It was worthy of Catholic Ireland, that noble daughter of the church, which has preserved intact the faith of St. Patrick in the midst of struggles, trials, and persecutions of every kind, to send to the pope a legion of her sons to fight beside the generous volunteers whom every vessel brought from France, Belgium, Germany, and Switzerland. As my thoughts revert, after an interval of eight years, to this noble band, whose organization I superintended temporarily, I love to recall the great natural qualities which redeemed their defects, and, despite their disorders and uproar, and their incessant quarrels, won for the Irish the admiration of Lamoricière, and merited the approval of the pope, who, after the crisis, desired to form around him a guard of these valiant soldiers, these indomitable heroes, these Catholics faithful to the death.
Unfortunately, in the midst of the fatigues and excitement of this period, amid marches and countermarches, orders and countermands, it was impossible for me to keep a journal of the thousand and one strange incidents, daily events, interesting or amusing, of which I was a witness; indeed, they would furnish Alexander Dumas abundant matter for dramas and endless tales. I must limit myself to those scenes which have left the deepest impression on my memory.
The 30th of May, 1860, found me in garrison in a small hamlet on the frontiers of Tuscany, Titta della Pieve, situated some leagues from Lake Trasimene, famous for the struggle between Hannibal and the Romans, which took place upon its border. Thence a sudden order despatched me to Macerata, a small town of the Adriatic Marches, where I was to organize the Irish Legion. Already a hundred and fifty recruits had arrived, and the order was couched in terms admitting of no delay. I left with regret, for in this little hamlet I had found a family, whose hospitality had touched me. It was that of the gonfalonnier.
The young matron, simple in her tastes, well educated, and handsome as Italians naturally are, had undertaken by her kindness to make us forget the ungracious reception which our uniform had won for us in Perugian society. And in this she manifested not only sound judgment and education, but also rare courage, at this dangerous time, when the least respect toward a pontifical officer merited the stroke of the assassin's dagger. A little later, I was to find her in Rome, proscribed for her fidelity by a violent, iniquitous, and vindictive government. Will she be able to return to her home despite the cruel vexations to which she has been exposed? I know not, and dare not hope any thing of Piedmontese mercy. Could I separate myself from that noble Swiss regiment, dear for so many reasons, beneath the shadow of whose flag I for the first time drew my sword for the pope? Alas! I was obliged to quit for a long time, perhaps, my brethren in arms, whose friendship had become a pleasure and encouragement and even a necessity, to find in a new corps new associates; and this at the moment when great events were vaguely rumored, when each could foresee the necessity of all that was dear to brace up against the storm, whose distant echoes were already to be heard. But military obedience exacted this sacrifice. I left early on the following morning, and, after escaping an attack on the diligence by twelve masked brigands, in the gorges of the Apennines, I arrived at Macerata on June 1st.
I immediately received a visit from the almoner of the volunteers, whose appearance deserves particular description.
He was an Irish Franciscan father, and by his lofty stature and sonorous eloquence reminded me of the portrait of the great O'Connell, which in my childhood I had seen traced by enthusiastic admirers of his oratory. When Father Bonaventure appeared in the midst of the recruits, the men made way for him respectfully. One of them had been guilty of some breach of discipline. The priest spoke sweetly to him, and a few words of tender severity brought tears to the eyes of the offender. Indeed, this monk, with his lofty brow and stately gait, his coarse habit falling in ample folds from his massive shoulders, was well calculated to impress these children of nature, at once simple but keen, enthusiastic but fickle, good in heart but hasty in character, on whom the priest alone has fitted the yoke of authority.
I immediately saw the necessity of establishing the best possible relations with this influential man. The preliminaries of our conversation being ended, he said, "My dear captain, will you—"
"Pardon me, reverend father, but you give me a title to which I have no right. I am only a lieutenant."
"Why, captain dear, this will never do. I have announced to the recruits the arrival of their captain; they are prepared to receive you, and all the prestige of your authority will be lost if they find that you are only a lieutenant. No; permit me without offence to attribute to you the rank to which you won't be long coming, if all that I have heard of you be true."
"You flatter me infinitely, and I am much obliged for your high opinion; but as we have many things to do, let us save our compliments for some future occasion, and look at the men, whom I must inspect without delay."
