CHAPTER VI.

"O virtue! gift of God! grace divine! it is thou that givest the saintly and sublime inspirations of devotion, that trample down vice, that elevate above all feebleness and all obstacles." ANONYMOUS.

When Robert realized that he had no longer a protector or friend he was plunged into the depths of despair, but it was not for the miserable consideration of interest, which too often possesses humanity, that he was so full of regret; it was for the wise and virtuous man that he mourned, for the loss of his sweet and persuasive language, and his tender and eloquent words, and his indescribable air of goodness, united to his pure life, which won all hearts, as a tender and delicate flower attracts and ravishes by its perfume. Stranger to all that was passing around him, shut up in his sorrows, made an orphan once more, Robert had still the happy consciousness of having fulfilled all his duties to his benefactor. He awakened from his lethargy at the sound of the first shovel of earth that fell on the coffin of his, beloved curé. The awakening was frightful. The tears and sobs he heard around him from the crowd of poor children and unfortunate ones, of every degree, whom he had benefited during his too short career, recalled with violence to his heart the sad reality. Another sincere mourner for the curé was his faithful old housekeeper, who, when she went in to take her last look of the venerable man, saw Robert standing there in silence and sorrow, and she felt that she, like him, was alone in the world, and suffered the same sorrow he did. But his grief and his loss, bitter as it was, was not as fatal for his advancement as might be supposed. His soul was too strongly fortified with the blessing of religion to allow him to be long discouraged. And when he could for a moment forget his losses, he would look to the future, and dare to hope, that although deprived one by one of his protectors, the path to success was still open to him. Madame Gaudin had most bitter thoughts. She was now getting along in years, being near fifty, and her age would be a barrier to her finding a home where the work would be light, so that she could live without spending her hard earned money. From her own personal thoughts she passed to another subject of solicitude--the future of Robert. If she had not felt any very strong interest in the fate of her master's _protégé_, {834} she was too compassionate a woman not to pity this child, who had been the object of his tender care. She thought of how the saintly man had praised the intelligence and amiable qualities of Robert, and repeated his favorite words: "This child will be something one day." Moved by these remembrances, she thought she heard him tell her to watch over the orphan. Submission and respect for all the orders she received was a habit with her, and she had been accustomed to obey with such exactitude, that she took for reality the illusion of her heart, and resolved to obey the inspired voice, and replace, if possible, the charitable man who had adopted Robert. This resolution once made, she thought of nothing but executing it. Going to Robert, she said, "I know, my young friend, you are thinking of some way of gaining a living for yourself. We can live together, and it will be better for us both, and we shall each have some one to take care of us. I will try to get lodgings and work, and you can be with me when not at your work, and God will assist us. Unfortunately you will be obliged to give up your studies for the present, which is my greatest grief; but we will not lose courage, for I feel sure that, sooner or later, God will give you another proof of his goodness. Your penmanship, which is so beautiful, you can make useful and by it earn money. I will go at once and find us a lodging, and will be entirely the gainer by the arrangement, for I shall have for company a good child, who will be like a son; won't he?" Madame Gaudin half smiled at her project, half cried when she repeated the name of the curé, then said, "Yes! yes! I am sure he inspires me to do this, he inspires me with an interest for this child, whom he loved above everything else." Some days after they were fixed in a small lodging in the rue des Fosses, St. Germain. She bought a bed for Robert, and he obtained a situation at twenty-five francs a month. A year passed in this way, without anything at all remarkable happening. Madame Gaudin worked, took care of things, and sang Robert's praises to all. After he had conscientiously finished the day to the profit of his employer, he returned to his lodgings, took his supper, and attended in the evenings a gratuitous course of drawing lessons. This art, for which he felt each day a more and more decided taste, made him forget for a time his past delightful life of study, which had opened to his dazzled eyes the book with golden leaves, which had as suddenly closed to his inexpressible regret. As time wore on, Madame Gaudin's attachment for Robert increased so much, that she almost believed he was her son; and well did he merit it all, for he respected her sincerely, and was most grateful for all she did for him. Whenever he was out at night, she would await his return with the greatest impatience, and was perfectly happy when she could be near him while he was reading, writing, or drawing; which latter employed most of his leisure hours. He imitated with great care the models given him, and would have passed the entire night working at them, but that Madame Gaudin sweetly forced him to lay them aside and go to bed.

Robert had now reached his sixteenth year, and his salary was increased to forty francs a month, which gave him great joy, as well as Madame Gaudin, though she thought that his merit was not yet remunerated enough, notwithstanding it was a good opening for him to another career. Some days after he had received this mark of the satisfaction his good conduct had given, his employer handed him a letter, with an express recommendation to a celebrated painter, and asked him to take it to his studio, and wait for an answer.

Arriving there, he introduced himself into the studio where the artist sat at his work. He laid down his palette, and when he had finished reading the letter that was handed him, he saw to his great surprise the young messenger absorbed before the picture that was on his easel. After considering {835} him far a few moments in silence, he asked him several questions, to which Robert replied with an emotion and an accent that revealed to the painter the inspiration of his soul. The most striking features of his face were his large and spiritual eyes, and his broad open forehead, on which thought sat enthroned. The artist was so charmed with his agreeable exterior, his frank and expressive language, that he inquired with interest what he was doing, who were his family, and what were his projects for the future. Robert satisfied all these questions, which were asked in a benevolent tone, by the recital of his childhood, of the loss of his mother, of his studies, interrupted by the death of his benefactors, and finished by telling his actual position, his love for drawing, and his ardent desire to come to him to study painting. "Well, you can came, my boy," said the painter; "but if you should succeed one day, can you hide from yourself the bitter deceptions which are the sad shadow of glory and renown? Yet why should I frighten you and inspire you with fear, when you trust so implicitly in the future? You can only hope. This word is all-powerful, and with your ideas and wishes you can crush under your feet every obstacle you wish to surmount. From this day consider yourself my pupil, and I doubt not you will do me credit. I will write the answer to the letter you brought me, and tell your employer at the same time that you belong to me now." Robert really thought he was dreaming, and was afraid to stir for fear his castle would fall, until the painter put the letter he was to take into his hand, and said, "Came back to-morrow."

He ran all the way, and stopped almost breathless before the door of Madame Gaudin, opened it hastily, and threw himself into her arms in an ecstacy of delight. "What is it?" she exclaimed, "what has happened you? I know it is something good" Her eyes were so eloquent with curiosity that he at once commenced to tell her, and related, without omitting a single word, the recent conversation which he had with the celebrated painter, and his promise to take him as a scholar. This unexpected event had filled him with such delight, that he entirely forgot the letter that was entrusted to him, but immediately set out to deliver it. Contentment gave him wings, and he was delirious with joy when he pressed against his breast the letter which was the bond of his liberty and his deliverance; and without regret he bade an eternal farewell to his former insipid labor, though his heart beat as he gave it to his employer, and as he stood waiting for him to read it, the minutes were like years. At last he raised his eyes, and said, "So you are to leave me, Robert; I am sorry, for I like you, much, and I shall not soon fill your place; still I cannot stand in the way of your promotion." Robert's happiness knew no bounds, and he returned and dreamed the sweetest dreams that ever came to childhood's pillow. From this time his life of struggle and of real work commenced. Until now he had lived almost alone, far from the world and its attractions, and ignorant of all wickedness. When he finds himself face to face with life's realities, he is like one shipwrecked. He was taken by his new master into the studio, and presented to the other scholars. Thrown like a timid lamb into this flock, he found they had no respect for sacred things, and his innocence and candor were cruelly railed at, his virtue rudely spoken of, and his religion turned into ridicule; and then sometimes, under the pretext of friendship, they would try to make him take part in their noisy revels. But he always refused, never forgetting that his mother had told him to seek the old and wise for advice, and to avoid the company of wicked young men. This enabled him to resist courageously the deceitful pleasures produced by licentiousness and debaucheries. To his pure mind nothing was so delightful as the home friendship, the kindness and the sweet counsels he had with Madame Gaudin. {836} Then he made excursions in the neighborhood of Paris, where he found nature in all her beautiful simplicity; he breathed the pure country air, and made sketches of the surrounding scenery. In a word, he was entirely occupied with his art, and it was his true enjoyment. The amusement and excesses of gayety, which ordinarily delight the young, had for him no charm; and he repulsed with horror the poisoned cup to which so many open eager lips. My dear young friends, if you only knew what this bitter cup contained, you would all dash it, far from you, for in drinking it to the dregs, you will sometimes find crime, always remorse, a weariness of all things, and a premature old age.

