Chapter VII · (continued 4)

Marcella, so long a captive beneath the yoke of others, regards independence as the first of terrestrial benefits; on this subject our opinions differ. The poor Prisoner was quite right when he said to the swallows:

Yes, assuredly, liberty is a great good, and therefore it is that our soul has been made free, perfectly free. And how sweet it is to feel one’s self free, and to bend generously beneath the yoke of love and sacrifice! One of our first instincts is Pg 397 the need of liberty, and even the word alone has in it a magic which carries the mind away with it, and at critical times becomes the rallying word of revolutions. O my God! grant that I may love only the holy freedom of thy children—that freedom which can never be taken from me. Deliver the captives—the captives of the world, and above all of sin! Deliver also Ireland!

Visits: an entire family, antique in dress and appearance, but modern in language, grace, and heart. Good Bretons!—I love them. This valiant faith, this sublime indignation, these courageous protestations for the church and her Head in a race of granite, is an incomparable spectacle. Brittany has indeed done well to preserve its customs, its manners, and its ancient faith eternally young and living. One of these ladies questioned us about Paris, whither she wishes to accompany her son, who is attacked by the fever of the times. I admire her maternal devotion. Imagine the astonishment of this Bretonne in the capital of mud and gold!

Dear Kate, Marcella and René have some secrets to tell you. Love from us all.

June 16, 1868.

Our first ride has been most prosperous, dear sister. It was a nineteen—an unlucky day, declares the superstitious Marianne. What matters?—God protects us. “Who loves me follows me!” cried Adrien, and away we went, cantering after him through the thickets. Don’t suppose our expedition was for nothing but pleasure, however legitimate, but to make a wide circuit of poor. What store of benedictions we gathered on our way! A worthy tad coz[119] in his enthusiasm kissed the

We had taken provisions with us, and did not get home until nine o’clock, tired out, but so happy! My mother followed us in the carriage. She must be interested and have a little variety at any price; the death of her friend (the mother of our sister) has greatly impressed her. “It is,” she says, “the herald to warn me of the approach of my own death.” May God spare her to us!

Yesterday, soon after day-break, the carriages were in readiness in front of the entrance for a visit to the old divor, as the Poles would call it: a sort of pilgrimage … to the saint of the sea-coast. It is so distant that we accepted an invitation to stay the night, and are come home this evening, not at all fatigued. We are to go there again, but have meanwhile obtained a kind promise. The châtelaine of the lake will be here on the 2d of July. How shall I describe her to you? On our way back we were speaking of the prestige of beauty, and Adrien quoted the words of an educational professor who says: “I have passionately loved both nature and study; the fine arts have also made me feel the power of their charms; but among all things under the sun I have found nothing comparable to man when he unites noble sentiments to physical beauty. He is truly the chef-d’œuvre of the creation.” “I have often thought,” observed René, “that, God being infinite and sovereign Beauty, physical beauty is a reflection of the divine. Without sin man would never have been ugly or plain. We have in the soul the instinct of Pg 398 beauty, the love of the beautiful under every form; and although we say and know very well that human beauty passes in a day, that it is nothing, nevertheless there is no one living who has not some time in his life experienced the unique and irresistible charm which is shed around her by a creature who to high qualities of mind and heart joins the attraction of beauty and regularity of countenance.” And my mother: “The saints have a kind of beauty which I prefer to every other; it is like a transfiguration. This miserable mortal envelope which covers the soul becomes in some sort transparent, so that one can see the peace, the calm and serenity, of this interior in which God dwells by his grace and love. The sight of a saint is a foretaste of Paradise. Oh! how beautiful must the angels be. Why cannot our mortal eyes behold those who are here, near to us?” “As Lamartine says,” added Marcella:

Dear Kate, do you not love these pious natures amongst whom God has placed me? “Great souls, great souls,” exclaimed a bishop—“I seek them, but I find them not; I call them, and none answer!” Yet some there are in France, and especially in Brittany.

I spoke of you to the saint of the sands. Let us love each other, dear Kate.

June 22, 1868.

Fénelon said: “Education, by a capable mother, is worth more than that which is to be had at the best of convents.” This often comes into my mind when I see Berthe cultivating with so much care the two choice plants whose fragrance mounts so sweetly up to God. The surname of duchesse is abandoned for ever. At Mass, on the 1st of January, Thérèse made the resolution to acquire humility; and she has attained it. How many charming actions the angels must have seen with joy! Her countenance, naturally haughty and self-asserting, has gained an expression of sweetness and gentleness. She is delightful; and what efforts it has cost her! Her mother has seconded, helped, and sustained her. Raoul, the greater part of whose time is absorbed in his literary labors, has not transferred to any one his own share in the education of his daughters. Kate, since my marriage I have regretted more deeply than ever that I never knew my father. I did not know before from what strength of affection we had been severed. Thank Pg 399 God! so long as my mother lived her heart was enough for us. Kind, saintly mother! how I bless her memory. The twins no longer wear anything but white. It reminds me of the early Christians’ preparation for baptism. Their thoughtfulness is my admiration. They count the days with a holy eagerness; they ask us for the hymns of Expectation. We are making a retreat with them, and all our friends of Brittany will fill the chapel on the 2d of July. This is a memorable date in the family—the birthday of Raoul, Berthe, and the twins. What a coincidence!—the wedding-day of the former, and the anniversary of our mother’s First Communion. Marcella is singing:

Anna has this year shared in the life of the twins; she is only eleven years old. Her mother hesitated, but M. le Curé has just given his decision, and the delicate child embraced me with transports. She also will be at the holy table; she also, clothed in white. “Entreat Mme. Kate to pray for me.” Sweet little dove!

Evening.—Do you know what I have just heard? The good little hearts! Unknown to every one, even to the vigilant Berthe, the twins and Anna rise every night to pray; and, besides this, they regularly deprive themselves of their goûter[122] for the benefit of a poor child who is also preparing herself for her First Communion. This child has on her arm a horrible wound, and our little saints kiss it on their knees. Do you not think Acta Sanctorum?

Of the three, Picciola is still the most fervent. I am suspected of partiality with regard to her. Oh! if you saw her kneeling in the chapel, when a ray of sunshine plays upon her fair locks, you would say she was an angel. Dearest Kate, the great day draws near! I say nothing about our processions, our lovely reposoirs, the babies scattering roses—I should write until to-morrow. Pray with me.

June 26, 1868.

Dearest, I feel tired after my walk on the sands, and would fain rest myself with you, and talk to you again of the twins and of Anna, whose joy makes me fear for her, so fragile is her pretty frame. Marcella has given me a holiday from my Greek; she and Berthe no more quit their darlings. And I, who have no maternal rights over these almost celestial souls, leave them a little to their mutual happiness, and isolate myself the more with René. Our subjects of conversation are always grave—God, heaven, eternity. We had visitors on the 24th; beautiful fires of St. John in the evening. O son of Elizabeth and Zacharias, voice of one crying in the desert, the greatest among the children of men! give me of your humility, your love of penitence and sacrifice.

Isa sends me a few lines, all enkindled with the love of God. Sarah, returned from Spain, is much amused at certain hidalgos, and quotes me the words of Shakspere: “Were it only for their noses, one would take them for the counsellors of Pepin or Clothair, so high do they carry them and so imposing is their mark.”

I have not told you of our fête Pg 400 on the 19th for the twenty-second anniversary of the elevation of the holy and venerated Pius IX to the pontificate. What will arise out of all the trials of the Papacy? Solomon, after tasting every kind of enjoyment and happiness, exclaimed: “Vanity of vanities! all is vanity.” It is deeply sad hitherto, but consolation will come at last; it is like a ray from heaven. “All is vanity, except to love God and serve him.” Let us love, then, let us serve, God, who is so full of love. Everything is there! Isa writes to me: “When shall we say, Quotidie morior?” Alas! I have not arrived at this perfection.

