest. It is enough that Mr. de Vere’s hero is a noble and intrinsically true conception, and a fit measure by which to estimate the true proportions of those lesser men whom the world once in an age sees filled with the lust of empire, but void of the skill and quick insight which should make them avoid its perils. In his play, indeed, Mr. de Vere, who follows the tradition of Josephus, and makes Alexander visit once the temple at Jerusalem, and pay to its high‐priest such reverence as he had never shown to mortal man, makes him listen there to the warning that his power must have its “term and limit,” and that he who would indeed wear the world’s crown “should be the Prince of Peace.” And yet the errors and mistakes by which great men seem blindly to throw away at last the fruits of their long toil seem to the on‐looker as if they might have been so easily avoided that it is always necessary to remind one’s self how little is truly in the power of man, and how surely God controls even the crimes and follies of those who seem to rule the world.

Aside, however, from the fine scenes in which Mr. de Vere brings out his idea of his hero, the play has many subsidiary beauties of a different kind.

What poet but himself could have written the two lovely scenes between Hephestion and Arsinoë, and made his readers see so well the love which either felt, but of whose return neither was aware? The minor characters, indeed, are drawn throughout with the hand of a master who never wastes a stroke, and who has the art of showing his readers what he wills by lifting them and not by lowering himself. Who has painted in our day a lovelier picture than that in which Hephestion shows us Arsinoë’s mother?

“Who knew your mother
Till death shall reverence woman’s race! In her,
Though doubly‐dower’d, a mother and a queen,
There lived a soft, perpetual maidenhood,
An inexperienced trust, timid, yet frank,
Shy, yet through guilelessness forgetting shyness.
She seem’d a flower‐like creature come to fruit;
She moved among her babes an elder sister;
Then, wakened by an infant cry or laugh,
Full motherhood returned.”

Some qualities of Mr. de Vere’s work, which are more generally known than the virile force displayed in his grasp of the characters of his play, are shown at their best in the two or three lyrics which occur in it. Let us end an inadequate notice, which may send our readers to the poem itself, by quoting his exquisite paraphrase of one of the most beautiful of the Psalms:

“We sate beside the Babylonian river:
Within the conqueror’s bound, weeping we sate;
We hung our harps upon the trees that quiver
Above the rushing waters desolate.

“A song they claimed—the men our tasks who meted—
‘A song of Sion sing us, exile band!’
For song they sued, in pride around us seated;
How can we sing it in the stranger’s land?

“If I forget thee, Salem, in thy sadness,
May this right hand forget the harper’s art!
If I forget thee, Salem, in my gladness,
My tongue dry up, and wither, like my heart!

“Daughter of Babylon, with misery wasted,
Blest shall he be, the man who hears thy moans;
Who gives thee back the cup that we have tasted;
Who lifts thy babes, and hurls them on the stones!”

ADELINE DE CHAZAL; OR, FIRST EXPERIENCE OF THE WORLD AFTER LEAVING
SCHOOL. Translated from the French by a Sister of S. Joseph.
Philadelphia: P. F. Cunningham. 1874.

A great number of young graduates are just now beginning this “first experience,” after receiving their medals, crowns, and premiums, and listening to the valedictories with which good‐by is said to academic halls and groves. Miss Adeline de Chazal’s experience, and her remarks upon the same, will probably come home to this class of young ladies with more interest than to any other set of readers. They will find it edifying and instructive, and, if they act upon the advice it contains, they will certainly take a safe course. The list of books for reading is good, so far as it goes, but might receive a considerable increase.

THE HELPERS OF THE HOLY SOULS. By the Rev. C. B. Garside. London:
Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication
Society.)

The Helpers of the Holy Souls are a religious congregation of women in France, whose special devotion is to aid the souls of the faithful departed in purgatory by their prayers, good works, and other suffrages. F. Garside gives an account of their foundress and a history of their institution, with suitable reflections on the great utility of the special object which they have undertaken to promote.

ROSEMARY. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton.

SHORT STORIES. By the same.

THE NEPTUNE OUTWARD BOUND. By Winnie. New York: P. O’Shea. 1874.

The first two of these pretty books for children are reprints from the English editions already noticed in this magazine; the third is a lively, wholesome story imitating Oliver Optic.