Robert was spared from falling into the snares which are set to allure youth, which blessing can only be attributed to the pious education he had received. First impressions are never effaced, they take deep root in a child's heart, and if good, become the fruitful germs of many virtues; if they are bad, they are the source from which vice and passion flow. In his tender years Robert had loved God and his works; later, when the good curé had revealed to him the sublimity of religion, the orphan was penetrated with a great love for that God who is goodness itself; and when reason and experience confirmed all which his mother and his protector had taught him, he believed more firmly still, and found in all nature visible proofs of the grandeur and power manifested by the Sovereign Ruler of the universe. When his companions were convinced that they could not make him one of their band of idlers, they let him alone, and treated him with the most contemptuous indifference, which was a great happiness to him, for he was no longer disturbed in his studies, and applied himself with such ardor and perseverance that his master was enchanted with his progress, and prodigal of his praises and encouragement, his counsels and lessons; and aided to the utmost of his ability this rare talent, which only demanded for its perfection aid and good direction. Not a day passed without his looking over Robert's studies, correcting them, and stimulating the generous emulation of the young artist. Robert proved his gratitude by his devotion to his studies, and if on the one hand the master was proud of his pupil, on the other so sincere, exalted, and just was his respect for him, that he would have considered it but a small sacrifice to have given his life for a man who was so liberal of his time and knowledge to him. This tribute which his warm heart gave so willingly, was not the only one Robert received. Madame Gaudin made a duty of continuing the charitable work of the Abbé Verneuil, who had shown so sublime and disinterested an affection for Robert. She spent without regret the sayings of twenty years, and, although an old woman, she worked like a young girl, inventing the most ingenious means for hiding the sacrifices she was obliged to make. She exhausted herself by her labor; but she loved Robert, and said, with a just pride, "He will be a great painter, and will repay me a thousand times for all I do for him now. What is a little trouble? Fatigue soon passes over. I am only an old woman, and have no need of anything, but he is so young, so good and easily contented, that if he only has air and sunshine he is happy. He never spends a cent improperly, and is economical, charitable, and polite. I could not love him more if I were his mother; and all I ask of God is, that he will spare me yet a while, that I may work for him." Robert had not the least idea of the expedients she employed for dissimulating the privations she each day imposed upon herself, but he worked with devouring energy night and day, and nothing is a trouble to him, nothing a fatigue, which brings him nearer to that glorious end, an artist! a true, soul-inspired artist! But material life and its necessities must be provided for; yet he thinks not of privations, so {837} completely is he fascinated with art and dreams of fame. It soon became difficult for Madame Gaudin to hide from Robert her almost penniless position, which was all the harder because of her excessive tenderness and love for him. She seemed to have but one thought, and that was to spare him all trouble. The courage of women has its source in the heart, and if they have love as an incentive, they can accomplish ends that place them far above men. So she kept from Robert the knowledge of the obligation he was under to her, and for three years struggled with energy and constancy to give the young painter, not only the necessaries, but also an appearance of luxuries, which deceived him to the last degree. Up to this time her heroic courage was the same, but her health failed suddenly, and religion alone sustained her, with a firm and consoling hand, when misfortunes came. Robert also needed it to keep up his spirits, for he felt a keen anguish when he saw her extended on a bed of pain; but his faith gave him supernatural strength, and he struggled victoriously with poverty, abandoning for a time his loved art to attend to the smallest details of material life, dividing his time between the sick friend whom he surrounded with delicacies, and upon whom he lavished his tenderest care, and work; monotonous, but productive work; and with his money he procured remedies which he hoped would bring back her health who had done so much for him. In this hour of trial he never despaired, and spent sixteen hours out of the twenty-four often in copying miserable and ill-drawn pictures, and all for a salary. But he would exclaim, "I will be an artist." He returned sacrifice for sacrifice, and while Madame Gaudin was in danger, he had not a moment of repose, and only found calmness and tranquillity when convalescence came. The _rôles_ were changed. The protector became the protected; the kind guardian of the orphan became the object of his earnest solicitude. He became a man during her sickness; rendering her the attentions of a devoted son, and providing for the expenses of the household. Brought down from his fairy land of dreams by the realities of life, he is neither less amiable nor less good, but stronger, braver, more faithful than ever. The wings of the child have been folded; he is only a man, that is all.

From All the Year Round.

"INCONSOLABILE."

I am waiting on the margin Of the dark, cold, rushing tide; All I love have passed before me, And have reached the other side: Only unto me a passage Through the waters is denied.

Mist and gloom o'erhang the river, Gloom and mist the landscape veil. Straining for the shores of promise, Sight and hope and feeling fail. Not a sigh, a breath, a motion, Answers to my feeble wail.

{838}

Surely they have all forgot me 'Mid the wonders they have found In the far enchanted mansions; Out of heart and sight and sound, Here I sit, like Judah's daughters, Desolate upon the ground.

Strangers' feet the stream are stemming, Stranger faces pass me by, Willing some, and some reluctant, All have leave to cross but I-- I, the hopeless, all bereaved, Loathing life, that long to die!

Be the river ne'er so turbid, Chill and angry, deep and drear, All my loved ones are gone over, Daunted not by doubt or fear; And my spirit reaches after, While I sit lamenting here.

Happy waters that embraced them, Happier regions hid from sight, Where my keen, far-stretching vision, Dazed and baffled, lost them quite. Dread, immeasurable distance 'Twixt the darkness and the light!

And I know that never, never, Till this weak, repining breast Still its murmurs into patience, Yonder from the region blest Shall there break a streak of radiance, And upon the river rest.

I shall hail the mystic token Bright'ning all the waters o'er, Struggle through the threat'ning torrent Till I reach the further shore; Wonder then, my blind eyes opened, That I had not trusted more.

{839}

ORIGINAL.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. [Footnote 241]

[Footnote 241: _Poems_, by Christina G. Rossetti. Boston: Roberts, Brothers. 1866.]

We had heard some little of Miss Rossetti, in a superficial way, before reading this her book. Various verses of hers had met our eye in print, and if they themselves left no very decided mark upon the memory, yet we had the firm impression, somehow, that she was one more of the rising school of poets. Accordingly we thought it well to take a retrospect of a few post-Tennysonians--Mrs. Browning, Owen Meredith, Robert Buchanan, Jean Ingelow, and so on--supposed fellow disciples--so as to be tolerably sure of ranking the new-comer rightly. On reading this volume, we find our labor lost through an entirely unforeseen circumstance. Unfortunately, it does not appear that Miss Rossetti is a poetess at all. That there are people who think her one, we infer from the fact that this is in some sort a third edition; why they think so, we are at a loss to see. The book will not answer a single test of poetry. The authoress's best claim to consideration is, that she sincerely, persistently, fervently _means_ to be a poetess. Only the most Demosthenian resolve could have kept her writing in face of her many inherent unfitnesses. For imagination, she offers fantasy; for sentiment, sentimentality; for aspiration, ambition; for originality and thought, little or nothing; for melody, fantastic janglings of words; and these, with all tenderness for the ill-starred intensity of purpose that could fetch them so far, are no more poetry than the industrious Virginian colonists' shiploads of mica were gold.

The first cursory impression of this book would be, we think, that its cardinal axiom was "Poetry is versified plaintiveness." The amount of melancholy is simply overwhelming. There is a forty-twilight power of sombreness everywhere. Now, criticism has taken principles, not statistics, to be its province; but we could not resist the temptation to take a little measurement of all this mournfulness. Limiting our census strictly to the utterly irretrievable and totally wrecked poems, with not a glimmering of reassurance, we found no less than forty-nine sadnesses, all the way from shadow to unutterable blackness--"_nfernam Iumbram noctemque perennem_." There is the sadness decadent, the sadness senescent, the sadness bereft, the sadness despondent, the sadness weary, the sadness despairing, the sadness simply sad, the grand sadness ineffable, and above and pervading all, the sadness rhapsodical. They are all there. Old Burton will rise from his grave, if there be any virtue in Pythagoreanism, to anatomize these poems. What it is all about is strictly a secret, and laudably well kept; which gives to the various sorrows that touching effect peculiar to the wailings of unseen babies from unascertained ailments. So sustained is the grief, indeed, that after protracted poring, we hang in abeyance between two conclusions. One is that Miss Rossetti, outside of print, is the merriest mortal in the United Kingdom; the other, that her health is worse than precarious. That one or the other must be right, we know. There is no other horn to the dilemma, no _tertiary quiddity_, no choice, no middle ground between hilarity and dyspepsia.

Perhaps the reader can judge for himself from these lines, which are a not unfair sample:

{840}

"MAY.

I cannot tell you how it was; But this I know: it came to pass Upon a bright and breezy day, When May was young; ah, pleasant May! As yet the poppies were not born, Between the blades of tender corn; The last eggs had not hatched as yet, Nor any bird foregone its mate. I cannot tell you what it was; But this I know: it did put pass. It passed away with sunny May, With all sweet things it passed away, And left me old and cold and gray."

We may be very unappreciative, and probably are sinfully suspicious, but the above sounded at the first and sounds at the present reading, exactly like a riddle. We certainly don't know how it was nor what it was. There is a shadowy clue in its passing away with sunny May, but we are far too cautious to hazard a guess. If there be any conundrum intended, all we have to say is, we give it up.

We do but justice, however, in saying that amid much mere lugubriousness there is some real and respectable sadness. The following, in spite of' the queer English in its first lines, sounds genuine, and is moreover, for a rarity of rarities, in well-chosen and not ill-managed metre:

"I have a room whereinto no one enters Save I myself alone: There sits a blessed memory on a throne, There my life centres.

While winter comes and goes-Oh! tedious comer! And while its nip-wind blows; While bloom the bloodless lily and warm rose Of lavish summer;

If any should force entrance he might see there One buried, yet not dead, Before whose face I no more bow my head Or (_sic_) bend my knee there;

But often in my worn life's autumn weather I watch there with clear eyes, And think how it will be in Paradise When we're together."

Here is one of a trite topic--nearly all the good things in this book are on themes as old as moonlight--but with a certain mournful richness, like autumn woods:

"Life is not sweet. One day it will be sweet To shut our eyes and die: Nor feel the wild flowers blow, nor birds dart by With flitting butterfly; Nor grass grow long above our head and feet, Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high, Nor sigh that spring is fleet, and summer fleet, Nor mark the waxing wheat, Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.

Life is not good. One day it will be good To die, then live again; To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood, Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main, Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood Rich ranks of golden grain, Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain: Asleep from risk, asleep from pain."

This is one of her best poems in point of style. The "waxing wheat" we are just a shade doubtful about; but the mellowness of the diction is much to our liking, and it is unmarred by any of the breaks of strange ill taste that flaw nearly all these poems. If not poetry nor novelty, at least we find it sadly agreeable verse.