My good René has published, in an English periodical, a remarkable article, about which I want to have your opinion. We are convinced here that no means ought to be neglected that may serve the cause of God, and that every Catholic’s sphere of action is wider than he thinks. Oh! how right you are, dear Kate. “All our actions ought to preach the Gospel.”

Was present at a funeral yesterday evening—a young girl of fifteen. I thought of the beautiful verses by Brizeux on the death of Louise. What a picture!—the poor and lowly funeral train amid the magnificence of Nature, who gave to the youthful dead that which was not afforded her by men. I seem still to behold the scene. The place, also, is suitable. I am in presence of God’s fair creation; a thousand birds are singing around me. Oh! these nests, these poor little nests, chef-d’œuvres of love. They showed me lately a goldfinch’s nest suspended as if by miracle at the extremity of a branch at an immense height.

Children have an innate inclination for destruction. There are very few who think of the mother of the nestlings when they take possession of the nests; and the poet has reason to say to them:

May the angel of mercy spread his wing over the cradles and the nests, and may he protect you also, my beloved, and all of us with you!

June 30, 1868.

The retreat and the singing take up all my time, dear Kate, but I want to tell you that Lucy has come back to us, pale and weak, and recommends herself to your prayers. Gaston was asking for me down there. There is something so sad in this deep mourning; but Lucy looks above this earth. Edouard’s voice was wanting to our choir; it will be complete after to-morrow. Three poor children, clothed by your Georgina, will accompany our chosen ones.

The saint of the sea-coast arrives to-morrow. She will be lodged near to me. I wish she could be there always! Why cannot one gather together in one same place those whom one loves?

Kate dearest, René and all Brittany are for you.

July 2, 1868.

Quam dilecta tabernacula tua, Domine!

O Kate! what a day. And the vigil—the pious tears, the pardons, the benedictions, the watching of the arms in the chapel—how sweet it was! This morning Berthe asked me to be the mother of Madeleine. The sweet child was clad in her Pg 401 virginal robes in my room. She was touched, but not afraid. When ready to go down, she asked my blessing. Oh! it is I rather who would have wished for hers. Then the Mass, the hymns, the exhortations; then, as in a dream, these fair apparitions prostrate before the altar, and God within our souls. What happiness for one day to contain!

The saintly châtelaine was there, absorbed in God. The day has gone by like a flash of lightning. It is now eleven o’clock, and I say with you the Te Deum. One of our neighbors was telling me this evening of a lady whose little daughter, pious as an angel, shed tears, the evening of her First Communion, for regret that the day was at an end. This circumstance inspired the happy mother to write a charming poem, which ended something as follows:

Marcella wept in the chapel. Happy mother; beloved children; blessed house; incomparable day!

The saint is really a saint. Hear this: “Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament visits me every morning; I know not how it is that I do not die of love. God has allowed me everywhere to meet with souls who understand mine, and who have loved me!”

Good-night, my sister.

I whispered to my daughter:

I used to say this at Venice to the pretty little Rutti, the little American girl; do you remember her? Oh! how well she used to pray, this little dove from the New World. Dear, I should like to cross the ocean to have a nearer view of that unknown land which attracts me so much, with its freedom, its immense spaces, its splendid vegetation, and its beautiful sun! But, nevertheless, it is not Ireland, my country, and the land of memories!

God keep you!

July 6, 1868.

Dear Kate, in two days we start for my dear green Erin, to the great joy of Marcella, who is an enthusiast about O’Connell. Margaret feels a thrill, she tells me, at the sound of a carriage. It is high time to make acquaintance with the handsome baby. René has left me to accompany the saint, whom I would fain have taken with us. She smiled sadly in answer to my proposal: “The aged tree that grows in lonely places cannot thus be rooted up.”

The Annales Orléanaises speak of nothing but deaths: the Abbé Debeauvais, Curé of St. Thomas d’Aquin, has just died at Mgr. Dupanloup’s; Madame de Bannand; the Abbé Rocher, almoner of the prisons, etc., etc. Prince Michael of Servia has been assassinated: it is almost ancient history. I must Pg 402 see to my packages; so good-by for the present, until we are with la belle Anglaise.

July 19, 1868.

It is from England, and from Margaret’s magnificent residence, that I now think of you, dear Kate. A quick passage, splendid weather, everybody well and strong, including baby Gaston. Lord William was waiting for us on the pier; we were soon in the carriage, and next day in the arms of Margaret, who cannot fête us enough. The children have already become used to English ways, to this people of many footmen, to this pomp and splendor, and to the beauties of the Isle of Saints. Margaret is in the full bloom of her happiness; her child is superb, and resembles her.

Dear, dear Kate, how much I enjoy being here! What emotion I felt on setting foot on this soil, Breton also, but different from the other! I wept much, and feel ready to weep again. What is wanting to me? You, you, and the best beloved of mothers! But you are both of you with God—my mother in the heaven of heavens, and you in the heaven upon earth! Laus Deo, nevertheless, and for ever.

Marcella understood the inward grief I felt, and delicately offered me her friendly consolations. We shall soon see Isa. I shall undertake the pilgrimage of friendship with René, in which all the family will join us: Mme. de T—— has so arranged it, you can imagine with what thought. Meanwhile, we are enjoying Margaret’s splendid hospitality. Her mother-in-law pleases me. These few lines are only to say good-day.

July 24, 1868.

Adrien has brought here the numbers of the magazine containing the articles on “Notre Dame

We have just come from London. How many things to see and to show!

This morning, our dear convent of ——. I was very happy and delighted; I love so much to meet friends again, and especially these convent meetings—there is something so heavenly about them. Under these black veils it seems as if nothing changes. When a child I used to wonder because nuns did not seem to me to grow older.

This life of union with God, and devotion to souls, has within it something divine. We know not how great is the calm and serenity resulting from the lofty choice of these hearts. To belong to God in the religious life is heaven begun. Doubtless there, as elsewhere, there are sufferings, trials, and crosses; the separation from all those most dear to one, the crushing of nature, the complete and absolute separation from everything which can charm in this world, to give one’s self exclusively to God, in prayer and love, is a beautiful thing, but no one, I think, can say that it is free from pain. Assuredly the exchange of terrestrial affections for those which are imperishable cannot be regarded as a loss, and yet what tears there are in this last farewell of the religious, who while living consents to die to all her affections!

Dear Kate, we spoke of you. How they love us in this peaceful place of refuge!

Pg 403

16th.—Prayed much for France. “Since this morning,” my mother said to me, “I have continually before my eyes the scaffold and the pale and noble countenance of Marie Antoinette.” Poor saintly queen! what a life and what a martyr’s death. After the first days of enchantment which followed her arrival in France, what a long succession of troubles! This Dauphine of fifteen years old was so exquisitely beautiful that the Maréchal de Brissac could say to her, in his chivalrous language: “Madame, you have there before your eyes two hundred thousand men enamored of your person”; and a few years later the people cried, “Death to the Austrian!” Never had woman such a destiny. The Greeks could not imagine a great soul in a body that had no beauty, nor beauty of person without a noble soul. Marie Antoinette would have been their idol, their goddess. O holy martyrs of the Temple! pray for France.

The magazine contains a story still more interesting than Fabiola, if that is possible: Virginia; or, Rome under Nero.

19th.—Feast of St. Vincent de Paul, this man of miracles, this humble and great saint, whose memory will live as long as the world, who founded admirable works, who created the Sister of Charity—this marvel, whom even the impious admire, whom the poor

Letter from Sister Louise, who is, it seems to me, drawing near to her Eternity. She tells me that labor has worn out her strength, that she cannot write any more, and sends me two very beautiful little pictures, which have a sacredness in my eyes as the gift of a dying person. Is Heaven so soon about to claim this sweet cloister-flower?