"Immediately, mon cher commandant—"
"Still another thing, Monsieur l'Aumonier—"
"They are in the barracks, and I will present you to them. Come with me; these good fellows await you with impatience, and I hope you will be pleased with them. Remember, you are captain."
I found the recruits, about a hundred and fifty in number, ranged in two lines along the vast corridor, and I must confess that my first impression was not favorable. They were for the most part ragged, evidently fatigued by the long voyage. A long bench stood before them.
"We must remove this bench," said I to the priest. "It will be in the way during my inspection."
"Not a bit of it, captain dear," he answered; "on the contrary, it will assist wonderfully for the ceremony of your presentation. You are shorter than I, and my height destroys the effect that you ought to produce, (he was six feet eight inches in stature.) Get up on that bench, and you will appear as tall as I, and your prestige will increase proportionally."
"All right, reverend father; here goes for the bench. You are a decided master of scenic art."
I acted on his advice, and mounted my platform, while the chaplain prepared his countenance and attitude for the grand discourse that was to follow. He waited for silence, and, when he saw all eyes directed toward me and all ears open to him,
"Boys," he said, swinging with majestic movement the loose sleeves of his habit, "welcome this happy day, the object of your ardent desires, on which you will enjoy the honor of enrolling yourselves in the army of the sovereign pontiff, and on which your names, children of St. Patrick, will be inscribed on the great list of the defenders of the papacy. You see before you, at this moment, the representative of that august sovereign for whom your Irish and Catholic hearts beat with filial love. Welcome with acclamations him whom God has sent us—the illustrious Captain Russell," (here he laid his heavy hand on my head as if he wished to flatten it,) "the noble descendant of your ancient kings, the worthy nephew of the gallant Marshal McMahon, the hero of Perugia, into whose hands I gladly resign the authority which I have hitherto exercised. Now, boys, from the bottom of your throats, hurrah for Captain Russell."
"Hurrah for the captain!" shouted the hundred and fifty.
"And you, captain," (here he turned his great, benevolent eyes toward me,) "whom the pope has invested with the powers of commander until the arrival of their regular chief, consider in the goodness of your heart the devotion of these true sons of Ireland, who, abandoning their homes and families, came through fatigues, dangers, and privations, over mountains and seas, to place at your disposal their lives, their strength, and their heart's blood."
I answered this harangue as well as I could, giving with all my might a hurrah for the pope, which was repeated along the line; then, descending from my pedestal, I shook warmly the hand of the reverend chaplain, to testify publicly my trust in him, and, after the inspection, occupied myself immediately in forming the companies. Alas! the first act of my administration was unlucky, and showed that my brains were not equal to the organization of an Irish regiment.
Having learned from the chaplain that the recruits of different provinces mutually entertained profound jealousy, I thought I would succeed well in putting all the Dublin men in one company and all the Kerry men in another. This disposition having been made, I assigned to each of the companies one or more apartments of the barracks, and ordered them to take immediate possession of their quarters.
This order, simple in appearance, was the occasion of a prodigious storm; and you would be long divining its cause.
While the Dublin men executed my order without delay and betook themselves quietly to their quarters on the upper story, the Kerry men, on the contrary, gathered in several noisy groups under the conduct of as many leaders, as if they did not understand the orders, and finally declared point blank that they would not obey them.
"Peste, Monsieur l'Aumonier," said I to the chaplain, who observed with a certain anxiety the disturbance which was brewing, "if things begin thus, they do not augur well for the future."
"Wait a bit, captain, before dealing harshly with the culpable. Let me find out the motives of their resistance."
"All right, father. I await your rendering an account of them."
The monk stepped firmly up to the mutineers and endeavored to speak with them.
"We want the upper floor! We'll have the top floor!" was the only answer he received.
"But, boys, the upper floor is no better than the lower."
"We want the upper! The Kerry lads are not made to be stowed away on the ground-floor."
"For mercy's sake, listen to reason, or else the captain—"
"Down wid Dublin! Kerry for ever!"
The monk returned, pale as death, to explain the cause of the tumult.
The volunteers from "county Kerry," whose blood is proverbially warm, were indignant because I had quartered them on the ground-floor, while the Dublin lads occupied the upper story; wherefore they were determined not to budge until this insult was repaired and Kerry vindicated.
"But, reverend father, the order is given, and cannot be revoked without compromising my dignity. Try to point out to me the leaders; I will have them arrested. As to the others—"
"Ah! captain, remember their inexperience of discipline."