Our professor of rhetoric once astonished his class by a heterodoxy, which we have since thought sound as well as neat. "Walter Scott," said he, "writes verse as well as a man can write and not be a poet." We are sorry we cannot say as much for Miss Rossetti; she has considerable faults as a writer. The chief of these has elsewhere been carped at--her laborious style of' being simple. The true simplicity of poets is not a masterly artifice, but a natural and invariable product where high poetic and expressive powers combine. The best thought is always simple, because, it deals only with the essences of things: the best expression--the machinery of thought--is simple, just as the best of any other machinery is. But the grand, obvious fact to the many is that the best poetry is admired for being simple. Writing for this market, Miss Rossetti and unnumbered others have more or less successfully attempted to achieve this crowning beauty of style by various processes that are to the inspiration of' real simplicity as patent medicines to vigorous vitality. Almost all hold the immutable conviction that Saxon words are an infallible recipe for the indispensable brevity. Accordingly the usual process is by an elaborate application of' Saxon--if rather recondite or even verging on the obsolete, so much the more efficacious--to a few random ideas. Of course, with such painful workmanship, one must not expect the best material. Original, or even well {841} defined thought seldom thrives in the same hot-house with this super-smoothness. But without pursuing the process into results at large, we have only to take Matthew Arnold's distinction as to Miss Rossetti:--she tries hard for _simplicité_, and achieves _simplesse_. But there is no such thing as hard work without its fruits. This straining after effect crops painfully out in a peculiar baldness and childishness of phrase that is almost original. The woman who can claim The Lambs of Grasmere as her own has not lived in vain. This production, with its pathetic episode of the maternal

"Teapots for the bleating mouths, Instead of nature's nourishment,"

has already been noticed in print, and duly expanded many visages. We pause rapt in admiration of the deep intuition that could select for song the incident of feeding a sheep with a teapot. It carries us back, in spirit, to the subtle humor and delicate irony of Peter Bell, and We are Seven. What a burst of tenderness ought we to expect, if Miss Rossetti should ever chance to see stable-boys give a horse a bolus! . . . . . We shall not cite examples of this _simplesse_; those who like it will find it purer and more concentrated in the bard of Rydal; or if they must have it, they are safe in opening this book almost anywhere.

Of the individual poems, the two longest, The Goblin Market and The Prince's Progress, are rivals for the distinction of being the worst. All the best poems are short, excepting one, Under the Rose. The story is of an illegitimate daughter, whose noble mother takes her to live with herself at the inevitable Hall, without acknowledging her. There are able touches of nature in the portrayal of the lonely, loving, outlawed, noble heart, that, knowing her mother's secret, resolves never to betray it, even to her. In the following passage, the girl, alone at the castle, as her mother's favorite maid, describes her inner life:

"Now sometimes in a dream, My heart goes out of me To build and scheme, Till I sob after things that seem So pleasant in a dream: A home such as I see, My blessed neighbors live in; With father and with mother, _All proud of one another, Named by one common name; From baby in the bud To full-blown workman father;_ It's little short of Heaven. . . . . . Of course the servants sneer Behind my back at me; Of course the village girls, Who envy me my curls And gowns and idleness, Take comfort in a jeer; Of course the ladies guess Just so much of my history As points the emphatic stress With which they laud my Lady;

The gentlemen who catch A casual glimpse of me, And turn again to see Their valets, on the watch To speak a word with me;-- All know, and sting me wild; Till I am almost ready To wish that I were dead,-- No faces more to see, No more words to be said; My mother safe at last. Disburdened of her child And the past past."

The Convent Threshold--the last words of a contrite novice to her lover--has touches of power. There is an unusual force about some parts, as for example here:

"You linger, yet the time is short; Flee for your life; gird up your strength To flee; the shadows stretched at length Show that day wanes, that night draws nigh; Flee to the mountain, tarry not. Is this a time for smile and sigh; For songs among the secret trees Where sudden blue-birds nest and sport? The time is short, and yet you stay; To-day, while it is called to-day, Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray; To-day is short, to-morrow nigh: Why will you die? why will you die! . . . . . How should I rest in Paradise, Or sit on steps of Heaven alone? If saints and angels spoke of love, Should I not answer from my throne, 'Have pity upon me, ye, my friends, For I have heard the sound thereof?' Should I not turn with yearning eyes, Turn earthward with a pitiful pang? Oh! save me from a pang in heaven! By all the gifts we took and gave, Repent, repent, and be forgiven!"

The lines called Sound Sleep, p. 65, we like very well for very slight cause. It says nearly nothing with a pleasant flow of cadence that has the {842} charm of an oasis for the reader. Much better is No, Thank You, John! which strikes into a strain of plain sound sense that we could wish to see much more of. The style, as well as the sense, seems to shuffle off its affectations, and the last two stanzas especially are easy, natural, and neat.

A strange compound of good and bad is the singular one called

"TWICE.

I took my heart in my hand, O my love, O my love! I said, "Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die; But this once hear me speak, O my love, O my love! Yet a woman's words are weak; You should speak, not I."

You took my heart in your hand, With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down And said: "It is still unripe-- Better wait a while; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown."

As you set it down it broke-- Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgment that I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor questioned since, Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, Nor sung with the singing-bird.

I take my heart in hand, O my God, O my God! My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God! Now let thy judgment stand-- Yea, judge me now.

This, contemned of a man, This, marred one heedless day, This heart take thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge thou its dross away; Yea, hold it in thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.

I take my heart in my hand-- I shall not die, but live-- Before thy face I stand, I, for thou callest such; All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile thou, and I shall sing, But shall not question much."

This poem, we confess, puzzles us a little to decide upon it. The imitation is palpable at a glance, but it is a very clever one: the first three stanzas above all catch the mannerism of their model to admiration. But the whole, is a copy, at best, of one of the archetype's inferior styles; and yet we fancy we can see, under all the false bedizening, something of poetry in the conception, though it is ill said, and only dimly translucent. There is art, too, in the parallelism of the first and last three verses. But we do not like the refrain in the fourth verse--somehow it jars. Perhaps the best we can say of it is, that Browning, in his mistier moments of convulsiveness, could write worse.

There is another imitation of Browning in this book, that is the most supremely absurd string of rugged platitudes imaginable--Wife to Husband, p. 61. The last verse is sample enough:

"Not a word for you, Not a look or kiss Good-by. We, one, must part in two; Verily death is this, I must die."

The metre generally throughout this book is in fact simply execrable. Miss Rossetti cannot write contentedly in any known or human measure. We do not think there are ten poems that are not in some new-fangled shape or shapelessness. With an overweening ambition, she has not the slightest faculty of rhythm. All she has done is to originate some of the most hideous metres that "shake the racked axle of art's rattling car." Attempting not only Browning's metrical dervish-dancings, but Tennyson's exquisite ramblings, she fails in both from an utter want of that fine ear that always guides the latter, and so often strikes out bold beauties in the former. Most of Miss Rossetti's new styles of word-mixture are much like the ingenious individual's invention for enabling right-handed people to write with the left hand--more or less clever ways of doing what she don't wish to do. What possible harmony, for instance, can any one find in this jumble, which, as per the printer, is meant for a "song:"

"There goes the swallow-- Could we but follow! Hasty swallow, stay, Point us out the way; Look back, swallow, turn back, swallow, stop, swallow.

{843}

There went the swallow-- Too late to follow, Lost our note of way, Lost our chance to-day. Good-by, swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.

After the swallow-- All sweet things follow; All things go their way, Only we must stay, Must not follow; good-by, swallow, good swallow."

Where on earth is sound or sense in this? Not a suggestion of melody, not a fraction of a coherent idea. People must read such trash as they eat _meringues à la crême_: we never could comprehend either process.

Truth to tell, we have in this book some of the very choicest balderdash that ever was perpetrated; worthy to stand beside even the immortal Owl and Goose of Tennyson. There is a piece at p. 41 which we would give the world to see translated into some foreign language, we have such an intense eagerness to understand it. Its subject, so far as we have got, seems to be the significance of the crocodile, symbolically considered. We glanced over, or rather at it once, and put it by for after reading, thinking the style probably too deep for love at first sight. On the second perusal we fell in with some extraordinary young crocodiles that we must have missed before. They had just been indulged in the luxury of being born, but Miss Rossetti's creative soul, not content with bestowing upon them the bliss of amphibious existence, made perfect their young beauty by showing them "fresh-hatched perhaps, and--_daubed with birthday dew_."

We are strong of head--we recovered from even this--we became of the very select few who can say they have read this thing through. There was a crocodile hero; he had a golden girdle and crown; he wore polished stones; crowns, orbs and sceptres starred his breast (why shouldn't they if they could); "special burnishment adorned his mail;" his punier brethren trembled, whereupon he immediately ate them till "the luscious fat distilled upon his chin," and "exuded from his nostrils and his eyes." He then fell into an anaconda nap, and grew very much smaller in his sleep, till at the approach of a very queer winged vessel (probably a vessel of wrath), "the prudent crocodile rose on his feet and shed appropriate tears (obviously it is the handsome thing for all well-bred crocodiles to cry when a Winged ship comes along) and wrung his hands." As a finale, Miss Rossetti, too nimble for the unwary reader, anticipates his question of "What does it all mean?" and triumphantly replying that she doesn't know herself, but that it was all just so, marches on to the next _monumentum aere perennius_. In the name of the nine muses, we call upon Martin Farquhar Tupper to read this and then die.

There are one or two other things like this _longa intervallo_, but it is reserved for the Devotional Pieces to furnish the only poem that can compete with it in its peculiar line. This antagonist poem is not so sublime an example of sustained effort, but it has the advantage that the rhyme is fully equal to the context. Permit us then to introduce the neat little charade entitled

"AMEN.

It is over. What is over? Nay, how much is over truly!-- Harvest days we toiled to sow for; Now the sheaves are gathered newly, Now the wheat is garnered duly.

It is finished. What is finished? _Much is finished known or unknown;_ Lives are finished, time diminished; Was the fallow field left unsown? Will these buds be always unblown?

It suffices. What suffices? All suffices reckoned rightly; Spring shall bloom where now the ice is, Roses make the bramble sightly, And the quickening suns shine brightly, And the latter winds blow lightly, And my garden teems with spices."