[Transcriber’s Note: Obvious printer’s errors have been corrected.]

FOOTNOTES

1 “Essentialis ratio substantiæ ut sic non consistit in _esse per se_,
quatenus per hæc verba describitur ipsum subsistere in actu, sed in
hoc quod habeat talem essentiam, cui debeatur subsistentia, seu quæ
ex se sit sufficiens principium illius.”—Suarez, _Metaph. Disp._ 34,
sect. 8, n. 11.

2 Τὸ ἐν ἑατῷ ὃν, καὶ μὴ ἐν ἑτέρῳ ἔχον τὴν ὔωαρξιν.—_Dialect._, c. 4.

3 Ἐπὶ πάντων τῶν ὄντων, τὸ ἐν ἑαυτῷ, καὶ μὴ ἐν ἑτέρῳ ἔχον τὸ εἶναι,
οὐσία ἐστί.—_Dialect._, c. 4.

4 Ὀυσία ἐστι πᾶν ὄτιπερ αὐθυπόστατόν ἐστὶ, καὶ μὴ ἐν ἑτέρῳ ἔχει τὸ
εἶναι.—_Dialect._, c. 39.

5 “Quod in suo maneat, nec ope subsistat aliena (Deus), appellatur
substantia.”—_De Incarn._, c. 10.

6 This absence is a real negation—a negation of imperfection, so long
as we speak of God, who cannot admit of an inferior nature being
inserted in the plenitude of his reality; but a negation of further
perfection when we speak of created things, which are potential, and
can be raised supernaturally above their natural condition.

7 _Contra Gent._, lib. 1, c. 25.

8 “Substantia non addit supra ens aliquam differentiam, quæ significet
aliquam naturam superadditam enti: sed nomine substantiæ exprimitur
specialis modus essendi” (_De Verit._, q. 1, a. 1). Hence this
special mode does not constitute the nature or essence of the thing
itself, and for this reason it is not mentioned in its definition,
as S. Thomas says, _Quodlib._ 9, q. 3.

9 “Prima substantia est quædam natura sensibilis, quæ nec de subjecto
dicitur, nec in subjecto aliquo est.”—_In Logic. Arist._, c. 5, _De
Substantia_.

10 “Non est de essentia eius subsistentia, sed modus substantiæ.”—In 3
part, q. 77, a. 1.

11 Lib. xi. c. 14.

12 Vol. 2, q. 1, _de accident_.

13 “In substantiæ rationem redeuntes, tria quoad ipsam considerare
possumus: primum, quod existat, et quidem in se; alterum, quod tali
potius quam alia realitate constat, seu essentia, ex qua determinatæ
vires operandi dimanant; tertium, quod se possideat, sitque sui
juris in existendo. Primum proprie et præcise constituit notionem
substantiæ; alterum conceptum offert naturæ; postremum denique, ...
ideam suppositi præbet.”—_Metaph. Gen._, n. 64.

14 “Ex duobus, nempe ex re prædicamenti, et ratione essendi ejus, quæ
est ratio prædicamenti, constituitur ipsum prædicamentum, et
diversificatur unum prædicamentum ab alio.”

15 _De Verit._, q. 1, a. 1.

16 “Non propter defectum alicujus quod ad perfectionem humanæ naturæ
pertineat, sed propter additionem alicujus quod est supra humanam
naturam, quod est unio ad divinam Personam.”—_Summa Theol._, p. 3,
q. 4, a. 2.

17 “Persona divina sua unione impedivit, ne humana natura propriam
personalitatem haberet.”—_Ibid._

18 “Existere ex se solum dicit habere entitatem extra causas, seu in
rerum natura; unde de se indifferens est ad modum existendi
innitendo alteri ut sustentanti, et ad modum existendi per se sine
aliquo sustentante.”—_Metaph. Disp._ 33, sect. 4, n. 24.