"That is the very reason why I wish to be severe with the leaders."
I had the leaders of the disturbance arrested, and, on seeing this, the remainder quietly dispersed and occupied without further difficulty their allotted barracks.
"Boys," said I, going among them, "the leaders who have brought you astray are scoundrels, whom I am going to punish. They have trifled wickedly with that proud sentiment of rivalry which does honor to the different provinces of Ireland. Keep this sentiment of noble jealousy, of just emulation, keep it for the field of battle, where you can make better use of it than here."
"Hurrah for the pope! hurrah for the chaplain! hurrah for the captain!"
A few days later, on a beautiful afternoon in June, the detachment of volunteers from Limerick arrived. They numbered about two hundred, conducted like the others by their chaplain, a man at once indefatigable and full of courage, whose almost juvenile ardor was irresistibly communicated to his companions.
I thought that these brave men, fatigued by a long journey and numerous privations, deserved to be well treated by that pope to whom they came thus to offer their arms and blood. Hence, I had prepared for them at the barracks fresh straw mattresses and warm soup, and, having made these arrangements, went forward to meet them on the road to Ancona.
Confused cries and sounding hurrahs soon announced the approach of the column. I presented myself to the new almoner, whom I recognized by his long black coat and high gaiters. At once he gave a prodigious hurrah for the pope, which was instantly repeated by the two hundred volunteers with an enthusiasm of which the pure races are alone capable. At the same time they brandished enormous cudgels, which served them alike as walking-sticks and weapons, and with which each man had provided himself before quitting his native parish.
It would be difficult to portray the terror which such scenes produced on the peaceful inhabitants of the town, little accustomed to such noisy demonstrations. They always avoided meeting the Ollandesi, as they then ignorantly termed them—the Verdoni, (canary color, half green and half yellow,) as they afterward called them, from the colors of their uniform. The women were content to gaze timidly from the windows at these strange guests; the urchins alone, braver or more frolicsome, escorted the newly-arrived, and strove to keep step with these giants of the north, four times as great as themselves.
During the bombardment of Ancona, which lasted six days, I occupied with the fourth Irish company a bastion of the intrenched camp, situated on a height which commanded the city and the defence from the land side. For some days we had nothing to shelter us; and to add to the annoyance, the earth having been lately turned for the works ordered by the general, the first rain changed it to thick mud. On this couch my men had to sleep, with naught above them save the arch of heaven. Nevertheless, they did not complain, as I might have expected from their previous conduct, and they remained the whole night exposed to a driving rain on this wet soil without uttering one complaint, so much had the sight of the enemy excited their ardor and developed their military virtues. Strange! It had only required a few bomb-shells to change these peasants, so untractable the evening before, into sober, patient, and warlike soldiers, ready for all sacrifices. Every afternoon, about five o'clock, the bombardment ceased, as if by agreement, and then commenced the most original scene which can be imagined.
In the midst of the terreplein of my bastion they kindled a fire, and grouped themselves pell-mell around it, just as chance arranged them, soldiers, non-commissioned and commissioned officers. For the latter seats of honor were reserved, consisting principally of inverted wheel-barrows, water-buckets, and old pieces of lumber. The pipes struck up, the gourds of brandy passed from hand to hand, and tongues were unloosed; and as the day had been more or less exciting, so was the conversation animated. One of a dramatic turn, endowed with a long and neglected beard and draped majestically in some old cloak, recited with upraised hands some scene of mighty Shakespeare. Another, somewhat younger, sung tenderly a national air, a sweet melody of the poet Moore. I have always remembered one of these touching ballads, and cannot resist giving it here:
Another, an inhabitant of the mountains, began some interminable legend, in which the ghosts of his ancestors played an important part. Sighs and cries of joy accompanied the recital, broken only by the monotonous "All's well," which the sentries on the parapet passed from one end of the camp to the other. All listened, awed, wonder-stricken, and transported in spirit to the hearths which they had left, and around which they had often kept joyous vigil by the light of the burning turf. Fortunately, no inopportune shell came from the enemy's batteries to cast its lurid glare over the joyous group or glitter on the beard of the singer. O pure and romantic natures! Oh! what a natural poesy and gayety surrounds this race, which we are wont to cover with a cloud of melancholy sadness. Were I to live a hundred years, I could not efface the vivid remembrance of those noisy vigils at Bastion No. 8, at the bombardment of Ancona in 1860.