Let now the critic first observe how consummately the mysticism of the charade form is intensified by the sphinx-like answers appended. Next note the novelties in rhyme, The rhythmic chain that links "over" and and "sow for" is the first discovery in the piece, closely rivalled by "ice is" and "spices" in the last verse. But {844} far above all rises the subtle originality of the three rhymes in the second. A thousand literati would have used the rhyming words under the unpoetical rules of ordinary English. Miss Rossetti alone has the courage to inquire "Was the fallow field left _un_sown? Will these buds be always _un_blown?" We really do not think Shakespeare would have been bold enough to do this thus.

But despite this, the religious poems are perhaps the best. They seem at least the most unaffected and sincere, and the healthiest in tone. There are several notably good ones: one, just before the remarkable Amen, in excruciating metre, but well said; one, The Love of Christ which Passeth Knowledge, a strong and imaginative picture of the crucifixion; and Good Friday, a good embodiment of the fervor of attrite repentance. The best written of all is, we think, this one (p. 248):

"WEARY IN WELL-DOING.

I would have gone; God bade me stay; I would have worked; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day, He read my yearnings unexpressed And said them nay.

Now I would stay; God bids me go; Now I would rest; God bids me work. He breaks my heart, tossed to and fro, My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk And vex it so.

I go, Lord, where thou sendest me; Day after day, plod and moil: But Christ my God, when will it be That I may let alone my toil, And rest with thee?"

This is good style (no _simplesse_ here) and real pathos--in short; poetry. We do not see a word to wish changed, and the conclusion in particular is excellent: there is a weariness in the very sound of the last lines.

It is remarkable how seldom _thought_ furnishes the motive for these poems. With no lack at all of intelligence, they stand almost devoid of intellect. It is always a sentiment of extraneous suggestion, never a novelty in thought, that inspires our authoress. She seems busier depicting inner life than evolving new truths or beauties. Nor does she abound in suggestive turns of phrase or verbal felicities. In fact, as we have seen, she will go out of her way to achieve the want of ornament. But there is one subject which she has thought out thoroughly, and that subject is death. Whether in respect to the severance of earthly ties, the future state, or the psychical relations subtly linking the living to the dead, she shows on this topic a vigor and vividness, sometimes misdirected, but never wanting. Some of her queer ideas have a charm and a repulsion at once, like ghosts of dead beauty: _e.g._ this strange sonnet:

"AFTER DEATH.

The curtains were half-drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, "Poor child, poor child!" and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept; He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head; He did not love me living, but once dead He pitied me, and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold."

There is some _chiaro-oscuro_ about this. Under all the ghastliness of the conception, we detect here a deep, genuine, unhoping, intensely human yearning, that is all the better drawn for being thrown into the shadow. We do not know of a more graphic realization of death. Miss Rossetti seems to be lucky with her sonnets. We give the companion piece to this last--not so striking as the other, but full of heart's love, and ending with one of the few passages we recall which enter without profaning the penetralia of that highest love, which passionately prefers the welfare of the beloved one to its own natural cravings for fruition and fulfilment:

"REMEMBER.

Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you no more can hold me by the hand Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay. Remember me when no more, day by day, You tell me of our future that you planned; Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray, Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve; For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had. Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.

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Another marked peculiarity often shadowed forth is our authoress's sharply defined idea that the dead lie simply quiescent, neither in joy nor sorrow. There are several miserable failures to express this state, and one success, so simple, so natural, and so pleasant in measure, that we quote it, though we have seen it cited before:

"When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dew-drops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows; I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on as if in pain; And dreaming through that twilight That doth not rise not set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget."

Such bold insight into so profound a subject says more for the soul of an author than a whole miss's paradise of prettinesses.

In singular contrast with this religious fervency and earnestness, the sincerity of which we see no reason to impeach, comes our gravest point of reprehension of this volume. We think it fairly chargeable with utterances--and reticences--of morally dangerous tendency; and this, too, mainly on a strange point for a poetess to be cavilled at--the rather delicate subject of our erring sisters. Now, we are of those who think the world, as to this matter, in a state little better than barbarism; that far from feeling the first instincts of Christian charity, we are shamefully like the cattle that gore the sick ox from the herd. The only utterly pitiless power in human life is our virtue, when brought face to face with this particular vice. We hunt the fallen down; hunt them to den and lair; hunt them to darkness, desperation, and death; hunt their bodies from earth, and their souls (if we can) from heaven, with the cold sword in one hand, and in the other the cross of him who came into the world to save, not saints, but sinners, and who said to one of these: "Neither do I condemn thee. Go, and now sin no more."

But there is also such a thing as misdirected mercifulness; a dangerous lenity, all the more to be guarded against for its wearing the garb of charity; and we think Miss Rossetti has leaned culpably far in this direction. Two poems are especially prominent examples--Cousin Kate, and Sister Maude. In each the heroine has sinned, and suffered the penalties of discovery, and in each she is given the upper hand, and made a candidate for sympathy, for very bad reasons. There is no word to intimate that there is anything so very dreadful about dishonor; that it may not be some one else's fault, or nobody's fault at all--a mere social accident. A few faint hinting touches there may be of conventional condemnation, but somehow Miss Rossetti's sinners, _as sinners_, invariably have the best of the argument and of the situation, while virtue is, put systematically in the wrong, and snubbed generally. The Goblin Market too, if we read it aright, is open to the same criticism. We understand it, namely, to symbolize the conflict of the better nature in us, with the prompting of the passions and senses. If so, what is the story translated from its emblematic form? One sister yields; the other by seeming to yield, saves her. Again there is not a syllable to show that the yielding was at all wrong in itself. A cautious human regard for consequences is the grand motive appealed to for withstanding temptation. Lizzie tells Laura, not that the goblin's bargain is an evil deed in the sight of God, but that Jennie waned and died of their toothsome poisons. She saves her by going just so far as she safely can. What, if anything, is the moral of all this? Not "resist the devil and he will flee from you," but "cheat the devil, and he won't catch you." Now, all these sayings and silences are gravely wrong and false to a writer's true functions. With all deference then, and fully feeling that we may mistake, or misconstrue, we sincerely submit that some of these poems go inexcusably beyond the bounds of that strict moral {846} right, which every writer who hopes ever to wield influence ought to keep steadily, and sacredly in view. We are emboldened to speak thus plainly, because we have some reason to believe that these things have grated on other sensibilities than our own, and that our stricture embodies a considerable portion of cultivated public opinion.

In conclusion, we repeat our first expressed opinion, that Miss Rossetti is not yet entitled to take a place among today's poets. The question remains, whether she ever will. We do not think this book of hers settles this question. [Greek text], she has done nothing in poetry yet of any consequence. These verses may be as well as she can do. They contain poetical passages of merit and promise, but they show also a defectiveness of versification, a falseness of ear, and occasionally a degree of affectation and triviality that, we can only hope, are not characteristic. To borrow a little of the style and technology of a sister branch of thought, the case, as now presented, can be accounted for as in essence a simple attack of the old and well-known endemic, _cacaethes scribendi_. Probably it befell her at the usual early age. Only instead of the run of gushing girls, we have Dante Gabriel Rossetti's sister, Jean lngelow's intimate friend, and a young lady of intelligence and education, constantly in contact with real literary society, and--what is thoroughly evident in this book--read in our best poets. Add all these complicating symptoms, and is there not something plausible about the diagnosis? We do not say, observe, and do not mean to say, that this is Miss Rossetti's case; only all she has done so far seems explicable on this hypothesis. For ourselves, we lean to the view that she will do more. We judge hers a strong, sensuous, impulsive, earnest, inconsiderate nature, that sympathizes well, feels finely, keeps true to itself at bottom, but does not pause to make sure that others must, as well as may, enter into the spirit that underlies her utterances, and so buries her meaning sometimes beyond Champollion's own powers of deciphering. But her next book must determine how much is to be ascribed to talent, and how much to practice and good models; and show us whether genius or gilt edges separate her from the [Greek text].

ORIGINAL.

THE TEST.

She stands with head demurely bent, A village maiden, young and comely, And he beside her, talking low And earnestly, is Lord of Bromleigh.

"Now raise thine eyes, and look at me, And place thy little hand in mine, And tell me thou my bride will be, And I and Bromleigh shall be thine; In richest silks thou shalt be drest-- Have diamonds flashing on each hand, And in all splendor shalt outshine The proudest lady in the land.

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On softest carpets thou shalt tread, On velvet cushions shalt recline; Whatever is most rich and rare That thou mayst wish for shall be thine."

"I do not covet silk attire, Nor glittering gold, nor flashing gem; There is no longing in my heart To change my simple dress for them. A village maiden I was born-- A Village maiden I was bred-- A happy life for eighteen years In that low station I have led. How do I know if I should change My state for one so high, but then The world might change, and never be The thing it is to me again; But from the field, and from the sky, The glory and the joy would go; The greenness from the meadow grass, The beauty from all flowers that blow; The sweetness from the breath of spring, The music from the skylark's song: Content, and all sweet thoughts that bring A gladness to me all day long?"

"Thy fears are idle fears," he said; "Love, loyal heart, and generous mind, Can happiness in lordly halls As well as in a cottage find. For this is of the soul, and bound To no degrees of wealth or state: Then put thy little hand in mine And speak the word that seals my fate! I love thee, Marian, more than life-- Have loved thee, ah! thou dost not guess How long, unknown to thee, my soul Hath shrined in thee its happiness. More precious than the light of day, Thy beauty is unto mine eyes; More sweet than all earth's music else Thy voice that now to me replies. Oh! would it speak the words I long More than all other words to hear, I were the happiest man this day That breathes the breath of earthly air."

She raised her head, and in her eyes A tender look his glances met, But 'twas not love--though kin to it-- A look of pity and regret.