19 It is known that this analogy has been erroneously interpreted by
some old and modern heretics, who taught that Christ’s body is in
the Holy Eucharist by _impanation_ or by _consubstantiation_, and
not by transubstantiation. The heresy of impanation asserts that the
Eternal Word in the Holy Eucharist _becomes bread by assuming
hypostatically the substance of bread_. The heresy of
consubstantiation assumes that in the Holy Eucharist the substance
of Christ’s body is _united with the substance of the bread_, and
that therefore the Eucharist contains both substances. These
heresies are, of course, mere corruptions of the traditional
doctrine. The first corrupts it by confounding the substantive
sustentation with the personal assumption, and by substituting the
latter in the place of the former. The second corrupts it by
supposing that a thing substantively supported by an underlying
substance continues to exist as a substance; which is against the
traditional definition of substance, and against the very analogy of
which it pretends to be the interpretation; for, in virtue of such
an analogy, it is as impossible for a thing _thus supported_ to be a
substance as it is impossible for the human nature _assumed_ to be a
human person. Hence what logically follows from the analogy of the
two mysteries is neither impanation nor consubstantiation, but real
and proper transubstantiation—that is, a real substitution of one
substance for another under the remaining sensible species.

20 “Subsistere dicit determinatum modum existendi per se et sine
dependentia a sustentante; unde illi opponitur inesse vel
inexistere; dicitque determinatum modum existendi in alio.”—_Disp.
Metaph._ 33, sect. 4, n. 24.

21 At the consecration of a church to the Sacred Heart.

22 What, sir! you bring us all those pretty ladies! You will
revolutionize our poor curate.

23 According to Gov. Dix’s report for 1874, our “evangelical” state
church will have to draw the sum of $8,600,000 (eight million, six
hundred thousand dollars!) out of the public treasury to erect two
“evangelical” asylums, one “evangelical” hospital, and one
“evangelical” non‐sectarian state reformatory! From the same report
we learn that our “evangelical” system of public education cost the
state for the year ending September 30, 1873, the sum of $20,355,341
(twenty million, three hundred and fifty‐five thousand, three
hundred and forty‐one dollars!); and that our “evangelical” state
church owns twenty‐seven millions, seventy thousand, three hundred
and ten dollars’ worth of school property! Remember that Catholics
pay their proportion of the taxes, and that most of the public
schools are not only “evangelical” in their religion, but some even
formally Methodist by the “hymns” and prayers taught in them!

24 How little publicity the “Evangelical” press have given to this
letter, because it favored the Catholics!

25 One of our judges—an ex‐Methodist minister—lately in open court
violated the parental right over offspring by sending a Catholic
child to a Protestant establishment in spite of the respectable
father’s opposition.

26 The following are the words of our State constitution in regard to
religion:

“The free exercise and enjoyment of religious profession and
worship, without discrimination or preference, shall for ever be
allowed in this State to all mankind.”—Art. 1, sec. 3.

Now, it is known that the “free exercise” of the Catholic religion
is not “free” in most of our state institutions; and in most of them
there is “preference and discrimination” in favor of “Evangelical”
clergymen and against the Catholic Church. The writer could prove by
affidavits that in the very city of New York there is religious
persecution in some of the state institutions, if the general scope
of his remarks permitted him to go into many details. Where is the
Catholic priest living near a state institution but knows that there
is “discrimination” made against him?

27 Will Gov. Dix, therefore, tell us by what right of “eminent domain”
Victor Emanuel robbed the Pope and confiscated the church property?
Does Gov. Dix forget that he was one of those who approved this
confiscation at the great “Italian unity” meeting?

28 S. Leonides was also a bishop. See Euseb., _Hist._ 6, c. 12; also S.
Jerome, _Catal._, c. 54.

29 _Catal. et Ep. ad Magn._

30 _Hæret. Fab._, l. 1, c. 8.

31 _Stromata_, 1, 1.

32 S. Jerome, _Catal._, c. 54.

33 _Ibidem._

34 _Hist. Univ. Douzième Epoque._

35 _Tertullian._

36 _General History of the Catholic Church_, Darras. American
translation, vol. i. p. 218.

37 _Monks of the West_, vol. ii. p. 33.

38 _Hæres._, 64.

39 _Orig. Defens._, l. 4, note p. 35.

40 Preface, Bellamy’s Translation of Origen’s _Apology_.

41 Ps. cxviii.

42 Preface to Vulgate.

43 Pref. _ad Ephes._

44 Pref. _in Pentateuch_.

45 Pref. _in Job_.

46 Introd. _in Cantica_, etc., translated by Jerome from Origen.

47 Lib. 2 _adv. Rufinus et passim_.

48 In c. 6 _Ep. ad Rom._

49 Tract. _in Matt._

50 _Apud Euseb._, l. 6, hist. c. 19.