Momentary enthusiasm was their great motive power. Whoever knew how to excite them, could obtain from them whatever he wished. And then, to see the play of their chests, their arms and shoulders; they seemed like so many Vulcans. The heaviest weights, which an Italian could scarcely move, gun-carriages, shell, beams, blocks of stone, they raised without difficulty, and, placing them on their stalwart shoulders, carried them with the greatest ease, one after another. From this I derived much benefit in a critical situation.
The Piedmontese having, half by surprise and half by main force, seized one of the outposts of Monte Pelago, and having there posted a battery, whence a raking fire entirely commanded the bastion which I occupied, I saw that, in order to protect my men, I must construct a traverse in the midst of the bastion. But how remove the earth? How perform all the necessary work under the fire whose balls rained among us and whistled unpleasantly in our ears? Fortune favored me; a heavy rain storm interrupted the bombardment.
"To work, boys! to work!" I cried. "In three hours you must raise twelve feet in length of a traverse, eight feet high, five feet thick at the top, and ten at the bottom, which will withstand every thing they may send from Monte Pelago. Here, you terrace-makers, come on with your picks and shovels. And you, Sergeant Tongue—you are a master carpenter; dress these logs and slabs for me, to make a frame for the work. In this manner, by God's grace, we will get ready a traverse that would keep the devil out, even if we had not the Pope with us. To work, boys! to work!"
In a few hours we had the bastion sheltered from the fire of the enemy. Alas! my poor traverse, fruit of such generous labor, we did not keep you long. In fact, the following day all was over, unfortunately ended; Bastion No. 8, along with all the others, passed into the hands of the enemy.
I did not take part in the defence of Spoleto, that feat of arms so glorious for the Irish Legion; but after seeing these volunteers at the bombardment of Ancona, I can easily imagine what must have been that struggle of twenty-four hours of their two companies against ten thousand Piedmontese.
An old cannon of heavy calibre, for many years laid aside as condemned, was buried in a corner of the fortress. Instantly it was extricated from the débris, transported by main force to a height whence it commanded the enemy, and mounted on a gun-carriage; and the rusty old piece, astonished at its resurrection, killed more men on that one day than during the entire century of its past existence.
A decayed, half-ruined gate afforded an entrance into the citadel. The enemy directed their efforts against it. The athletic sons of St. Patrick fell to work, and in an hour it was braced up and barricaded with gabions, and firmly resisted two successive assaults of the enemy's column.
I could cite twenty instances of this kind, where heroic courage joined to prodigious muscular strength worked miracles. But if a more prosaic example will suffice to form an idea of the strength of these iron limbs, I would add, softly and not without a slight blush, that during the period of my command I never saw a guard-house door which could resist their opposing efforts more than two hours, however well bolted it might be. After the iniquitous bombardment, which did not respect the white flag floating over all the works of the citadel and fort, our general capitulated, and we were obliged to abandon the place. The departure was very trying, and I cannot recall without grief the humiliation of that disastrous day. I do not wish to speak of it, nor could I do so without bitter tears; but it gives me pleasure to remember a spirited act of the Irish Legion.
It was six o'clock in the evening; our companies, of which I commanded the last, marched in close column, flanked, alas! by a line of Piedmontese, who, I must admit, had more regard for our misfortune than the dastardly population of the city. We passed gloomily the gate which leads to the Porta Pia, quickening our step as much as the escort would allow, when some of my men came to me. "Captain," said they, "we have come to say that Ireland will blush for her children if she learns that we abandoned this city without bidding a last adieu to the pope; we ask permission to salute him after our fashion at this last moment."
"I understand; be quiet for a moment, and Ireland will be content with you and with me."
A few moments after this, we reached the boundary of the suburbs. As the last man passed the gates of this unfortunate city, judging the moment opportune for the execution of our project, I gave with all the strength of my voice a last hurrah.
"Hurrah for the pope!" shouted all in unison. The walls, the city, the gate, even the ocean itself, were shaken. To paint the astonishment of our guards would be impossible. They consulted together for an explanation of what had just occurred. Finally, I heard a sous-officer say to his neighbor,
"Lasiamo fare, sono Irlandesi! Bah! these are Irishmen; of what use is it to trouble yourselves about their savage cries?"
Such was our departure from Ancona, on the 29th of September, 1860, and such the solemn adieu of the Irish Legion to the pontifical soil.