"It pains me more than I can tell To speak the words I ought; but yet They must be said; and for your sake I would that we had never met

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For if you love me as you say, I can conceive how great the pain I give when I declare the troth, I cannot love you, sir, again. And I should sin a grievous sin, Should do a grievous wrong to you, If I should put my hand in yours Unless my heart went with it too. Not joy and pride, but grief and shame, Go with the bridegroom and the bride Into the house where they shall dwell, Unless love enter side by side. And I, because my heart is given To one I love beyond my life. Could find no joy in Bromleigh Hall Am all unfit for Bromleigh's wife: But did I love you, then, indeed, Although my state be poor and mean, I were as worthy Bromleigh Hall, As were I daughter of a queen. For love hath such divinity That it ennobles every one That owns its mast'ry, and can make A beggar worthy of a throne. This I have learned--love taught me this; The love that is my breath of life: That will not leave me till I die, That will not let me be your wife. Forbear to urge me more, my lord; It gives me pain to give such pain; Here let us part, and for the sake Of both, to never meet again."

"Stay yet a little, Marian, stay! My heart was wholly thine before. Or what thou sayst would make me swear That now I love thee more and more. A beauty brighter than a queen's, A mind with noble thoughts so graced. Among the highest in the land, Were best esteemed, and fittest placed. Yes, there thy rightful station is. Amongst the noble of the earth: And 'twere a sin unto a clown To mate such beauty and such worth. Thou could'st not live thy truest life; Thy fullest joy thou could'st not find. Chained to a poor cot's drudgery. Wed to a dull, unlettered hind."

Then flushed her face with maiden scorn. And thrilled her voice with proud disdain; And proudly looked her eyes at him Who dared not look at her again.

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"For shame! my lord; for shame! my lord; You shame your rank to slander so A man, I doubt if you have seen; A man I'm sure you do not know. The man I love is no base churl, No poor unlettered village hind; But in my soul he lives and reigns, The wisest, noblest of mankind. I grant him poor; I know he works With head and hands for daily bread; And nobler so in my esteem Than if a useless life he led. 'Tis not the accident of birth Though with the flood the line began, Nor having lands and countless wealth, That makes and marks the gentleman. For these are earthly, of the earth, And by the vilest oft possessed; But 'tis the spirit makes the man, The soul that rules in brain and breast: The generous heart, the noble mind, The soul aspiring still to climb To higher heights, to truer truths, To faith more heavenly and sublime. These make the noble of the earth; And he I love is one of these:-- And shall I for a title fall From such a soul and love as his? Believe me, no! Ten thousand times, A cot with him I'd rather share Than yonder hall with you, my lord," And then she turned and left him there. Off fell the curls and thick moustache That hid the true look of his face. A step--and ere she was aware She struggled in a strong embrace; Whilst kisses rained on cheek and lips, She would have cried for help; but, lo! The voice was one she knew so well, Not that which spoke awhile ago.

"Forgive me, oh! my dear, true love, If I have seemed thy love to test; I knew 'twas good, and pure, and true, As ever filled a maiden's breast: But I had something to reveal, And so I put on this deceit. Deceit! not so--for now I'm true, The past it is that was a cheat; For I this happy twelvemonth past, This year that gave thy love to me, Have lived a life not truly mine, Have lived it for the sake of thee.

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And though I Harry Nugent am, The master of the village school, So am I Harry Nugent Vane, Lord of a higher rank and rule, The which I left to win thy love; And now I know that it is mine, I take it back, my own true wife. And Bromleigh Hall is mine and thine.

ORIGINAL.

WHAT I HEARD ABOUT RITUALISM IN A CITY CAR.

"It ought to be stopped, and it's all nonsense."

"It is all very well to say 'it ought to be stopped,' and that 'it is all nonsense,' but, my dear sir, we cannot stop it, for the people will have it; and I beg leave to differ with you, for I think it is very far from being nonsense."

It was in a Seventh Avenue railway car, and as I sat next to the last speaker, a clerical-looking person, I could not help overhearing the conversation. The other appeared to be one of those old gentlemen who are positive about everything--who, even in the tie of their cravat, say as plain as can be, "This is the way I intend to have it, and I _will_ have it."

"I perfectly agree with the Bishop of Oxford," said he. "See here"-- and he opened a newspaper and read as follows: "'I have no great fear that as to the majority of the people there is any tendency toward Rome; and, on the contrary, I believe that in many cases this development of English ritualism tends to keep our people from Rome. It may, however, happen that the tendency of these things is to what I consider to be at this moment the worst corruption of the church of Rome--its terrible system of Mariolatry.' There, you see what it tends to, and it is plain enough, although the bishop did not like to say so, of course, that ritualism in our churches will educate our people to become Catholics; and so he adds, very properly: 'I regard it with deep distress. My own belief is that to stop these practices it will only be necessary for the bishop to issue an injunction to the clergymen to surcease from them--to surcease from incensing the holy table--to surcease from prostration after the consecration of the holy elements--to surcease from incensing at the _magnificat_.' My opinion precisely."

"Have you ever considered the true sense of these things?" inquired his clerical friend.

"Can't see any sense in it at all," tartly responded the old gentleman.

"No?" returned the other; "surely there must be some good reason for this wide-spread desire of both clergy and laity for a more elaborate ritual in divine service."

"Fashionable, fashionable--nothing else."

"It gives dignity and solemnity to public worship."

"Mere show."

"It adds to the apparent reality of the sacred functions of religion, in the administration of the sacraments particularly."

"Ha! ha! yes, it would be an apparent reality for us. I read about that 'apparent reality' lately in the report of the ordination of one of our bishops, and I thought it a very appropriate remark."

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"But you must admit that it tends to edify the worshippers, and afford them more ample means of lifting up the heart to God."

"It don't edify me."

"Then it is, besides, so full of instruction, for every ceremony fixes the mind upon the religious truth to which the ceremony points, as, for instance, making the sign of the cross must keep the truth of redemption forcibly before the mind."

"Make the sign of the cross!" ejaculated the old gentleman, almost jumping out of his seat, at which movement half a dozen ladies, standing up and holding on the leathern straps, made a simultaneous rush for the place.

"Why not?" said the other. "I am ready to do anything that will remind me that my Saviour died for me. Then it is only fulfilling the prophecy of St. Paul to bow or bend the knee at the mention of his holy name, and to genuflect before the altar is very proper and right, if we believe in the presence of Jesus Christ in the sacred elements."

"But we Protestants don't believe it."

"You must not be too sure of that; I know many who do. You know the Scripture is very strong in its favor: 'This is my body--this is my blood;' and I, as a good Protestant, who take my belief from the Bible, may have the right to believe it, may I not?"

"H'm, h'm, but our church don't teach any thing of the kind."

"Not as a church, I grant you, but she has no right to trammel private judgment; and if I choose to believe it, and act upon my belief, what is to hinder me."

"It seems to me that as a minister of the church you ought to _minister_ just what the church teaches and no more."

"If you follow that out, my friend, you will become a Romanist. A Protestant cannot stand on that ground."

"Oh dear!" exclaimed the old gentleman drawing a deep breath, and scratching his head. "I don't know what we are coming to. A man don't want to be a papist, and yet he goes to his own Protestant church and must put up with all the bowings and scrapings and genuflections and candies and flowers, and all the rest of the popish fiddle·de·dees."

"Now you mention candles and flowers," said the clerical gentleman, "what can be more appropriate symbols of joy and festivity? And when the Christian is rejoicing on those solemn and joyful festivals of the church, as, for instance, the birth of our Saviour at Christmas, and his resurrection at Easter, how very natural it is that the sanctuary of religion should be adorned with lights and flowers, than which nothing could express more fitly the joy and thankfulness of the heart. If you crush out all expression of these sentiments in the service of the church you will render it a dull, cold formality; and in this matter the church of Rome has been much wiser than we in retaining all those things which, after all, are of apostolic origin, and used by the earliest Christians."

"Incense, too, I suppose," added the old gentleman with a snarl.

"Incense too," repeated the other, "not the least doubt of it, as is plain from the discoveries in the catacombs, and a beautiful emblem it is of prayer. You know the scripture, 'My prayer shall ascend as incense in thy sight.'"

The old gentleman here looked around the car with an air that seemed to say, Will somebody have the kindness to tell me if I am asleep or awake? Turning to his friend, he said: "Then I suppose that all our protestations on this score against the Roman church have no foundation either in reason or in holy Scripture?"

"That is not only my own opinion," replied the clerical gentleman, "but I have every reason to believe it is the conviction of a very large number of enlightened Protestants of our day."

"A conviction I sincerely deplore," said the old gentleman. "Good morning," and he abruptly rose and left the car.

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"Excuse me, sir," said I, "if I, as a Catholic, have been deeply interested in your conversation just now; but may I ask on what principle those ritualistic forms and ceremonies are being adopted by Protestants, and being introduced into their services?"

"The principle is this, that they are all deeply significant of the different truths of the Christian religion, a visible expression of the faith of the worshipper."

"We understand that perfectly as Catholics," said I, "but as your congregations differ so widely in their individual belief, these forms and ceremonies would possess no significance to the half of anyone congregation of Protestant worshippers. Now, with us Catholics, the ceremonies have a universal significance, as all our people are united in one faith."

"We will educate our people to it," said he.

"That is, you would make the faith of your worshippers an expression of the ceremonies you perform, and not the ceremonies an expression of their faith. In the Catholic church the faith is all one to start on, and the appropriate ceremonies follow as a matter of course."

"I acknowledge," returned he, "that we have not paid sufficient attention to the vital necessity of a ritual which would embody and show forth the faith of our church."

"But when you have gotten a ritual which supposes, as it must, certain doctrines, and which, as you said to your friend, instructs the people in these doctrines, are you not trammelling the private judgment of those worshippers who do not believe these doctrines and wish to have a ritual which is consistent with their belief? What right have you to impose a ritual upon them inconsistent with their belief?"

"We do not impose any particular ritual," he replied; "if they do not like it they can go elsewhere."