51 _Life of S. Cecilia_, pp. 9 and 10.

52 _Cel._, l. 3.

53 Butler’s _Saints_, vol. ii. p. 141.

54 _Leviticus_, hom. 9.

55 See _Acts of the Council of Nice_ for proof of this line of
reasoning—“Apostolic Canons.”

56 _Can. de Hierarchia Ecclesiæ Con. Nicenem._

57 _Apud Hieron., adv. Theophilus._

58 _Apud Hieron._, 2 lib. “adv. Rufinus,” et opera S. Gregory Nyssen.

59 _De Principiis_, lib. i. 4.

60 See Life in Butler, note vol. iii.

61 Lib. 2. _adv. Rufinus_.

62 _Apud Hier._, lib. 2. _adv. Ruf._ p. 217.

63 The question of Origen’s orthodoxy turns principally on the
_Periarchon_. The violently heretical character of that book, as it
now stands, contradicting the most fundamental doctrines of
Christianity, is the best defence of Origen. It is altogether
contrary to the teaching of his undoubted works, and, if it had been
acknowledged and defended by him, there would never have been any
controversy at all about his orthodoxy. He would have been at once
and universally condemned as the grossest of heretics.—ED. C. W.

64 _Christine._ Par Louis Enault.

65 _Following of Christ_, b. i. c. xix. v. 7.

66 Wisdom xi. 21.

67 Little girl.

68 _Attribute_ and _property_ mean the same in reality; but we usually
call them _attributes_ with respect to the thing absolutely
considered as a being, and _properties_ with respect to the thing
considered as a principle of operation.

69 A paper read before the Xavier Union, of this city.

70 S. Thomas says (_Summa Contra Gentiles_, l. 4, c. xi.): “Nam
viventia sunt quæ seipsa movent ad agendum; illa vero quæ non nisi
exteriora movere possunt omnino sunt vita carentia.” This, however,
is rather a description of a vital phenomenon than a definition of
life itself. Fichte says: “Life is the tendency to individuation;”
which, like most of the phrases of the German pantheists, means
nothing or anything you please.

According to Richerand, “Life is a collection of phenomena which
succeed each other during a limited time in an organized body”; but
this applies equally to the succession of phenomena which takes
place in the body after death. Herbert Spencer defines life to be
“the co‐ordination of actions”; but what is anything but a co‐
ordination of acting forces, consequently of actions? This
definition is as applicable to sulphuric acid as to life.

71 Kant defined truth to be the harmony of thought with thought, not of
thought with things.

72 It may be well to quote the testimony of two Englishmen on this
subject.

Buckle, in his _History of Civilization_, vol. i. page 158, says:
“Thus, for instance, the miserable and impudent falsehoods which a
large class of English writers formerly directed against the morals
and private character of the French and—to their shame be it
said—even against the chastity of Frenchwomen, tended not a little
to embitter the angry feelings then existing between the two first
countries of Europe: irritating the English against French vices,
irritating the French against English calumnies. In the same way,
there was a time when every honest Englishman firmly believed that
he could beat ten Frenchmen—a class of beings whom he held in
sovereign contempt, as a lean and stunted race, who drank claret
instead of brandy, who lived entirely off frogs; miserable infidels,
who heard Mass every Sunday, who bowed down before idols, and who
even worshipped the Pope.”

“I did not know,” says John Stuart Mill, in his _Autobiography_,
“the way in which, among the ordinary English, the absence of
interest in things of an unselfish kind, except occasionally in a
special thing here and there, and the habit of not speaking to
others, nor much even to themselves, about the things in which they
do feel interest, cause both their feelings and their intellectual
faculties to remain undeveloped, or to develop themselves only in
some single and very limited direction, reducing them, considered as
spiritual beings, to a kind of negative existence.”

73 _The Old Faith and the New_, p. 120.

74 “My name is Monaco,
A rock my seat:
I neither reap nor sow,
And yet I eat.”

75 “O thou, whom chance or will brings to the soil,
Where fair Armida doth the sceptre guide,
Thou canst not fly; of arms thyself despoil,
And let thy hands with iron chains be tied.”

—_Fairfax’s Translation._

76 A street‐lane.