Kate, darling, you see that I cannot lose my favorite habit of confiding to you my thoughts. Oh! why are you not here, admiring Margaret, resplendent with youth, freshness, and joy? She is going to write to you, to ask news of Zoë, etc.

God keep you, my beloved sister!

July 29, 1868.

Have I said anything to you about Margaret’s park? of her conservatory, worthy of Italy, and where Marcella would like always to remain? of her birds? of all the fairy-land which she knows so well how to make us enjoy? Lucy’s mourning prevents our hosts from issuing many invitations; but how much I prefer our home-party as it is!

Long excursions among the mountains. Many projects for next year. Margaret desires that a friendly compact should be agreed to, which would be a continual interchange of visits: Brittany, England, Ireland, Orleans, and Hyères would by turns receive our Penates. O dreams of youth, O balmy days, which never will return! stay with us long.

Yesterday Lord B——, who had Pg 404 heard of my arrival, hastened to come and see us. “What! so soon grown up, Miss Georgina?” he exclaimed, to the exceeding amusement of Alix.

To-morrow we start for Ireland, for my own home, where everything is in readiness for our arrival. What a sorrowful happiness! Gertrude lets me look through her manuscript books; the following lines which I found there you will read with as much admiration as myself:

“This morning Hélène asked to speak with me, and this day and hour I shall ever remember. The beloved child of my soul, of my thoughts, and of my heart desires to become a daughter of St. Teresa; she wishes to go, and speedily. I shall, then, see her no more but at long intervals and behind a threatening grating; another mother will give her her love, other hands than mine will guide her towards God. But she will be thine, O Lord! and, while yet young, I have felt too much the sorrows of this world not to be happy at seeing thee give to her the better part. Her avowals, her innocent confidence, her purity of soul and intention—all these appeared to me so peaceful that I also experienced an ineffable sense of inward peace. Go, then, since God calls thee, sweet angel of this home, in which thou wilt leave so great a void—go; father and mother will not refuse thee to God, and our prayers and blessings will follow thee!”

After these heavenly thoughts, dear Kate, I leave you.

August 6, 1868.

I have received your letter, dear sister, joy of my soul, and to-day must not pass away without my writing to you. O deliciosa! I behold

The house is the same as ever—a bit of heaven fallen upon the earth! Prayed on our dear tombs. The rose-trees flourish which you planted there. The good Reginald does everything as well as possible, as he always does. But oh! to live here without you, to see your room—a reliquary which no one enters without me, and where I have put together whatever belonged to you. Dear, dear Kate, you say well that God has given me other sisters—sisters loving and beloved, but who cannot replace my Kate.

All the village came out to meet us. There were no songs—there were tears: the Irish understand one another. Poor martyr-country! I am seized with a longing desire to stay here to console these poor people. Our dogs were wild with delight, like that of Ulysses. Dear friend and sister, do not be uneasy; that which surmounts all else in my heart is peace, and peace founded on hope, as on a foundation of gold. God will deliver Ireland! He will give us back our forests and our hills, and we shall no more return to the condition of the proscribed. Do you remember the last book we read together, in the great drawing-room on the venerated spot where we used to see our mother? This book is still on a side-table, marked at the last page. It is Rosa Ferrucci, the charming Italian, who so loved Milton. Nothing is changed; the wide meadows, the splendid landscape, the sunsets behind the giants of the park, the gold-dust gleaming through the foliage, the Pg 405 decline of day which we used so to admire together—I have seen it again in its fantastic magnificence—all is there, even to the smallest tufts of ivy: but the absent and the dead!

“And they also are present,” René assures me. “They wish you to be courageous and truly Christian. Death does not separate souls.”

A fraternal letter from Karl. “My heart feels all the impressions of yours in Ireland. I pray God that he may shed happiness upon your path, and I join in all your memories.”

Isa, Lizzy, Mme. D——, and all our friends must come in turn, and all together. Isa is with me, pale as a marble Madonna, with a heavenly expression in her eyes. Her mother almost adores her, and clings to her in order to live. Mme. D—— fainted away on seeing me. Lizzy has recovered her gayety and petulance, and would fain enliven Isa. Where have I read some words of a Breton who, in speaking of a young girl called to the religious life, says, “Her heart is like a desert”? Such is Isa, athirst for God, in love with the ideal, a soul wounded with the thorny briers of life.

Margaret takes in several French newspapers. We are reading in the Ouvrier, Les Faucheurs de la Mort—the “Mowers of Death”—a historical drama of unhappy Poland. It is heartrending. Poland and Ireland, the two martyrs, understand each other. Will not God raise them up a liberator?

Darling Kate, what benedictions are showered upon you in return for your liberalities! What touching questions are put to me! O these good people! how I love them.

For the first time I am mistress of the house. René calms my scruples, and tells me that he is proud of me. O the evening

Send me your good angel, O best-beloved of sisters! Send him to me in the land of O’Connell—

Dear Kate, I am going to enclose in my letter some beautiful lines by Marie Jenna, the sweet poetess who delights me so much. This poetry is almost Irish to my heart:

Le Retour.

Translation of the foregoing.

I have wept over every line, dear sister; but as for me, I laugh still, alas! Oh! what a treasure of memories hoarded within my soul of those fair years which your love made so sweet.

Souvenir d’Enfance.

Pg 407 What memories, dear sister! I had lost my way with Lizzy and Isa. My mother was living then! How pale and trembling she was when I fell into her arms! And you—you, my Kate!

August 12, 1868.

You have comforted me, dear sister. This place pleases me: everybody likes it. Saw yesterday Karl’s family, as well as that of Ellen; the day before yesterday, the W——’s. Fanny is going to marry a German with a great name, a fervent Catholic, in love with England, where he intends to remain.

Our evenings are delightful. I had promised Margaret not to read Père Lacordaire, by the Père Chocarne, without her. It is admirably fine. The introduction is the definition of the priest such as is given by the great orator of Notre Dame himself: “Strong as the diamond, tenderer than a mother.” There are a thousand things in this book which make my heart beat: “O paternal home! where, from our earliest years, we breathed in with the light the love of all holy things, in vain we grow old: we return to you with a heart ever young; and were it not Eternity which calls us, in separating us far from you, we should be inconsolable at seeing your shadow daily lengthen and your sun grow pale!” “There are wants for which this earth is sterile.” What a spring there is of faith and love in words like these: “Riches are neither gold nor silver, nor ships which bring back from the ends of the earth all precious things, nor steam, nor railways, nor all that the genius of men can extract from the bosom of nature; one thing alone is riches—that is love. From God to man, from earth to heaven, love alone unites and fills all things. It is

He died of consumption at the age of twenty-two, and his death made a deep wound in the heart of the Père Lacordaire. “Réquédat was a soul as impassioned in its self-devotion as others are in selfishness. To love was his life, but to love to give rather than to receive; to give himself always, and to the greatest number possible—this was his dream, his longing, his martyrdom. Devoted to an ardent pursuit of that which is good, tyrannized over by this noble love, he had not Pg 408 time to see any evil.” A friend of his was Piel, an eminent architect, who joined him to become also a son of St. Dominic—“A lofty soul, an heroic heart, incapable of a divided affection, and from the first moment aspiring after the highest perfection, admirably formed to be a great orator as well as a saint, of whom his friends used to say that his language reminded them of the style of Pascal.” With the Père Lacordaire was also Hernsheim, a converted Jew, a frank, intelligent, and profound mind, from whence issued from time to time thoughts which had a peculiar charm about them, mingled with a sweet and penetrating unction. The Père Besson, an artist like Piel, and the Fra Angelico of France, was also of the number; and, lastly, the Père Jandel, now general of the order. Mme. Swetchine was like the good genius of Père Lacordaire: “Who does not know this, now?” asks the Père Chocarne. “Who has not read the life and works of this woman, whom death has crowned with a glory all the more pure and radiant because she had so carefully concealed it during her life? Who does not know this Russian with a heart so French, this convert to the Catholic faith, so gentle towards beliefs and opinions differing from hers, the masculine understanding in the woman’s heart, the spirit of Joseph de Maistre in the soul of Fénelon, the charity, so delicate and tender, of this woman who said of herself: ‘I would no more be made known to the children of men but by these words: She who believes; she who prays; she who loves’!”