"But then you would have, or ought to have, as many different rituals as your people have individual differences of belief, and that would end in endless division and dissension."

"It is excessively warm, don't you think so?" said the minister.

"It is," said I, "but I think we are going to have a storm soon; I see it is getting quite cloudy."

ORIGINAL.

THE BARREN FIG-TREE AND THE CROSS.

O hapless tree! which doth refuse Thy fruit to him who thee hath made: Cursed and withered none may use Thy barren limbs for fruit or shade.

O Cross of death! which man did make, Barren and fruitless though thou be, Thy sapless branches life shall take From that sweet fruit he gave to thee.

O happy tree! divinely blest! True, thou hast neither leaves nor root; Yet 'neath thy shade a world shall rest, And feast upon thy heavenly fruit!

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MISCELLANY.

_A Peculiar Conglomerate_.--Mr. John Keily, of the Irish Geological Society, has addressed a letter to the editor of the _Geological Magazine_, describing a peculiar conglomerate bed which is on the shore at Cushendeen, in the county of Antrim. The mass is about fifty feet above the sea, and some thirty yards long and wide. It is composed of round pebbles of quartz rock, from two to four inches in diameter; and they occur so closely packed that everyone is in contact with another, and no room left, except for the sand which cements them, and which fills the openings between the pebbles, when originally heaped together. These pebbles, as just stated, are of quartz rock, and therefore all of one kind. There is no actual rock of the same kind, on the shore, nearer than--(1) Malin Head, or Culdaff, in Donegal; (2) Belderg, east of Belmullet in Mayo, where it occupies the shore for fourteen miles; and (3) in the twelve bins, near Clifden, in Connemara, where it forms bands interstratified with mica slate. This mass is backed by a hill of brown Devonian grits and shales interstratified, which extends from Cushendeen to Cushendal. In both those rocks are a few round pebbles of quartz rock, similar to those in the mass on the shore, but in the rocks of the hill they are thinly disseminated, perhaps six or ten of them to a cubic yard. Mr. Kelly desires to know how the quartz pebbles came together unmixed with any other species of rock. The answer which the editor of the _Geological Magazine_ gives in a foot-note seems very like the correct one. It is to the effect that, in the grinding of the several elements which were being rubbed together to form the conglomerate, the softer ones became reduced to powder.--_Popular Science Review_.

_Old Roman Mines in Spain_.--In the mines of San Domingo, in Spain, some discoveries of Roman mining implements and galleries have been made, which show us the colossal character of the labors undertaken by that ancient nation. In some instances, draining galleries nearly three miles in length were discovered, and in others the remains of wheels used to raise water were found in abundance. The wood, owing, it is thought, to penetration by copper, is in a perfect state of preservation, and there appears to be evidence that the wheels were worked by a number of men stepping on the flanges somewhat after the manner of prisoners on a tread-mill. There were eight of these water-wheels, the water being raised by the first into the first basin, by the second into the second basin, and so on, till it was conveyed out of the mine. The age of these relics has been set down at 1500 years.--_Ibid_.

_Blood Relationship in Marriage_.--At a late meeting of the London Anthropological Society, a paper was read by Dr. Mitchell on the above subject. The conclusions arrived at are: 1. That consanguinity in parentage tends to injure the offspring. That this injury assumes various forms: "as, diminished viability; feeble constitution; bodily defects; impairment of the senses; disturbance of the nervous system; sterility.", 2. That the injury may show itself in the grand-children: "so that there may be given to the offspring by the kinship of the parents a _potential defect_ which may become _actual_ in their children, and thenceforth perhaps appear as an hereditary disease." 3. That idiocy and imbecility are more common than insanity in such cases.

_Gigantic Birds'-Nests_.--Mr. Gould describes the Wattled Talegalla, or Bush Turkey, of Australia, as adopting a most extraordinary process of nidification. The bird collects together an immense heap of decaying vegetable matter as a depository for the eggs, and trusts to the heat engendered by decomposition for the development of the young. The heap employed for this purpose is collected by the birds during several weeks previous to the period of laying. It varies in size from two to four cartloads, and is of a perfectly pyramidal form. Several birds work at its construction, not by using their bills, but by grasping {854} the materials with their feet and throwing them back to one common centre. In this heap the birds bury the eggs perfectly upright, with the large end upward; they are covered up as they are laid, and allowed to remain until hatched, when the young birds are clothed with feathers, not with down, as is usually the case. It is not unusual for the natives to obtain nearly a bushel of eggs at one time from a single heap; and as they are delicious eating, they are as eagerly sought after as the flesh. The birds are very stupid, and easily fall a victim to the sportsman, and will sit aloft and allow a succession of shots to be fired at them until they are brought down.--_Lamp_.

_The Muscular Fibres of the Heart of Vertebrates_.--We have received from Dr. J. B. Pettigrew, the accomplished sub-curator of the Royal College of Surgeons' Museum, a copy of his excellent monograph on the above subject. The memoir is certainly the finest which has yet been produced; for it is comprehensive, clear, and accurate, and is accompanied by a great number of beautiful lithographs, which have been taken from photographs of actual dissections. The arrangement of the muscular fibres, as demonstrated by the author, sheds much light upon the peculiar movements of the heart. For this reason the essay has a great physiological importance, and, from the circumstance that the anatomy of the heart in the four vertebrate classes is fully explored by Dr. Pettigrew, it is of equal import and interest to the comparative anatomist. We have also received Dr. Pettigrew's paper on the valvular apparatus of the circulatory system, and we commend it likewise to our readers' favorable notice.--_Science Review_.

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ORIGINAL.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

LIFE OF CATHERINE McAULEY. Foundress of the institute of Religious Sisters of Mercy. By a member of the order (belonging to the Convent of Mercy, at St. Louis), etc. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 500. New York. D. & J. Sadlier & Co., 1866.

This biography introduces a new, and hitherto generally unknown, character to the acquaintance, and, we are sure, to the admiration of the English-speaking Catholic public. The anonymous religious authoress has shown herself well qualified for her filial task, and has conferred a great benefit both on her order and on the cause of religion in general. The nearness of the period in which her venerable subject lived, the testimony of a number of the best informed and most trustworthy witnesses who were personally acquainted with her, and the materials furnished by other memoirs and letters, have given the writer of this biography an abundance of the most authentic data from which to produce a truthful and complete sketch of the Foundress of the Sisters of Mercy.

We have had the pleasure of learning something of the history of Catherine McAuley, and of the foundation of her institute, from one of her own earliest and most trusted pupils, who has planted the same institute, and brought it to a flourishing condition in four of the New England States. The portrait of her drawn by her biographer, corresponds with, and completes the preconceived idea of her character we had received from this authentic source.

It is eighty-one years since Catherine McAuley was born, forty years since she made the first beginning of her institute, and twenty-five years since her death. Her period of active life embraced only fourteen years. Yet there are now more than two hundred convents, and three thousand sisters, belonging to the congregation of Our Lady of Mercy, scattered over Ireland, England, the United States, British America, South America, and Australia; although the mortality among the sisters is at the high rate of ten per cent a year.

These facts prove better than any eloquence the value of the life and works of the foundress of the institute. Her personal history is uncommonly interesting and highly romantic. She was the daughter of highly respectable Catholic parents residing in Dublin. Losing her parents at an early age, she came under the guardianship of relatives who were strict Protestants and intensely hostile {855} to the Catholic religion. Consequently, she was not able to receive any instruction, to go to mass, or much less to receive the sacraments, before she became a young lady. Her brothers and sisters were easily induced to give up their minds to the influence of Protestant teaching and example. Catherine, however, steadily refused to attend the Protestant church; and, as soon as she was capable of doing so, made a studious and thorough examination of the grounds of the two religions, which resulted in establishing her forever in a faith which was not only firm but intelligent. She eventually succeeded in bringing back her sister and her nephew and niece to the Catholic church. While still a child, Catherine McAuley was adopted by an elderly couple named Callahan, who were very kind-hearted, very wealthy, and, childless. They allowed her to practise her religion, although quite indifferent to religion themselves, and gave her the means of practising many of those acts of charity to which she was always inclined.

This part of her history is strikingly interesting, as throwing light on the state of the Catholic religion among the higher classes in Ireland, during the latter part of the last century and the former part of the present one. It contains some scenes of tragic pathos taken from domestic life. Few are aware of the hatred, the contempt, the cruelty, the bitter, unrelenting persecution, with which the Catholic religion has had to contend in Ireland. Miss McAuley was once obliged to fly from the house of her brother-in-law, at night, through the streets of Dublin, to save herself from death at his hands. Nevertheless, she conquered, as the holy faith has always conquered, by undaunted courage joined with angelic meekness. The same brother-in-law who had pursued her with a drawn dagger, declared to her on his death-bed, that if he had time he would candidly examine into the Catholic religion, and died repeating acts of contrition, faith, hope and charity, which she suggested to him, leaving his children to her guardianship.

At the age of thirty-five Miss McAuley was left, by the death of her adopted parents, both of whom had become Catholics during their last illness, mistress of a fortune, the exact amount of which is not stated, but which appears to have at east equalled the sum of fifty thousand pounds sterling. The whole of this fortune was devoted by her to the foundation of her institute, which was opened about five years afterward, that is, in the year 1827. She does not seem to have cherished any aspirations after the religious state for herself, during her youth, much less to have dreamed of becoming the foundress of an order. In founding her institute in Dublin, she had in view the plan of combining the efforts of charitable ladies for the benefit of the poor, the sick, the ignorant, and particularly servant-girls who were out of place. The community-life, and the whole religious routine, grew up naturally and of itself. After a time, the judgment of prelates, clergymen, and other persons of weight, induced Miss McAuley and her associates to adopt a rule, and take perpetual vows. The scope of the institute embraces choir duties to a moderate extent, almost every kind of charitable work for the poor, a particular care for respectable servant-girls out of place, poor-schools, and high-schools or academies for girls of the middling classes.