The Literature of the Age of Elizabeth. By Edwin P. Whipple. Boston: Fields, Osgood & Co. 1869.
The volume of essays bearing this title is a contribution to our critical literature by a writer who is, perhaps, the best of American critics. If "to see things as they really are" is, as Matthew Arnold says, the end and office of true criticism, Mr. Whipple, we think, is in literary matters fairly entitled to the distinction we have mentioned; and although we are far from having in this country such critics as Taine, or St. Beuve, or even Arnold himself, it is one which, in these days of improved and improving literary taste among Americans, is real and desirable.
The essays in the present volume, written originally to be delivered as lectures before the Lowell Institute, and then published during the years 1867 and 1868 in the Atlantic Monthly, are upon those subjects in which he is most at home, and appears always at his best. He is an enthusiastic and thoroughly appreciative student of English literature, and though, as the authors and the works which form the topics of these essays have been long ago thoroughly discussed by such critics as Lamb, Hazlitt, and Leigh Hunt, the critical scholar will find but little strikingly new in the book, he cannot fail to derive pleasure and profit from many things in it which are preëminently suggestive, and from the greater clearness and precision which many of his previous ideas will gather.
The most striking characteristic of Mr. Whipple in these essays is the masterly manner in which he connects the work with the author. He deals less with words than with things; less even with ideas than with mind. He presents to us especially the mental characteristics, the habits of thought and feeling—in a word, the inner self of the author of whom he is treating. From a careful study of the works he has traced the man, and he gives us now the result; and using the works for illustration and proof, asks us if they are not the expression of the individual character which he has drawn. Thus, it is the arrogant and conceited Jonson, the bitter and misanthropic Marston, the "one-souled, myriad-minded" Shakespeare, rather than arrogance, misanthropy, or universality in their writings, that he portrays by his criticism.
The book manifests also Mr. Whipple's usual independence, which prevents him from becoming the slavish admirer of any author, however great, and his innate love of moral purity, which he shows especially in his criticisms upon the dramatists.
Its style is marked by that wonderful control of language and facility of expression for which Mr. Whipple has always been distinguished. But we think it bears evidence of the object for which the essays were originally prepared—delivery as popular lectures. Such a sentence as we give below seems to us to detract from the dignity of style which we might rightfully expect in the author. Referring to Jonson's brief occupation as a mason, Mr. Whipple says:
"We have no means of deciding whether or not Ben was foolish enough to look upon his trade as degrading; that it was distasteful we know, from the fact that he soon exchanged the trowel for the sword, and we hear no more of his dealing with bricks, if we may except his questionable habit of carrying too many in his hat."
Such things as this, which occur more or less frequently throughout the book, might have been advantageously omitted when Mr. Whipple transferred his essays from the judgment of a mixed audience at a lecture-hall, to that of the readers of a book which will be likely to find its way only into the hands of those who are interested in its subject. But, as a general rule, he uses allusions and anecdotes appositely and well, and gains much sprightliness and vivacity in treating of subjects which might otherwise appear somewhat dull to the general reader by witty and humorous illustrations.
He has also shown a singular felicity of expression in many phrases and figures which seem to embody the result of a careful study of the author, and by them he often succeeds in conveying in one condensed and vivid sentence more of the essential idea of his criticism than he could have done in pages of elaborate discussion. Thus, speaking of Jonson's tragedies, he says:
"They seem written with his fist."
Of Chapman he says:
"Often we feel his meaning rather than apprehend it. The imagery has the indefiniteness of distant objects seen by moonlight."
And of Spenser:
"In truth, the combining, coördinating, centralizing, fusing imagination of the highest order of genius—an imagination competent to seize and hold such a complex design as our poet contemplated, and to flash in brief and burning words details over which his description lovingly lingers—this was a power denied to Spenser. He has auroral lights in profusion, but no lightning."
Mr. Whipple's work seems to us more peculiarly valuable in the discussion of the minor dramatists and poets of the time—authors who are comparatively unknown to the general mass of readers. But these writers are neglected only on account of the great wealth of genius in which the age abounded. Their real brilliancy appears only as darkness by the side of the overpowering light of Shakespeare and Jonson, Spenser and Bacon. We hope that many will be induced by this book to cultivate an acquaintance with the works of the men of whom it treats, and we have the more expectation that this will be so from the fact that not its least praiseworthy characteristic is the care and good taste with which the extracts from these authors, by which Mr. Whipple illustrates his criticisms, have been made. We can only regret that they have been so sparingly introduced.