This is beautiful. Can you picture to yourself the impression made upon us while Adrien is reading this aloud? Every one is breathless; the twins and Anna, their eyes wide devour this eloquence. The soul of the orator of Notre Dame has passed into that of his son in Jesus Christ. All is magnificent, and makes one deeply regret that the grand figure which appeared among us with the double aureole of sanctity and genius so soon disappeared from the world. A great and wonderful history is this, too little really known! Have we not heard the most absurd fables told in reference to Père Lacordaire?

I want your prayers, dear Kate, for a grand project: we wish to bring Isa’s mother to agree to live with her sister. Lizzy would be the daughter of the two, and the Lord’s dear chosen one would go to “the place of repose which she has chosen.” It will be difficult to manage, but I have a presentiment of victory.

Good-by, dear Kate, for the present.

August 20, 1868.

We have been singing this while floating on the lake. Picciola proposes to take up her abode for a year at Aunt Georgina’s. I have installed her as dame and mistress of my little school. What joy!

Isa’s mother is beginning to understand. I have been getting so many prayers for this! She yesterday said, after having listened very calmly to what I had to say: “Dear Georgina, I feel that God inspires you; but only think how I have been broken down, and what need Pg 409 I have of Isa!” Poor mother! O these vocations!—a terrible secret which rends so many souls. “Let the dead bury their dead!” I need all my faith in the Gospel to admit that these words were said by our merciful Saviour. St. Bernard, the saint of Mary, the honey of Mary, will succeed in gaining this material heart, which hesitates before the greatness of the sacrifice.

We have finished our splendid reading. This evening we shall take Klopstock. We all find that nothing equals this intellectual pleasure of interchanging our impressions while reading together. We separate at eleven. I am taking some views, being desirous of transporting my part of Ireland into France.

Margaret has written to Mistress Annah to offer her the post of governess to the charming baby. We expect her answer to-day. The baptism took place on the 15th. It was splendid.

Have seen Sarah, whose son has been ill—always amiable, with a tinge of melancholy, caught, no doubt, by the side of the cradle.

My duties are so multiplied that I should be quite unequal to them without René. What a pleasure it is to do for others what they have done for me!

Send me always your good angel, my best beloved.

August 26, 1868.

What a fête for my mother, the evening of the 24th! All the echoes resounded with it. In two days hence we are to go to Fanny’s marriage, which takes place in Dublin. Great preparations; but Anna is unwell, and this spoils our joy. Marcella has suffered so much that she trembles at the least shock. Lucy will remain here with our Italians; we cannot return for a St. Teresa. The two families of the D—— will go with us to Dublin, and we shall accompany Isa. What a Te Deum we ought to sing! The timid child had never owned to her mother the ardor which consumed her; the death of George—the nephew so passionately loved, sole heir of so noble a name, and betrothed to Isa from childhood—appeared to Mme. D—— the death of everything, and she lived “extinguished.” Oh! how I rejoice at this success. Margaret and Isa, both once so sad, and now with their hearts in an eternal spring!

Let us bless God together, dear Kate! Do you recollect Mgr. Dupanloup’s words: “One breathes, in this land of Ireland, I know not what perfume of virtue which one finds not elsewhere.”

August 31, 1868.

René is writing to you. We know that Anna is well, and we are enjoying the worldlinesses of Dublin. Fanny was touching under her veil. Your dear name, my beloved Kate, was mentioned, I know not how often. O kind Ireland! If I had to tell you all the graceful things that were said to me, I should fill my paper. How pleasant it is to be loved! Fanny did not weep on seeing me; she and her mother are unequalled in their serenity; consolation has been sent them from on high. A vision is spoken of. I did not like to ask any questions, but it is certain that Pg 410 something extraordinary has occurred.

O dear Kate! how fair is life. I was saying so yesterday to René while we were looking at the stars; for the night was splendid. Do you know what he answered? “Heaven is fairer; earth is but its echo, its far-off image, its imperfect sketch; and it is death which opens heaven to us.” Words like these from the lips of René make me shudder. Oh! to die with him would be sweet, but not to live without him. Père Lacordaire said: “Death is man’s fairest moment. He finds assembled there all the virtues he has practised, all the strength and peace he has been storing up, all the memories, the cherished images and sweet regrets of life, together with the fair prospect of the sight of God. If we had a lively faith, we should be very strong to meet death.”

Fanny starts to-morrow for France, Switzerland, and Germany—a long journey; we remain at present, so as in some measure to fill up the void a little. Why are you not here to witness our reunion? Oh! how strong is the love of one’s country. I am inebriated with my native air; we sing our old ballads; we turn over with Adrien the history of the past. Ask of our good God that this may last a long time, dear Kate! Erin mavourneen! Erin go bragh!

September 6, 1868.

Mistress Annah is come, dear sister. I wept with all my heart on embracing her. Dear old mistress Annah! how wrinkled and thin she has become; always upright and stiff as an Englishwoman, and her memory enriched with Italian stories which will charm baby’s childhood. Margaret has chosen for the beautiful innocent the name of Emmanuel—a Emmanuel. Mistress Annah is longing to see and hear you. Margaret promises her this happiness for next spring. You may be sure that no fatigue will be imposed on the dear old lady. The pension given her by Lord William made her independent; but our belle Anglaise feared the isolation of old age for her devoted heart, and it will be a happiness to both to watch the growth of baby. A messenger has just arrived. Te Deum, dear Kate!—a little daughter is born to Lizzy. Everybody is delighted; they have sent for us; I am going with René.

7th September.—In an hour the baptism, so that Isa may be present; then she says farewell to her family, and we take her away. The angel fallen from heaven is to be called Isa. Marcella, Adrien, and Gertrude have joined us. Joy and grief meet at this moment. You will be astonished at the sudden departure of our Isa; but Lizzy wishes it thus, hoping that the poor mother will let herself be interested by the festivities and the visitors.

The last number of the magazine has caused me a sensation. In it is an account of the beautiful scene on the Pincio, in October, 1864, “at the hour when the sun, sinking towards the sea of Ostia, lights with a golden gleam the cross which surmounts the dome of St. Peter.” Do you remember, dear Kate, the Pope appearing in the midst of the crowd, which bent before him with so much reverence, and the long shouts of Viva Pio Nono which Pg 411 saluted his departure? O Rome, Rome, my other country, the eternal country of those who believe, hope, and love—Rome of St. Peter and of Pius IX.—I salute thy image and thy memory!

Dear sister, Lizzy requests your prayers. She is well, radiant, and full of gratitude to God. Her good husband is in transports, and the little one so pretty under her gauzy curtains. She has not cried yet, so we think she will resemble Isa, her godmother. Do you not like this prognostic?

Let us both pray, dear Kate! Adrien has again read us the two fair contemporary pages about Ireland—Mgr. Dupanloup at St. Roch, and Mgr. Mermillod at St. Clotilde. O these words!—“The first powers of our time, the two most illustrious and rich, are a Prince despoiled and a people in rags—Pius IX., who extends to you his royal hand, and Ireland, who asks you for bread!”

APHASIA IN RELATION TO LANGUAGE AND THOUGHT.

The relation of language to thought as a theme of discussion has busied the pens of philosophical writers from very early times, and the later aspects of the controversy do not promise a speedy agreement of views. Whatever new light, therefore, recent discoveries in science may shed on this much-vexed question ought to be welcomed as helping to increase of knowledge concerning a matter which cannot escape the serious consideration of the teachers of philology. At present Messrs. Max Müller and Whitney most strongly incline to opposite views; and before coming to the subject of aphasia as affecting the question, it may be well to take a cursory view of the field of controversy.