The noble woman who planned all this vast scheme of good works, and lavished her fortune with princely generosity to set it in motion, died in the year 1841, at the age of fifty~four, ten years after making her vows as a Sister of Mercy. It is an interesting circumstance that the great and good Daniel O'Connell was one of her warmest friends during her life, and one of her staunchest supporters in her undertakings. These two magnanimous souls who loved their country, their country's faith, and the patient, oppressed, but unconquerable poor of their country, better than all earthly things, could appreciate and honor each other. Our readers will thank us for quoting the following description of the scenes which usually occurred at the great Liberator's visits to the convents of the Sisters of' Mercy:

"In his journeys through Ireland, O'Connell nearly always visited the convents in his route. On these occasions his reception was a kind of ovation. The Te Deum was sung, the reception-room hung with green, the national emblems--harp, shamrock, and sun-burst--displayed, addresses were read by the pupils, and any request he asked implicitly granted. His manner at such scenes was particularly happy. To a young girl who had delivered q flattering address to the 'Conquering Hero,' he said, very {856} graciously, that he 'regretted her sex precluded her from that distinguished place in the imperial senate to which her elocutionary abilities entitled her.' Then glancing at the girls who surrounded the oratress, he continued with emotion: 'Often have I listened with nerve unstrung and heart unmoved to the calumny and invectives of our national enemies; but to-day, as I look on the beautiful young virgins of Erin, my herculean frame quivers with emotion, and the unbidden tear moistens my eye. Can such a race continue in ignoble bondage? Are you born for no better lot than slavery? No,' he continued, with increasing vehemence, 'you shall be free; your country shall yet be a nation; you shall not become the mothers of slaves.'" (pp. 146-47.)

What a contrast between such genuine heroic characters as these, the true glory of their people, and the mock-heroic charlatans, whose genius show itself only in gathering in money from laboring men and servant-girls, and organizing raids which end only in the death and imprisonment of their most unlucky dupes, and bitter mutual accusations of treachery and cowardice among the leaders. The worst enemies of the Irish people are those who seek to alienate them from their clergy, and to lead them astray from the true mission given them by divine providence, which is identified with their traditions of faith and loyalty to the church. They are like Achaz and the false prophets of Judah, who contaminated the people of God with the false maxims of the nations around them. Men and women like Daniel O'Connell and Catherine McAuley are the Macchabees and Judiths of their nation. Through such as these, the faith of Ireland may yet conquer England, as the trampled faith of Judaea conquered Rome; and her long martyrdom obtain the due meed of glory from the children of her old oppressors.

We recommend this book to all those who claim kindred either in nationality or in faith with its subject, and who wish to rekindle their devotion or renew the memories of their ancestral home. We recommend it especially to our wealthy Catholics, that they may meditate on the example of princely charity given them by this young heiress, who gave away a fortune more readily than most others would give one twentieth of a year's income. We request our fair young readers also, to lay aside their novels for a while, and read the life of one who was beautiful, gifted, highly educated, beloved of all, rich in worldly goods, and with all earthly happiness courting her acceptance; and who, amid these allurements and the severest temptations to her faith, shone forth a bright model of all high Christian virtues to her sex. We wish that all those who are prejudiced against the Catholic faith, and who nevertheless have the candor which pays tribute to virtue, conscientiousness, and self-sacrifice, wherever seen, might also read it. The history of Catherine McAuley and her institute adds another to the many practical, living proofs, more powerful than any speculative arguments, of the truth and power of the Catholic religion. Such a history never has been or will be possible outside the fold of the Catholic church. Its occurrence in our own times shows that the church is now, as of old, the fruitful mother of saints, and that the old Catholic ideas which once made martyrs of young maidens, and raised up Claras and Teresas, retain all their power over the souls of those who have inherited the same faith. We have no fear of incurring the displeasure of Urban VIII. or of his successor, in giving our judgment that Catherine McAuley was a true Christian heroine, a woman of the same high stamp of character with St. Teresa, whom she resembles in many striking respects.

It is superfluous to say that this biography will be a most useful book in religious houses. Example is more powerful than precept, and a recent example is more powerful than a remote one. It were to be wished that similar biographies were more numerous. There are materials in the recent history of other orders, as well as in that of the institute of Mercy, which might be used to great advantage. The history of the American foundress of the Order of the Visitation would be worthy of a place, even in the annals of that ancient order. Books of this kind are not only instructive, but, when well written, superior in that charm which captivate's the feelings and imagination of the young, to the romantic tales over which their time and sensibilities are too often wasted. The present volume is written in that lively and piquant style, with a dash of humor to flavor it, which makes a biography most readable and entertaining. Religion wears its most cheerful and attractive countenance in {857} these pages, and even the couch of the dying sisters are lit up with gayety. Mother Catherine's life was a perpetual _Laetare_ Sunday in Lent, spiritual joy ever decking with flowers the altar of sacrifice, and changing the violet of penance and self-denial to rose-color. Her tranquil and benignant countenance, as represented in the portrait which graces her biography, expresses this type of spirituality which she communicated to her order. The mirthful laugh of the common-room resounds through the pages which relate of the unremitting labors and continual prayer, whose effect decimates the ranks of the Sisters of Mercy every year. We are not treated to any prosy disquisitions or abstracts of ascetic treatises, which make some of the lives of saints such tiresome reading, especially to young people. But we have something better; a picture of virtue, of piety, of devotion to Jesus Christ, in their most heroic form, blended with a joyousness to which, the boudoir and the drawing-room are strangers, and which may well attract pure and generous hearts to imitate such an engaging model of sanctity.

There are numerous episodes and sketches of the many persons with whom Mother Catherine was associated, such as that of her little niece Mary; of the good Welsh sister from Bridgenorth; of the English earl's daughter, who entered the convent with her two waiting-maids; of the accomplished but somewhat eccentric authoress of Geraldine; and the inimitable Dr. Fitzgerald. Some of these are pathetic, and others comic in the extreme. We have but one criticism to make, which is, that a little more restraint and forbearance toward some who are deemed to have erred in their duty to the order, would have added another grace to the narrative. There are also some faults of typography and slight clerical oversights, which will doubtless be corrected in a second edition.

We hope we have piqued the curiosity of our readers enough to make every reader buy the book, or tease papa to buy it. And if the desire to read it is not enough to wake up our somewhat apathetic Catholic public, let them remember that by buying the book they are contributing to that unfailing spring of mercy which flows from the convents of Catherine McAuley's daughters to relieve the poor.

ROBERT SEVERNE, His Friends and his Enemies. A Novel, by William A. Hammond. Philadelphia. J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 369.

This novel has the merit of being written by a scholar and a man of science. The first part of it is well done, and excites no little interest; but as we progress, it is plain that the author has permitted his facile pen to have pretty much its own way. The general impression, therefore, left on the mind is that as a novel it has been hastily written. The characters are too perfect both in virtue and in vice; and although the author is at great pains to describe his characters, we are obliged to differ with him in our opinion of them. The hero is brought before us as a hard student, yet we have quite another idea of him from his words and actions. He is in effect a wealthy gentleman, who moves easily in polite society, and has a fancy for purchasing rare old books at ruinous prices: finds a Cabaña or Partaga cigar equally at hand in Europe and in his elegantly furnished study at home (where it is true he consumes a great deal of brain and time over his books), but we do not find the student in him when he comes to play his part before us. He has been unfortunate in a first marriage, and becomes violently misanthropical and suspicious. His first act, however, is marked by surpassing benevolence and verdant innocence. He is swindled in the street out of a ten-dollar gold piece by a prostitute, who feigns poverty, and instantly conceives a violent affection for this totally unknown person, and most unmisanthropically determines to catch her, reform and educate her. We may remark, by the way, that when our hero does "tip" anybody he does it in true Monte Cristo style: it always is a ten-dollar gold piece, or a hundred-dollar bill. Of course he falls violently in love with the heroine at first sight, and loses his misanthropy with his heart. Sal Tompkins, who is to be his _protégée_, turns out to have some unusually good points, and having come to warn the heroine of a premeditated attack upon her grandfather's house by a gang of burglars, of one of whom she is the mistress, the utmost cordiality and intimacy springs up between herself and the heroine; and, in fact, we are led to believe, from a remark made by the grandfather, {858} that these two ladies occupied the same room that night, if not the same couch. The heroine's father was a bad man, and Sal Tompkins is also a daughter of his, which may satisfy the reader, but should not the parties concerned, seeing they knew nothing of the fact. Sal becomes a very lady-like person in an incredibly short space of time, and the discovery of her left-hand relationship is received without the slightest remonstrance or disgust. The villain of the story is the hero's lawyer and factotum; a pretty good villain, as far as his language and intentions go; but he is represented as so violently villainous that we are led to believe the author is prejudiced against him. He makes use of a written confession of murder penned by the hero while laboring under hallucination of mind (a real tit·bit of science, which the distinguished author could illustrate much better in another department of literature than he has done here), and on the strength of it arrests him in England, whither Severne arrives after a telegraphic journey around the world. The way in which our author here dispatches messengers to Suez and Constantinople from England, quite takes our breath away. The imprisonment, trial, acquittal, and subsequent disgrace of the perjured lawyer quickly follow, to the utmost satisfaction of the reader, who being behind the scenes (as he is always kindly permitted to be), suffers no pangs of anxiety for the results. The author says the heroine showed no emotion whatever of surprise or annoyance when the self-accusation of murder written by her affianced husband was shown to her, undoubtedly genuine as it was. Here again we are sorry to differ with him. Of the other characters little need be said. There is a portrait of "a lady" in Grace Langley; an attempt at an imitation of Chadband, the renowned apostle of "trewth," in Brother Jenkins; and a Mr. Goodall, who is introduced, as it would seem, to play a part which he does not find. The story of Ulrich de Hutten with his wonderful unique copy of an old book, and his magic pentagramme, is made to link in with the principal events of the story, but from its peculiarly romantic character, has no unity with it: the best proof of which is that the whole of it could be erased from the book, and the reader would not miss it. What moral we are to draw from it we are also at a loss to divine.