The author's treatment and discussion of Bacon's genius, and his claim to be the founder of the inductive philosophy, are unsatisfactory to our mind; but this subject involves a question into which it is impossible to enter in this notice.
We regret that we cannot take leave of this pleasant and on the whole admirable book without being obliged to say, that though it is by no means dangerous, it is often annoying to the Catholic reader. Mr. Whipple seems to be imbued with that prejudice and unfairness which is so common in English and American literature when alluding to the church, and in several places by slight words and phrases expresses that sneering contempt in which authors of his "liberal and tolerant" views are so apt to indulge toward those who differ from them in belief. We think, too, that in his introductory chapter he gives altogether too much prominence to the "Reformation" as a means of intellectual awakening. The so-called Reformation may indeed have been partially, and in a peculiar sense, a result of the intellectual ferment of the time—an unhappy and deplorable result—but it was not one of its causes, as the author seems to think. Those lie further back, in those other great events which Mr. Whipple names—the revival of classical learning, the invention of printing, and the discovery of America; events which he and his class of writers would do well often to remind themselves were brought about by loyal and devout Catholics.
The writings of Madame Swetchine. Edited by Count de Falloux of the French Academy. Translated by H. W. Preston. New York: The Catholic Publication Society, 126 Nassau street. 1869.
The Life and Letters of Madame Swetchine, published some eighteen months since, might dispense us from any more special mention of her Writings than to say that she is in both works well and eloquently portrayed as a character "destined to hold a front place among the most powerful, original, pure, and fascinating revealed in all history."
Madame Swetchine was of aristocratic birth, very wealthy, accomplished, and even learned. Better than all these, she was liberal in ideas, the friend of the poor and lowly, modest, humble, and pious. The greatest minds of the age—De Maistre, De Bonald, Cuvier, Frayssinous, De Falloux, De Broglie, Lacordaire, and Montalembert—sought her friendship and hung upon her words. And yet even such homage as this never inspired her with the slightest literary vanity or worldly ambition. She wrote much, but never for publication. She never specially preserved what she wrote, never desired to. The material of the book before us, collected after her death by her executor, Count de Falloux, of the French Academy, was written without any fixed plan, at various periods, upon loose leaves in a rapid, illegible hand, most of it in pencil. The manuscript was distributed among several of her literary friends, with whom it was a labor of love to arrange and prepare it for the press.
Rarely has unpublished writing had so bright a constellation of posthumous interpreters. The "Thoughts" are arranged by the Abbé de Cazalès and Count Jules de Berton; "Old Age," by Count Paul Resseguier; "Resignation," by Count Albert De Resseguier and Prince A. Galitzin.
The general title "Writings" is eminently proper here, as Madame Swetchine never entertained the premeditation implied by the term "works." They are marked by a knowledge of the world, a philosophical range of thought, a purity of soul, and an elevation of piety rarely united in one person. Here are a few of her scattered "Thoughts," which we take almost at random:
"Loyalty is patriotism simplified."
"I like people to be saints; but I want them to be first, and superlatively, honest men."
"The root of sanctity is sanity. A man must be healthy before he can be holy. We bathe first, and then perfume."
"We forgive too little—forget too much."
"Good is slow; it climbs. Evil is swift; it descends. Why should we marvel that it makes great progress in a short time?"
"We must labor unceasingly to render our piety reasonable, and our reason pious."
"Years do not make sages; they only make old men."
"Antiquity is a species of aristocracy with which it is not easy to be on visiting terms."
"The choicest of the public are not always the public choice."
"The inventory of my faith for this lower world is soon made out. I believe in Him who made it."
"I allow the Catholic only one right; that, namely, of being a better man than others."
"Only those faults which we encounter in ourselves are insufferable to us in others."
"A vast number of attachments subsist on the common hatred of a third person."
The treatise on old age is a classic Christian De Senectute, with an elevation and morality impossible to Cicero.
The Airelles (flowers that ripen under the snow) are a series of beautiful reflections, as remarkable for their strength as for their delicacy. They are utterances which sprang from Madame Swetchine's own heart, but reached no other; impressions which clothed themselves in images to people her solitude. Here are a few which we select with hesitation, as we must necessarily confine our choice to the shortest:
"To have ideas is to gather flowers. To think is to weave them into garlands."