The old or scholastic belief is that language was in the first instance divinely communicated, and this opinion its upholders strove to maintain by a variety of reasons. Authority and tradition were chief among these, though they did not by any means neglect philological and ethnological considerations. In France the Vicomte de Bonald undertook the support of this view on the same line as that now held by Max Müller—viz., that it is impossible to have a purely intellectual conception without a corresponding word or series of words to represent it; whence, according to him, it follows that the word must have accompanied the thought, and, man being unable to originate the one without the other, both must have been originally communicated. Max Müller says: “As a matter of fact, we never meet with articulate sounds, except as wedded to determinate ideas: nor do we ever, I believe, meet with determinate ideas, except as bodied forth in articulate sounds.” He strongly insists on the correctness of this view, and argues it at length. Professor Whitney takes direct issue with him, and maintains that there is the widest separation between language and thought. According to him, language can be said to be of divine origin only in so far as man was created with the capacity for its formation just as he was created capable of making Pg 412 clothes for himself, and of wearing them. Such being the state of the question, we will proceed to consider that abnormal condition of the nervous system which has been denominated aphasia, and afterwards indicate our opinion as to which view the facts established by it go to sustain.

Aphasia, defined by Dr. Hammond as a diseased condition of the brain, was not understood till quite recently. It is an affection of that organ by which the idea of language or of its expression is impaired. It is not mere paralysis of the vocal chords, nor of the muscles of articulation, nor the result of hysteria—which conditions are denominated aphonia, or voicelessness—but depends on a lesion or injury wrought in that portion of the brain which presides over the memory of words and their co-ordination in speech. The loss of the memory of words is styled amnesic aphasia, the other ataxic aphasia—two Greek derivatives which explain very clearly the two separate conditions. A single typical case will exhibit the usual manner of the approach of this trouble, its development and termination. An English banker, a resident of Paris, recently went out in his carriage well as usual, and on his return, as he was stepping to the sidewalk, fell heavily forward, but did not lose consciousness. His whole right side was paralyzed, and, on attempting to speak, he could not articulate a word; he barely succeeded in uttering a few unintelligible sounds. During twelve days the paralysis continued, but after that gradually subsided, till in the course of a few months he was able to move about. Strange to say, however, the power of speech did not return, and for eight months he Pg 413 of the function, though not agreeing as to the exact spot. The mode of procedure usually consisted in making a post-mortem examination of those who during life had suffered from aphasia; and though it was an extremely difficult matter to bring all the cases under a uniform standard, enough was discovered to assign the function in question to the left anterior lobe of the brain. We do not pretend to regard the question as settled; for no less authorities than Hammond in our own country, and Prof. Ferrier in England, seem to consider both hemispheres of the brain as equally concerned. Still, it is significant that out of 545 cases examined by different authorities, 514 favor the left anterior lobe of the brain, while but 31 are opposed to such a conclusion. Assuming, then, as amply demonstrated that some portion of the anterior convolutions of the brain is the seat of the faculty of speech, the question arises, Can that part of the brain which is concerned in the process of ideation continue to perform its functions—i.e., originate true ideas of which the mind is conscious—without the memory of the words which usually represent those ideas or the power to co-ordinate them? It is evident that, no matter how the question may be met, we possess in the discoveries to which aphasia has led a most important contribution to the controversy concerning the relation of language to thought; for if it can be shown that the mental faculties are unimpaired during the existence of the aphasic condition, the conclusion would go to favor Prof. Whitney’s view that thought is independent of speech; whereas if it can be shown that during the same condition the mental powers are very much debilitated or frequently suspended, Pg 414 the τὸ ἐγώ was the object of most frequent recurrence to his mind, and that which consequently he could most readily apprehend through its sensible characteristics, and could thereby connect with his own name; whereas “yes,” as the symbol of affirmation, found no counterpart in the sensible order. The same author relates the case of a man who, so far as he could make himself intelligible, boasted of retaining his intellective and memorative powers unimpaired, and yet, on being put to the test, he could not construct the shortest sentence coherently. When a spoon was held before him, and he was asked what it was, he gave no answer; when asked if it was a fork he made a sign of denial, but when asked if it were a spoon he at once replied in the affirmative. It must be remembered that in all these cases the power of utterance, so far as it is a muscular process, remained unimpaired, but there was true amnesic aphasia—i.e., the recollection of the words was lost.

There are some cases of partial aphasia which possess an interest quite peculiar, since its victims frequently regain the entire power of speech, and are able to relate the results of their experience. A celebrated professor in France spent a vacation-day reading Lamartine’s literary conversations, when towards evening he was attacked with partial aphasia. Fearing lest he was threatened with paralysis, he moved his arms and walked up and down the room, in doing which he experienced no difficulty; but when he resumed his reading, he found it scarcely possible to understand a sentence. The individual words were intelligible enough, but he could not follow out the sequence of the thoughts. Of course during the attack he could

Another case is that of a man of good literary attainments, who pretended that he could still understand what he read, but who could not discover the mistake when the book was presented to him reversed. There can be no doubt, then, that aphasia unerringly points to a most intimate dependence between language and thought, and that, as Max Müller says, without language there can be no thought.

But why is it that in regard to objects possessing sensible qualities aphasic individuals exhibit no impairment of intellectual power? We will answer, Because with regard to such objects these are their own language, and the functions of the perceptive and ideational centres are as active in their regard as though the faculty of speech were intact. A tree is known by its branches and leaves to the deaf mute as well as it is by its name to those possessing all their faculties. Whatever circumscribes and differentiates an object of thought is its language. For, after all, is not language conventional and arbitrary, the outer symbol of a subjective phenomenon? The symbol may be of any sort whatsoever, but the thought cannot be known without a symbol of some sort. Now, the qualities of sensible objects, in so far as they serve to circumscribe Pg 415 the objects and to discriminate them from all others, become their language. This is rendered more evident when we reflect that Locke’s theory, according to which sensible objects are but an aggregate of sensible qualities, is generally rejected, and the opinion admitted that under these qualities there resides a true substance impervious to the senses and known to us only as inference from the former. Therefore the sensible qualities are the symbol of the substance identified with it; of course in so far these are but the substance modified in such or such a manner. This is why aphasics find no trouble in forming ideas of material things, though they may forget their names. But why is aphasia ataxic—that is, incapable of co-ordinating words? Because co-ordination expresses the relation between the objects co-ordinated, and relation is not represented, and cannot be represented, by anything in the sensible order. They belong to the purely intellectual order, and the only symbol that existed by which they were known being lost, there remains no longer any means of circumscribing and differentiating them. Paul and Peter may be well known to the aphasic—Paul as such, and Peter as such—because the sensible qualities of both render them recognizable; and not only that, but the different qualities pertaining to both enable him clearly to distinguish the one from the other. But if he is told that Peter is taller than Paul, he understands nothing. And why? Because the proposition implies the relation of comparison, in which there is nothing sensible. Indeed, he perceives Peter to be tall and Paul to be diminutive, but he does not perform the intellectual process called judgment, which is interpreted in i.e., possessing no sensible traits—if we lose sight of the word which represents it. Affirmation and negation are of this sort, and it is entirely impossible to disconnect the idea of either from some word or series of words. The idea, indeed, is not the spoken word, but is painted by it as it were on the canvas of the mind, and hence was called by Aristotle the word of the mind. All this is attested in the case of aphasics. The language-mechanism of the brain is disarranged; there is forgetfulness of words, accompanied by inability to arrange them in proper order so as to be remembered; the ideational centre remains intact, but is inoperative with regard to such thoughts as have their sole symbol in words.

It is true that some aphasic individuals retain for a time certain impressions which belong to the purely intellectual order; but this can be accounted for only by supposing that the brain centres of ideation are endowed with certain registering Pg 416 powers capable of retaining impressions for a short while after their active operation is suspended. But when the disease is of long continuance those impressions gradually fade, and the patient is reduced to the condition of an untaught deaf mute. He has lost the formulæ of thought, and therefore cannot think. Trousseau says: “A great thinker, as well as a great mathematician, cannot devote himself to transcendental speculations unless he uses formulæ and a thousand material accessories which aid his mind, relieve his memory, and impart greater strength to thought by giving it greater precision.” But where the sole “material accessory,” as Trousseau calls it, is absent, how can a person think? We use the word in a higher sense; for children incapable of speech, and animals, exercise a certain amount of thought in respect to surrounding objects; but thinking, in the sense of reasoning, abstracting, and comparing, outlies their capacity, just as it does that of aphasic individuals. “Without language,” says Schelling, “it is impossible to conceive philosophical, nay, even any human, consciousness; and hence the foundations of language could not have been laid consciously. Nevertheless, the more we analyze language, the more clearly we see that it surpasses in depth the most conscious workings of the mind.” And Hegel says: “It is in names that we think.” This exactly explains what occurs in the case of aphasics. The principles of science, the sequence of ideas, the links of an argument, are not understood by them; for they are, as children and animals, capable merely of receiving the impressions which material objects make on their sensory organs. It is true that a few aphasics have been known to be expert

This point is well touched upon by Trousseau, who says: “I believe that the same thing obtains in metaphysics as in geometry. In the latter case a man may vaguely conceive space and infinity without any precision or measure; but if he wishes to think of the properties of space, and more particularly of the special properties of the figures which bound space—as, say, conic sections—it is impossible that his mind does not immediately see the curves proper to a parabola, a hyperbola, and an ellipse. In metaphysics, on the other hand, I believe that a man cannot think of the special properties of beauty, justice, and truth, for instance, without immediately giving a material form, as it were, to his thoughts, by using concrete examples, and without associating words together—words which represent concrete ideas, and which then stand in the same relation to particular metaphysical ideas as figures do to determinate geometric ideas.”

The same may be said of universal ideas. These are, subjectively viewed, mere concepts of the mind; objectively they have a foundation in the object. Now, that object is present to the aphasic, and he recognizes it by its sensible properties; but when there is question of viewing one or two properties as possessed in common by a number of objects, he finds himself unequal to the task. In a word, he cannot generalize, and this is one of the highest acts of reason.

Pg 417 We would insist upon the distinction between words representing purely material objects and those which interpret to us supersensible thoughts; for not a few physiologists have fallen into error by not observing this distinction. Thus Prof. Ferrier, of the West Riding Lunatic Asylum, says: “In aphasia, consequent as it usually is on disease of the left hemisphere, the memory of words is not lost, nor is the person incapable of appreciating the meaning of words uttered in his hearing.” From this it is evident that the learned professor neglected to note the distinction alluded to; and because an aphasic did not fail to appreciate the meaning of certain words representing material things, therefore he concluded in a general way that he did not fail to appreciate the meaning of words. Indeed, we have nowhere noted the distinction, and it is curious that, in all the cases recorded of the clinical history of this disease, physicians have invariably propounded to their patients as test-words such words as fork, spoon, pen, boots, and all such as pertain to the material order of things. Prof. Whitney certainly did not take note of these facts Prof. Whitney’s reasoning is that he starts from false premises when he limits language to mere spoken or articulate sounds. He seems to ignore the question when he says: “In all our investigations of language we find nothing which should lead us to surmise that an intellectual apprehension could ever, by an internal process, become transmuted into an articulated sound or complex of sounds.” The implied premise in this sentence is erroneous, since it is entirely possible that it be associated with some other symbol, borrowed from a material source, which is its language, its expression, and makes it something entirely distinct from the intellectual apprehension. Indeed, here lies the secret of metaphorical language, and of its extensive use among those tribes of men whose philosophical vocabulary is limited.

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LIGHT AND SHADOW.

Chicago, October 14.

Pg 419

JEAN INGELOW’S POEMS.[131]

Jean Ingelow is now over fifty years of age. For some time past she has devoted herself chiefly to graceful prose, in which her pure and playful imagination seems to have found sufficient vent. She can never be removed from the company of the poets, however, notwithstanding her apparent purpose of withdrawal, so far as we may surmise a possible design by her neglect of versification.

That she has demonstrated her possession of genuine poetic feeling cannot be denied. The volume before us is sufficient proof of this. Whenever she has permitted herself to be simple, lucid, and natural, her verses’ not only please—they charm. She is one of the minor poets sincerely beloved—not in so great a degree as Adelaide Procter, or Christina Rossetti, because she is not equally successful in expressing the universal sentiments of the heart, and because she wanders from the unambitious poetry of natural feeling into the tricky and artificial, whither the multitude will not voluntarily follow. She is not always in one mood, as Adelaide Procter is; and her joy, when sincere, and not fictitious and artful, is sometimes exceedingly attractive and—what is its truest test—becomes infectious, pervading the reader’s mind and carrying the emotions away into its own atmosphere.

We never smile at Adelaide Procter’s

Jean Ingelow possesses enough perception of real humor to throw, here and there, winsome flashes of merriment over very sombre pictures, especially in genre scenes like that depicted in “The Supper at the Mill.” Indeed, it may be safe to say that if she unloosed the flimsy chains of artificiality in which she has bound her muse, that very affected maid would prove frolicsome and mischievous; but her mistress prefers a decorousness of behavior which, by this time, must have dulled her own sense of the ludicrous, while supplying additional keenness in that direction to her critics, and furnishing new and irresistible models for hilarious parody, as we shall see.

It is impossible to read through a volume of her poems without coming to this conclusion: that she has a poetic stock-in-trade. Let us make an inventory of it. First, there are the birds; secondly, certain flowers and grasses; thirdly, a set of stereotypes composed of peculiar comminglings of sea, sky, ships, and stars. This poetic stock Pg 420 is, as it were, all duly classified and labelled, and the whole is arranged with scientific calculation as to drafts, at intervals, upon the several departments. Matthew Arnold,[132] modestly defending his own attempts toward translating Homer into English hexameter, hopes to make it clear that he at least follows “a right method,” and that, if he fail, it is “from weakness of execution, not from original vice of design.” Jean Ingelow is guilty, we think, of “original vice of design.” “Weakness of execution” is infallibly certain to follow. In selecting her poetic stock—which is, in itself, vice of design—she deepens the folly by being persistently fantastical. It is not enough to choose birds, grasses, and particular flowers—these are an integral part of all descriptive poetry; but, in order to make them her especial poetic stock, she calls them by a curious and grotesque nomenclature, whose terms were undoubtedly devised with an ultimate view toward picturesque artificial composition. Her birds are not the sweet-syllabled singers of classic song; she eschews the nightingale and lark for jackdaws, wagtails, grouse, coot, rail, cushat, and mews. Her grasses and flowers are less grotesque and better adapted to sentimentalism in style: marigolds, foxglove, heather, daffodils—very fond is she of daffodils—orchis, bluebells, golden-broom, vetches, anemone, clover—her muse is very often in clover—ling, marybuds, cowslips, and cuckoo-pint. The bee appears with industrious frequency; his colors and his business are alike serviceable in a kind of composition both picturesque and fantastic, He is as full of available verbal Merchant of Venice Antonio is told that his mind is tossing on the ocean, where his argosies with portly sail, like signiors and rich burghers of the flood,

The sea—which has supplied all the poets, from Homer down, with noble and beautiful images, lofty, grand, awful, terrible, or simply lovely,—the sea to Jean Ingelow is as a sleek servant who comes in to fill up a gap in the discourse or provide a necessary digression in the narrative. “A Sea Song” contains nothing of the sea except “salt sea foam” repeated. Her sea, stars, sun, and moon are all domestic. They perform no higher functions than the pipes of parsley or “the green ribbon” that “pranks the down.” Her sun either “stoops” or is “level”; her moon “droops”; the sea is usually “level,” and when disturbed, never awakens any sense of the sublime. Nothing more than her apparent imbecility in poetic treatment of the sea is wanting to dispose of the hope that Jean Ingelow can ever become a better poet than she appeared to be in her first volume.

Mrs. Browning, in one of her earlier efforts, “The Seraphim,” makes Ador and Zerah speak of “the glass sea-shore.” But we do not remember noting a recurrence of the expression throughout her tens of thousands of lines. Mrs. Browning seems to have been conscious Pg 421 that she was unequal to an adequate depicting of marine grandeur, and she rarely attempts it, except in an instant’s lofty sweep remindful of Homer—as if she caught a single breath of his inspiration, and pressed it into her verse. She had more imagination than Jean Ingelow; Jean has the readier fancy. Mrs. Browning’s conceptions of the awe and beauty of the sea were far above her power of description, whose efforts are often turgid and swell into bombast; so she does not attempt, except in modest discretion, to write of the sea at all. Miss Ingelow, on the contrary, discovers the ocean only at her feet, or through the limited vision of a pretty opera-glass. Thus it becomes a mere commonplace in her stanzas; she is frivolous where Mrs. Browning would have been turgid had she not been cautious.

The sea, indeed, has wrecked most of the poets who did not hug the shore. Only the few greatest of the number have been able, like Jason, to tempt its unknown breadth, and fewer still return from Colchis without a Medea to torment them. The sea will always be the final touchstone of poetic genius. Of recent poets, Tennyson has been most ambitious and most successful; but his best ocean views may be seen from along the shores of the Æneid. The little ’scapes which are strictly his own are artificial and under-done; his pigment is only the residuum of lapis-lazuli—ultramarine ashes.

Jean Ingelow’s “vice of design” is very sadly shown, too, in her vocabulary. She wanders about in dusty, unused dictionaries, searching out odd, obsolete, obscure, and ambiguous words. Because a term is confessedly obsolete is no sound reason why it should not be revived;

The “beck” grows into a widening stream and divides them.

In the last two verses Miss Ingelow, unconsciously forgetting her previous straining after literal effects, writes these true thoughts, which Pg 422 are the most finely poetical in the entire poem:

Only artificial poems can be well parodied, and the parody holds the mirror up to the artifices, so that even the author must make confession. The cleverest burlesques which have reached the public of late, reproducing in an exaggerated form the faults of the modern affected school of poetry, are those of C. S. Calverley.[133] The merit of his rhymed farces—which is precisely what he makes of his models—is nowhere more happily illustrated than in the following, which needs no introduction. It is entitled “Lovers, and a Reflection”:

Miss Ingelow’s most pretentious poem, next to “Divided,” is the “Letter L.” It has all her characteristic faults, intensified by a curious jog-trot metre:

And so on. Calverley has a little versification entitled “Changed.” Mark how ingeniously adroit he is in getting the jog-trot:

Calverley’s exhilarating volume, by the way, is not all parody; many of its numbers are original expressions of as pure fun, capitally expressed, as mirth ever conceived or art wove into verse.

Jean Ingelow is not altogether artificial. Occasionally she writes a terse truth:

or falls into a simple, unaffected strain:

Hers is that oft-quoted couplet:

Pg 423 “The Carpenter,” relating the touching story of his wife’s death to “The Scholar,” says with happy directness:

“The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire” is widely popularized by lyceum readers, who find its energy well fitted for semi-dramatic recitation; and certain divisions of the “Songs of Seven,” notably “Love” and “Giving in Marriage,” possess lyrical richness.

The thought of Jean Ingelow’s poems is always clean-of-heart; she eschews—generally—psychological tendencies, and, although far from lucid, her longer flights of speculation are merely curious, obscure, and fanciful rather than vicious or misleading. Indeed, according to her measure of grace, she is abjectly devout, worshipping with Eastern blindness a Deity of whose attributes she conceives only one—Love; and, in the humble resignation of a sightless child, she casts herself into the arms of her notion of what that Love is, and rests there, content to seek no knowledge outside herself. But even within these sacred limits her disposition to artificiality in expression unconsciously enters, to mar, with incongruous ornament, the limpid thought:

Literal criticism of Jean Ingelow is, however, abashed and almost silenced by the essence of her verse, which, in its chastity and beauty, is above the touch of cavil. She is one of our few contemporaneous poets who can look upon the face of her own work without a blush. Apparently past the zenith of her productive talent, she may look gratefully back upon her modest and constant rise, and say:

She need not avert her gaze from any line, and plead that the public forgets it was hers and a woman’s. Wanting the genius of poetry, her inspiration has been only that of intense poetic feeling wrought out by the canons of verse; but, although only one of many in this respect, the work itself is far above the average of its class.

While the popular magazines and the newspapers are daily lowering the standard of taste, and degrading and corrupting the sources of literary enjoyment as well as of personal honor and actual virtue, the regret is irresistible that a pleasing versifier like Jean Ingelow should not contribute more to a total of general reading into which what is known as “popular poetry” so largely enters.

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NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Terra Incognita; or, The Convents of the United Kingdom. By John Nicholas Murphy. London: Burns & Oates. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)

An unknown land indeed is this that Mr. Murphy traverses—unknown, it is to be feared, not only to his “Protestant fellow-subjects of Great Britain and Ireland, for whose information it has been written” and to whom it is dedicated by the author, but also to too many of his Catholic fellow subjects, as well as to Catholics generally. The book is, in brief, a history of the growth and spread of the religious Orders in Great Britain and Ireland, the greater portion of it being devoted to their work and increase since a removal of the penal statutes enabled them to return in safety to the United Kingdom. The interest of the narrative is simply absorbing. The work accomplished by the Orders in face of a multitude of difficulties and dangers seems little short of the miraculous. They crept back singly or in little groups from France and Belgium, whence the first French Revolution drove them out. Thither they had flown for refuge when the greater revolution of the sixteenth century banished them and their faith from what had been a land of saints. Units gathered units, brothers brothers, sisters sisters, Congregations other Congregations, Orders affiliated Orders, and within less than a century we behold the consecrated yet desecrated soil of England and Ireland dotted with religious houses, asylums, schools, colleges, where the old faith is taught and practised. Those who are in search of the heroic, the sensational, the pathetic, the marvellous, should read this book. Their appetite will be satisfied with a healthy food. It is the old story over and over again of what can be accomplished by those who are really inflamed with a love of God and their neighbor. No one can rise from the story of St. Vincent de Paul or Nano Nagle without a moistening of the eye and a better feeling in his heart.

Mr. Murphy’s book was published

The Catholic’s Latin Instructor in the Principal Church Offices and Devotions. For the use of choirs, convents, and mission schools, and for self-teaching. By the Rev. E. Caswall, of the Oratory. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Father Caswall has done the Catholic laity a great service by this Instructor. As he truly observes in his preface, “A knowledge of Latin is not needed for Catholic worship.… Nevertheless, to those whose education admits of it an acquaintance with those portions of the Latin Liturgy which are in most frequent public use must ever be a legitimate and worthy object of interest.” Accordingly, he has put himself to the very considerable trouble of preparing a manual, which, although an experiment, will be found, we have no doubt, all that is needed for enabling the laity of either sex, who have an English education, to make themselves familiar with the language of the church’s liturgy. It deals with grammar as little as possible, he says, yet there will be found in Part II. more grammar than his words may lead us to suppose. Moreover, there are Pg 425 ample directions given, at every turn, for the right use of the book.

The work is primarily designed, as the title-page indicates, for choirs and mission-schools. With regard to choirs, it is superfluous to observe how much better and more pleasing to God is an intelligent than a non-intelligent singing of the Latin. With regard to schools, especially those where elementary instruction in secular Latin is given, “Catholics will enjoy,” says our author, “in the living character of the language as used in the church offices, a great and singular advantage.” And further, “What better food for the mind can we offer to our children,” he asks, “than the simple translation from Latin into English—after a method easy alike to girls or boys—of what they constantly hear and often join in singing in church?” Then, as to the adult laity, there is “a large class of persons who, while provided with missals and prayer-books abounding in Latin text and side-by-side translations, yet, from want of a very little practical insight, fail to derive from these manuals the advantage intended. Others there are, devout persons of either sex, who might greatly profit by the occasional use of Latin prayers, but are restrained (and ladies especially) by an idea that in order to this they must first have a complete knowledge of Latin. Such a bugbear—for it is little else—will, let us hope, quickly yield to a steady practice of the present exercises.”

The work consists of two Parts: “Part I. containing Benediction, the choir portions of Mass, the Serving at Mass, and various Latin prayers in ordinary use; Part II. comprising additional portions of the Mass, Requiem Mass, Litany of the Saints, Vespers, Compline, and other offices and devotions, with a short Grammar and Vocabulary.”

The only stricture we have to make regards the pronunciation of A. The author says: “A, when fully sounded, is to be pronounced as a in far. Examples: Pater, Parter; laudamus, laudarmus; ora, orar.” This is a very strange mistake. Had he heard, as we have, “Gloriar rin in excelsis,” “Benedictar res,” “super omniar rest,” etc., he would never have directed that “a should be pronounced as a in far.” We are aware that the English r is fainter than the Irish or American. Still, should not h be substituted for r in the above? Pahter, ahmus, orah are the exact sounds.

With this very small exception, then, we can only speak of Father Caswall’s manual with unqualified praise, and hope it may obtain the wide circulation it deserves.

Ecclesiastical Discourses delivered on Special Occasions. By Bishop Ullathorne. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)

“These discourses,” says their distinguished author in his preface, “are called ecclesiastical because they were either addressed to ecclesiastics or treat on ecclesiastical subjects. They form a volume embracing certain points of pastoral theology—a subject on which we have very little that is Catholic in our language, if we except the excellent little book by Canon Oakeley.” They will therefore be specially valuable to our clergy, while, at the same time, the bishop “trusts there is much in them which may offer solid instruction to thoughtful Catholic laymen.” One of the most important, and the one to which we particularly invite the attention of our readers, both clerical and lay, is that on mixed marriages, “delivered on occasion of the Fourth Diocesan Synod of Birmingham.” Bishop Ullathorne is not afraid to speak plainly on this subject. Indeed, his language is startling but leaves no room for question of its truth. He speaks, too, from an extensive experience of the evils resulting from mixed marriages. Here is a passage (the italics are our own), p. 89:

“It would be as unjust as ungenerous not to admit that there are Protestants who loyally keep the promises they have made in marriage with Catholics, and who truly respect the faith and religious exercises of their Catholic spouse, and fulfil their pledges respecting the education of their children. But prudence looks to what generally happens, and not to the exceptional cases. And wisdom never runs any serious risks in matters of the soul. The individuals, and even the families, that have fallen from the church through mixed marriages, amount to numbers incredible to those who have not examined the question thoroughly; and the number of Catholics bound at this moment in mixed marriages, who live in a hard and bitter conflict for the exercise Pg 426 of their religion, for that of their children, and in certain cases for the soundness of their moral life, could they, with all the facts, be known, would deter any thoughtful Catholic from contracting a mixed marriage.”

The bishop has extended this discourse in order to give the early discipline of the church on the matter. He further makes his argument impregnable by citations from popes and councils. Moreover, he concludes the instruction “with an admirable passage from the synodal address published by the hierarchy of Australia”; and the condition of Catholics in Australia, as regards the ordinary excuses for mixed marriages, bears striking resemblance, be it remembered, to their position here.

Every-day Topics: A Book of Briefs. By J. G. Holland. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1876.

To one person at least, and to one only, this volume of Topics is likely to be of lasting interest. That person is the author. The Topics are short articles on a variety of subjects which have appeared from month to month in Scribner’s magazine. They are of about the average length of an ordinary newspaper article, and of about equal depth. They lack the newspaper liveliness, however, and the English is in great part of that slipshod style that is mistaken by so many nowadays for an evidence of careless strength. “Familiarly didactic” is the character that Dr. Holland in his preface seems to claim for this and others of his books, and the very phrase stamps the man. The book is tiresome, prosy, and fussy. Any one of the articles is too long for its purpose; what, then, must a volume of them be?

Dr. Holland is apparently a Christian or nothing. He is for ever prating about “the church” and attacking “the world.” It is to be feared that his Christianity is of a very vague character. His zeal is unfortunately without knowledge. He is constantly making grave mistakes with the most solemn confidence in his own infallibility, and thunders away on every kind of subject with a “trenchant ignorance” that would be amusing did it not touch such grave matters. Dr. Holland may have the best intentions in the world, but he would do well to weigh his words a little before undertaking to champion “the church.” What particular

We are quite justified in putting this question to Dr. Holland; for everybody knows what a Catholic means when he speaks of “the church.” But in Dr. Holland’s “church” it is doubtful whether Catholics are allowed a place. At least, we should judge so from the manner in which he treats of them whenever their name occurs in the Topics.

Linked Lives. By Lady Gertrude Douglas. New York: Benziger Brothers. 1876.

The English Catholic journals greeted this story with such an unusual flourish of trumpets that we were led to expect something extraordinary in the way of novel-writing. It is extraordinary in no sense. It is not even extraordinarily bad. It is eminently dull, altogether commonplace, and only saved from utter insipidity by here and there an indication of real power.

Of course it relies for its main interest on the good old English Catholic story-theme—conversion. To relieve the monotony of this subject, probably, the author sprinkled the narrative with dashes of what is meant for sensation. She takes us to the dens of thieves, to the reformatory, the prison, the court of justice. Such scenes may be rendered exciting—by a Dickens or a Victor Hugo. We are very happy to see that Lady Gertrude Douglas is not at all at home among them. All this portion of the book reads pretty much like an ordinary police report, and all the desire in the world on the reader’s part cannot invest Katie McKay or any of her companions with even a touch of the interest that Dickens threw around Nancy Sykes. Such themes should not be touched at all unless they can be made elevating. It takes a very experienced, strong, yet tender hand to bare the ulcers and foul sores of society. The process is a most delicate one. If well done, it excites pity, remorse, sorrow, indignation, that such things can be among Christian Pg 427 peoples; if ill done, it is revolting and only excites disgust.

Great pains have been bestowed on the delineation of the character of Mabel Forrester, and not without success. Indeed, she and her brother Guy, who is killed off too early, are almost the only interesting persons in the volume. By the way, what a lugubrious story it is! Everybody is constantly down at the mouth. Poor Guy is killed at a yacht-race, which he has just won. Katie McKay throws herself into the sea with her babe, which has been chloroformed (!) by Katie’s sister; and we could almost wish that Katie had been left in the sea. She is dragged out, however, to receive two years’ imprisonment. The rascal whom she married dies in prison. Her sister dies in her bed, but with a strong intimation that she is likely to be consigned to the lower regions. There are several other deaths of minor consequence; and finally, after being induced to accompany Mabel on a voyage to Australia, to assist at her wedding with her elderly lover, Hugh Fortescue—who, of course, is in the last stage of consumption at the time—the vessel takes fire and Mabel perishes. Equally of course, Hugh, as soon as he receives the news, dies also, “aged fifty-three,” as the tombstone erected to his memory in Australia informs us. Surely, after all this, we may say with Macbeth that we have “supped full of horrors,” and, like him also, we feel none the better for them.