That the author can write well is evident enough, both from this book and from others of a high order of merit which he has contributed to the department of science; but that he has accomplished as a novelist all that he is competent to do, Robert Severne does not, in our humble judgment, bear worthy testimony.

THE SCHOOL OF JESUS CRUCIFIED. From the Italian of F. Ignatius of the Side of Jesus. Passionist. New York. D. & J. Sadlier & Co.

To meet with a book like this among so much that is cold, speculative, and heartless in the publications of our day, is like meeting with a blushing red rose in a cotton bale. Its beauty and its sweetness possess a double charm. Its every page glows with that tender piety and warm devotion which is the expression of a devout Christian head, and it cannot fail of kindling a like holy fire in the soul of him who loves to learn the lessons taught from the summit of the Cross. The worthy translator speaks thus in the preface: "The school of Jesus Crucified! What Christian would not wish to study therein? to learn wisdom and patience and resignation to the divine will, from the example of a God-man, who came on earth and assumed our frail mortality to be to us a model, as well as a Redeemer?" A question which, we think, will serve to interest very many, and induce them to procure and use this sweet little book. The very appropriate style of its publication is quite a noticeable feature about it, and commends itself to all lovers of well-printed and well-clothed books.

THE FRENCH MANUAL. A new, simple, concise, and easy method of acquiring a conversational knowledge of the French Language, including a Dictionary of over Ten Thousand Words. By M. Alfred Havet. Entirely revised and corrected from the last English Edition, with a new system of pronunciation. D. Appleton & Co., New York.

{859}

This is certainly an advance on the old progressive system of Ollendorff. It fully realizes all its title proposes, and is evidently the work of one who is a successful teacher of the French language. We commend it to the notice of all professors of French in our colleges and schools, by whom, if we do not mistake, its merits will be duly appreciated. We observe an error among the rules of pronunciation, however, that should not pass unnoticed. The Parisian would not take our sound of _wa_ in _waft_, _wag_, and _wax_, to express the sound of _oi_ in _fois, soif_, etc. We presume the author has been accustomed to hear those words pronounced wóft, wóg, and wóx, as he dates his preface from Edinburgh.

THE PHYSIOLOGY OF MAN. Designed to represent the existing State of Physiological Science, as applied to the Functions of the Human Body. By Austin Flint, Jr., Professor of Physiology and Microscopy in the Bellevue Hospital Medical College, etc., etc. Vol. i., 8vo, pp. 495. D. Appleton & Co., New York. 1866.

This work has lain on our table for some time. The delay in writing the notice has been from no lack of admiration or appreciation of the book or its author, but from a desire to write more than an ordinary book notice.

This we will defer till the work is completed, and in the mean time we hasten to express our hearty approval of a literary and scientific enterprise, which reflects the highest honor on the profession of medicine and on the literature of the country.

Prof. Flint, the young author, has devoted his life to the study and teaching of physiology. He steadily refuses the allurements and emoluments of practice, and steadily and successfully pursues the object of his ambition. His present work, if completed in accordance with the first volume, will reward him for his past toil, and ensure him an honorable and most enviable future among the leading minds of his profession in this country and the scientific world.

It will be out of place to enter into any scientific discussion in the pages of a journal devoted to general literature. It is sufficient to say that Dr. Flint has presented, in elegant language and graphic style, a correct view of the science of physiology to the time of writing. He displays great erudition, a thorough grasp of the subject, and a sincere desire to appreciate and communicate the exact truth. It is the best book on the subject for college libraries, and is an almost indispensable necessity to the physician.

We hope the publication of such works will renew the habit of studying the philosophy of medicine as part of a liberal education, draw closer the bond between the intellectual classes and the profession of medicine, and in this way advance the interests of science, humanity, and civilization.

This work is issued in an elegant form, worthy of its eminent publishers.

KING RENÉ'S DAUGHTER. A Danish lyrical drama. By Henrik Hertz. Translated by Theodore Martin. New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1867.

This is indeed a poetic gem of the first water, and we venture to assert that few critics will contest our judgment. The author of the introductory sketches repeats twice that it is lovely, and we think we might repeat it twice more and it not be too often. He who will commence reading it, and not finish it at one sitting, we pronounce one of those beings so detested of Shakespeare, who has no music in his soul.

It forms but one act in seven scenes, but is replete with events, "stirring, surprising, yet harmonious." A bit of philosophy peeps out here and there to interest and charm the most unimaginative thinker; for instance, when Martha, the guardian of Iolanthe, the king's' daughter, reasons upon her unconscious blindness:

"May it not be, sir, while we darkly muse Upon our life's mysterious destinies, That we in blindness walk, like Iolanthe, Unconscious that true vision is not ours? Yet is that faith our hope's abiding star."

The innocent confession of the hitherto inexperienced passion of love which springs up in the heart of Iolanthe, at the presence and sound of the voice of her unknown betrothed, is a passage of rare beauty and originality. He asks her to place her hand upon his head to mark his height, that when he returns she may remember him. She answers:

"What need of that? I know that few resemble thee in height; Thy utterance comes to me as from above, Like all that's high and inconceivable; And know I not thy tone? Like as thou' speakest None speak beside. No voice, no melody I've known in nature, or in instrument, Doth own a resonance so lovely, sweet, So winning, full, and gracious as thy voice. Trust me, I'll know thee well amidst them all!"

{860}

The final tableau, in which Iolanthe, with restored sight, recognizes her father, and she and Count Tristan, her betrothed, each other, is full of dramatic power. We promise the reader a pleasure in the perusal of this poem such as he seldom enjoys.

OUT OF TOWN. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 311. New York: Hurd & Houghton.

This is a sprightly book wrought out of a common and everyday subject: a change from a city to a country life. The story is told in an easy, off-hand, and peculiarly attractive way, and engages the attention of its readers, particularly those of the rising generation. The writer contrives to invest the most ordinary topics with a zest which keeps alive the interest of his reader to the close. It is a perfect _pot pourri_ of fun and humor, dished to suit all palates and all ages. But it has a fatal blemish in our judgment:--a perpetual parade of decanters and pipes. The writer seems to think that there can be no such thing as conviviality or good cheer without intoxicating libations. Why cannot those who write books for the young avoid this rock of offence? Surely there is small need, in these days, of such temptation. Everyday life reeks with the disgusting and pernicious habit of tippling. Why does it become necessary that every new book for our children should be redolent of the fumes of the bar-room? Are our book-makers aware what an impetus they are imparting to that wave of desolation which is swelling over the fair face of our beloved country, and which threatens, more than any other one thing, to submerge and sweep away all those barriers of virtue and morality on which rely our hopes for the protection of religion and a healthy morality?

SADLIER'S CATHOLIC DIRECTORY, ALMANAC, AND ORDO, for the year of our Lord 1867. New-York: D. and J. Sadlier & Co.

This volume consists of about 647 pages of matter of which 290 pages are devoted to the Church of the United States, 100 to the Church of British North America and Ireland, and 257 to advertisements. As a popular Catholic Directory for the United States it may be said that at least one half of it is but of partial interest.

The portion devoted to the United States is apparently very full, and as accurate, no doubt, as the publishers have been able to make it. We observe however, that the Church statistics of Ireland and British America possess a valuable little summary at the end of each while no such summary is given for the Church of the United States.

If one would look anywhere for it we think it would be in just such a publication as the one before us, and we must confess to being disappointed in not finding it here.

MR. P. O'SHEA, New-York, has in press a new edition of The Gentle Skeptic. By Rev. C. Walworth.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

From D. APPLETON, & Co., New-York. Joseph II. and his Court. By Mrs. L. Mühlbach. With Illustrations. 1 vol. 8vo. Cloth, $2 00.

From LEYPOLDT & HOLT, New-York. King René's Daughter, a Danish Lyrical Drama. By Henrik Hertz. Translated by Theodore Martin. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 100. Price $125.

From M'GILL & NOLAN, Georgetown, D.C. The Messenger of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, a monthly bulletin of the Apostleship of Prayer. Price $2 per annum.

From BENZlGER BROS. Alte Neue Welt, an Illustrated German Catholic Magazine. Price $3 00 per annum.

From HURD & HOUGHTON, New-York. Essays on Art By Francis Turner Palgrave. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 330. Price $1 75.

From D. APPLETON & Co. The French Manual: n. new, simple, concise, and easy method of acquiring a conversational knowledge of the French language, including a Dictionary of over ten thousand words. By M. Alfred Harve. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 188 and 112.

From D. & J. SADLIER & Co., New-York. Life of Catherine McAuley, Foundress and first Superior of the Institute of Religious Sisters of Mercy. By a member of the Order of Mercy. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 500. Price $2 50. Sermons by the REV. THOS. S. PRESTON. Revised and enlarged edition. 1 vol. pp. 581. Price $2 50. The School of Jesus Crucified. From the Italian of Father IGNATIUS, of the Side of Jesus, Passionist. 1 vol. pp. 334. Price 75 cents. The Christian armed against, the World and the Illusions of his own Heart. By FATHER IGNATIUS of the Side of Jesus, Passionist. 1 vol: 32mo, pp. 320. Price 50c.

From J. D. LIPPINCOTT & Co., Philadelphia. Robert Severne, His Friends and his Enemies. A Novel. By William A. Hammond. 1 vol. 12mo, pp. 369. Price $1 75.

MUSIC RECEIVED.

From J. L. PETERS & BRO., St. Louis &. Cincinnati. Shamus O'Brien, an answer to Norah O'Neill. By William S. Hayes. Let the Dead and the Beautiful Rest. Little Beauty. Pink of Perfection. Mary's Waiting at the Window.