"Our vanity is the constant enemy of our dignity."
"The chains which cramp us most are those which weigh on us least."
"O widow's mite! why hast thou not, in human balances, the immense weight which celestial pity accords thee?"
"Travel is the frivolous part of serious lives, and the serious part of frivolous ones."
"We are always looking into the future, but we see only the past."
"We are often prophets to others only because we are our own historians."
"We are early struck by bold conceptions and brilliant thoughts; later, we learn to appreciate natural grace and the charm of simplicity. In early youth, we are hardly sensible of any but very lively emotions. All that is not dazzling appears dull; all that is not affecting, cold. Conspicuous beauties overshadow those which must be sought; and the mind, in its haste to enjoy, demands facile pleasures. Ripe age inspires us with other thoughts. We retrace our steps; taste critically what, before, we devoured; study, and make discoveries; and the ray of light, decomposed under our hands, yields a thousand shades for one color."
"Slavery, for example. Christianity has no need to ordain its abolition—it inspires it; and that is enough for the man who would be governed by the spirit of Christ. It is the imperfect reception of Christianity in the soul which allows slavery to continue; and truth has made no progress unless human bondage has been rendered impossible by its advance. To combat slavery solely from a philanthropic point of view, is too often to lose one's labor, for lust and cupidity mount guard over the system; but to encourage, develop, and stimulate the moral element most antagonistic to human bondage is to accelerate the chances of emancipation, and to multiply them a hundred-fold."
There are various other chapters, comprising a remarkable range of subjects—on the soul, the intellect, on nature, courtesy, music, the fine arts, on resignation, the world, the affections, etc.
The translation is well executed by Miss Harriet W. Preston, and the typography and paper are excellent.
Catholic Doctrine, as defined by the Council of Trent, expounded in a Series of Conferences, delivered in Geneva. By the Rev. A. Nampon, S.J. Proposed as a means of reuniting all Christians. Translated from the French, with the approbation of the author, by a member of the University of Oxford. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. 1869.
We know of no work recently issued by the American Catholic press whose appearance we more cordially welcome than this of Father Nampon's, Catholic Doctrine, as defined by the Council of Trent. It is truly a book for the times; and we unite with the most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore, whose approbation, together with that of the Archbishops of New York and Cincinnati, and of the Bishop of Philadelphia, it bears, in expressing the conviction that "it is well calculated to do a great amount of good," and the "hope that it may be extensively circulated." When the illustrious Bossuet gave to the world his incomparable work on Catholic doctrine in contrast with "Protestant Variations," Protestantism was but in its seed-time; and the harvest of errors, which it has since so abundantly brought forth, had scarcely begun to show itself. Since then, to use the words of the author of the book before us, "How many new variations and divisions have appeared among Protestants! What ruins has the explosion of rationalism scattered on that desolated plain! And what weakness has been produced in that which yet remains among them of Christian belief! How many doctrines, at that time respected, are now thrown aside with contempt in the exercise of private judgment! How much has the authority of Scripture been shaken! To what an extent have the sublime mysteries of the Trinity, the Incarnation, and, indeed, all mystery, all notions of the supernatural, become, in the eyes of an ever-increasing number of those who heretofore were Christians, superannuated, absurd, mythological ideas!"
But the author of the present volume does not propose to himself to add to the work of the great Bossuet—to be a continuator of the history of the variations. He adopts a different method. Translating and setting before the reader the definitions and decrees of the sacred Council of Trent, whose work was called forth by, and mainly directed against the errors of the so-called Reformers, or to which their revolt against the church's authority had given rise, he first expounds the true Catholic doctrine impugned by them, and then contrasts with it the ever-varying opinions and fading beliefs which they undertook to substitute for that doctrine. And this is done so clearly and eloquently, and yet so kindly withal, that his book may be specially commended to the Protestant reader, as one wherein he will find Catholic doctrine set forth in its verity, and Protestant error in its deformity, without occasion given to take offence. May it fall into the hands of many such readers; and may its perusal be to them, as was happily the case with the excellent translator of the book, the occasion of their recognizing the verity of Catholic doctrine, and of their conversion to the Catholic Church!
The volume is got out in a handsome dress, as are all of Mr. Cunningham's later publications.
Man in Genesis and in Geology; or, The Biblical Account of Man's Creation, Tested by Scientific Theories of his Origin and Antiquity. By Joseph P. Thompson, D.D., LL.D. New-York: Samuel R. Wells, 389 Broadway. 1870.
This is a short treatise of considerable value, showing both research and a power of clear reasoning on the part of the author. To a very great extent we concur with his conclusions and opinions, and altogether in his estimate of the importance and utility of such investigations. The student of biblical science will find his book useful to a greater extent than its unpretending size and appearance would indicate; and its general effect, so far as it is circulated in the ordinary reading community, must be wholesome, as furnishing an antidote to the pseudo-scientific trash which is such a common article of intellectual diet in our day. The lack of a sufficient authority to define what is revealed with certainty prevents the author from affirming with due assurance some revealed verities, such as the unity of the race, and brings down his argument too much to a mere balancing of probabilities, a defect which is inherent in modern popular theology and philosophy. He makes also an over-estimate of the value of material progress in itself, and its effect on the sum of human happiness. Like most Protestant ministers, he is unable to keep from betraying his uneasiness in regard to Protestantism by bringing in the confident but groundless and unproved assertion that it is the mainspring of all modern civilization, science, and progress. Dr. Ewer has fully shown the fallacy of all such assumptions, which, at all events, are quite irrelevant to Genesis and geology, and would be more appropriately put forth by the author in his sermons than in a scientific treatise. There are other things which are out of keeping with the solid, scholarly character of the best portion of the book, betraying haste and a lack of care and finish in the composition. With these deductions, we gladly acknowledge our obligations to the learned author for a really valuable contribution to sacred literature.
A Critique upon Mr. Ffoulkes's Letter. By H. I. D. Ryder, of the Oratory. London: Longmans.
Mr. Ffoulkes's unfortunate pamphlet is completely pulverized by this short, pithy, and complete reply. Dr. Ward and F. Bottalla have also performed the same task, each in his own way, and we cannot but commiserate any one who falls into the hands of such a trio. We look upon Mr. Ffoulkes as a man who has some very good points, and who has shown a temper of mind and heart inclining us to judge his mistakes very leniently. His pamphlet is tedious, crude, inconsistent, and utterly without any logical or historical basis. It is, nevertheless, a fair reflex of the state of mind in which many Anglicans are at present detained, so that it is well calculated to do a great amount of mischief. Refutations of it are, therefore, not a superfluous work, but a very useful one. We are glad that F. Ryder has answered Mr. Ffoulkes, for the reason above given; but, apart from this, we are glad to see any thing on theological topics from his pen. In our opinion he has shown more of the true genius of theology than any other of the rising young authors in the Catholic Church of England, except, perhaps, Fr. Bottalla, who is without his equal in his manner of handling the controversy respecting the papal supremacy. F. Ryder is a deep student in certain departments of theology which lie below the surface presented in the common text-books; he is uncommonly discriminating and judicious, and possesses a fine tact which enables him to feel the seat and nature of the errors and misconceptions in the English mind most in need of skilful handling. We hope, therefore, that his pen may be employed as frequently as possible on theological topics.
The Intelligence of Animals, with Illustrative Anecdotes. From the French of Ernest Menault. With Illustrations. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1869. 1 vol. 16mo.
This is a most interesting work, and is one of the volumes of the "Illustrated Library of Wonders," the previous ones of which have been noticed in our pages. The information given in this little book about insects and animals is highly interesting, and if heeded there would be less need of "societies for the protection of animals." In the preface, the author very justly remarks that "The marvels of animal intelligence claim now more than ever the attention of observers. Without admitting, like some people, that we came from a quadruped; without approving the beast-worship of the Egyptians; we believe that most animals which crawl or walk on the earth, or fly in the air, form communities like ourselves. We believe that the lower animals possess, in a certain degree, the faculties of man, and that our inferior brothers, as St. Francis of Assisi calls them, preceded us on earth." The illustrations are good, and apropos to the subjects.
Seen and Heard. Poems, or the Like. By Morrison Heady. Baltimore: Henry C. Turnbull, Jr. 1869.
Criticism is disarmed on taking up the literary productions of an author who has suffered under almost total loss of sight and hearing since the age of sixteen. That under this double deprivation he should have produced poetry marked by so many vivid passages of description, is truly remarkable. No wonder that he feelingly seizes on the fine invocation passage of Young in his Night Thoughts: