The extraordinary events of the life of Sixtus V. were the result of his wonderful energy and persistency. People like decision of character—a man with a purpose, and the ability of putting it into execution. This is why all admirers of “self-made” men like to retrace the upward steps of the life of this eminent pope, from the rustic boyhood of Felice Peretti on the shores of the Adriatic; his thirst for knowledge that impelled him to study by the lamp of the sanctuary; his girding himself with the cord of the humble Francis while yet a mere boy; his career as a young friar-preacher, drawing crowded Roman audiences to listen to his fervid eloquence, among them such men as S. Ignatius de Loyola and S. Philip Neri; his promotion to a cardinalship by a sainted pope who was his benefactor, and whose last moments he had the happiness of witnessing; his temporary retirement to his villa, where he gave himself up to quiet observation of the needs of the times, especially of his own country, the study of architecture and the improvements needed in Rome, and all those pursuits which tended to fit him for his subsequent elevation to the papacy. Sixtus V. did not look upon his success in life as solely due to his own merit. He recognized the finger of Divine Providence, and chose as his motto: “Thou, O God, hast been my defender, even from my mother's womb.”

The Life of Sixtus V. by Baron HÜbner, though written from a Catholic point of view, is acknowledged by the Edinburgh Review to be one of the most valuable contributions to the literature of the age, so rich in historical biography. Its superiority to the previous lives of that pope is partly due to his access to the archives of Simancas, not open to research at the time of Ranke. Though the pontificate of Sixtus V. was only about five years long, it embraced a rapid succession of extraordinary and tragical events, as is evident when we remember he was contemporary with Queen Elizabeth of England, Mary Queen of Scots, Philip II. of Spain, and Henry of Navarre, whose names recall the persecution of the Church in England, the execution of Mary Stuart, the Armada, the overthrow of the League, and the accession of Henri Quatre to the throne of France, and show us what a weight of responsibility rested upon the Head of the Church. No wonder he was soon worn out by the pressure. The tiara is but a thorny crown at the best, as befits him who stands in Christ's stead. The very condition of the Pontifical States was an affair of no slight difficulty. Only a man of extraordinary energy and decision of character could have surmounted it. Sixtus V. has been called pitiless from the terrible punishments he inflicted for apparently trivial offences, but he was personally humane, for at the murder of his nephew he was the first to entreat the pope (Sixtus being at that time Cardinal Montalto) to drop his investigations, and when he had cleared the Roman States of brigandage, he endeavored to conciliate the nobles. His inflexible severity seemed imperiously demanded. Twenty-seven thousand brigands ravaged his dominions; the castles of noblemen were their strongholds; they were protected by neighboring princes; and the very streets of Rome often witnessed the attacks of peaceful citizens by armed bands. Sixtus himself when a cardinal had nearly lost his life in encountering a band of lawless young nobles as he was going home one night. He saw the absolute necessity of putting an end to such disorders and the terror of the inhabitants. Accordingly, one of his first acts after his election was to forbid the carrying of fire-arms in the streets, and, when he found his order disobeyed by four young men, he had them hung the very next morning.

But he was strictly impartial in administering justice. No clerical offender was screened by the sacredness of his garments. The friar who imposed on the piety of the faithful was scourged from one end of the Corso to the other; the cardinal who was desirous of protecting a guilty servant was threatened with the Castle of St. Angelo; the traitor-priest who gave Queen Elizabeth information of what was occurring at Rome was executed in such a manner as to strike terror into every treacherous breast. No wonder Sixtus became a terror to evil doers, and his very name sufficed to put an end to the brawls in the streets. The time arrived when he could say with grim humor: “Fugit impius nemine persequente”—“The wicked flee when no man pursueth.”

Sixtus V. left proofs of his genius and energy all over Rome. He kept thousands of men constantly employed. The [pg 569] dome of S. Peter's was completed in twenty-two months, though the architect said it would require ten years. He restored a colossal aqueduct that had fallen to ruin, and brought the Acqua Felice into Rome from a distance of about twenty miles. He opened great thoroughfares all through the city, built the Lateran Palace, erected monuments, undertook to drain the Pontine Marshes, encouraged agriculture and the manufacture of silk, established the Congregation of Rites and several others, limited the number of cardinals to seventy, and partly revised the Vulgate with his own hand. His practical nature by no means made him insensible to softer influences. His soul was so alive to music that at the exciting time of his election he lent an ear to Palestrina's music hastily composed for the occasion, and remarked that Pierluigi had forgotten Pope Marcello's Mass—a criticism that mortified the great composer, but which has since been acknowledged to be true.

He won the gratitude of the Israelites by his favor. Amazed Rome saw a Gentile actually scourged on the Corso for insulting a member of that ancient race. To another Israelite was granted special privileges for his success in increasing the production of silk.

Col. Meline's book is not a literal translation of Baron HÜbner's Life of Sixtus V.: it is rather a rÉsumÉ, as the preface explains. It consists of three parts: the first reviews the life of that pope, giving such details as are of interest to the general reader; the second portrays the experience of a Transalpine traveller to Rome three centuries ago; and the third is a vivid picture of Rome at that time: the whole being an improved edition of three essays already given to the public.

The readers of The Catholic World are already too familiar with Mr. Meline's felicitous style and his power of analysis to require any commendation on our part. And to the public at large he has recommended himself by his chivalrous defence of Mary, Queen of Scots. The strong lance he has wielded in the defence of her fair name against that doughty writer of fiction, Mr. James Anthony Froude, has been too universally applauded not to secure a general welcome to whatever comes from his able pen.

The enthusiastic author of this charming little story has succeeded in presenting much logic which is usually dull, in very attractive attire. The arguments and conclusions are so wonderfully clear, that it is to be hoped the book will fall frequently into the hands of the class most in need of it, but, alas! least likely to read it. There is in it much of quiet humor which is irresistible and very “telling”; as, for instance, when to the question, “What Catholic books have you read, sir?” the sturdy Methodist, Abner White, replies: “Fox's Book of Martyrs, Maria Monk, Six Months in a Convent, Romanism at Home, Priest and Nun, etc.” And again, in the interview between Aunt Ruth and the committee of Methodist ladies who had come to wait upon her after her husband's conversion, human nature, and especially Methodist nature, is painted with a very clever pen. Who has not known just such spinsters as Miss Nancy and Miss Sarah? And what a keen dash is this:

“ ‘Then we shall report that you choose to follow your husband, rather than the goodly rules of our Methodist discipline?’

“ ‘I shall go with my husband certainly,’ was the firm, respectful answer.

“ ‘And may God have mercy on your soul,’ solemnly added the spinster, as if addressing a person about to be hanged.

“ ‘Thank you!’ absently and innocently responded the quiet Quakeress.

“ ‘I suppose, then, we need not even pray for you?’ said one.

“ ‘You always was a little queer, Sister White, you and Brother White, too, now that we come to think it over,’ said another.

“ ‘Extremely odd it is for one to lose all sense of propriety, and assume the responsibility of such a fearful step,’ rapidly spoke little Sarah.

“ ‘We pity you, and would help you, but you won't let us,’ was Mrs. Sand's trembling good-by.

“ ‘We wash our hands of all sin in this matter. It lies at your own door,’ were the last consolatory words of Miss Nancy.”

Many another reader might say with Myrrha, “When I took up that small book called A General Catechism of the [pg 570]Christian Doctrine, I little dreamed upon what a study I had entered. Again, after reading it through, I as little dreamed upon what a sea of speculation I had launched.” May the result of such reading prove as fruitful of good to all readers as to Myrrha! But such results seem to happen oftener in books than in real, selfish life. The best of this story is its ending, which, this time, is neither marriage nor death for the lovers.

Rarely, indeed, have we met a work whose author exhibits so many of the qualities indespensable in a good novelist, as the one under consideration. Artistic in conception, pure and elevated in style, it is withal faultless in tone and sentiment.

It is not our purpose to give an outline of the plot of this tale, or to enlarge on the actors through whom it is evolved, but we shall confine ourselves to some observations on certain characteristics of the writer as developed in her work.

The author manifests a high degree of insight and the Æsthetic sense, an intimate knowledge of feminine nature, and more of that of the opposite sex than its members may dream of—in acquiring which the delicate intuitions of her own sex doubtless serve a better purpose than the mere logic and learning of ours. Although the story introduces the reader into the highest social circles, and its incidents are of the most absorbing interest, there is no sacrifice of the dramatic unities, or any departure from the essential simplicity of the narrative. This severity of style, we may say, is at once the most winning quality of a work of genius, and the best test of its success; making the latter dependent on inherent excellence, rather than adventitious aids. In works of this character, art in letters reaches its highest development—that in which it becomes the most natural.

A noticeable feature is the epigrammatic conciseness with which a sentiment or description is finished. The reader is never wearied with platitudes or over-minuteness of limning. Whatever idea occurs to the writer which she is willing to share with the reader is expressed in the fewest possible words. Is a scene to be presented to the mind's eye?—a few touches of the artist's pencil bring it vividly before us. The reader finds himself moved alternately to mirthfulness, or tears, or astonishment, as he encounters an unexpected bit of humor, and exquisite burst of pathos, or some reflection almost startling in depth or suggestiveness. Some passages are open to obvious inference, while others constitute studies if we would probe their philosophy. It was a question with those who watched the serial progress of the story, how the author could bring order and harmony out of the complications in which she had involved her principal characters; and the way this has been accomplished will be acknowledged as not the least of her achievements. No characters are interchanged or lose their identity. Each acts his part as naturally, and retains his individuality, as in real life; so that, when the dramatis personÆ are at length summoned to the footlights for a final adieu, we feel inclined to protest, in the name of all the delighted auditors, against the call, as a premature termination of a very pleasant intercourse.

The reception Fleurange has met with thus far is very flattering. It has commended itself to the favorable judgment of the London Saturday Review, and other authorities of like critical acumen; has been crowned by the French Academy; and received the general approval of the press and public, so far as we have learned, while passing through the pages of Le Correspondant and The Catholic World. We know of no recent imaginative work of which we could speak in terms of more unqualified approbation, or better deserving a permanent place in our literature, both as a work of art and for the sound principles by which it is pervaded and informed.

On the translation, we do not know that we could bestow higher praise than to say that it reads like an original work of the first order; while we are convinced that it is a faithful and conscientious rendering from the French text.

“If the Ireland of early times is ever understood, it will not be till after thoughtful men have deemed her legends worthy of their serious attention.” This [pg 571] remark Mr. De Vere makes in his preface, and not until we had read through his Legends did we fully realize its truth. It is a most certain fact that the twilight of Irish history can be changed into day only by the profound study of its legendary lore. We have read several lives of S. Patrick, and more than one history of Ireland have we studied, but from none of them did we get so clear an insight into the character of the saint and the genius of his people as from Mr. De Vere's Legends, few and short though they be.

The subjects are beautiful and poetic, and the author's conception of them lofty and spiritual. There is indeed a sacred melody about early Irish song which only a spiritual bard can evoke. Chords there are in Erin's ancient harp which a hand of mere flesh and blood may not touch. Mr. De Vere has sung those songs; he has touched these chords, and they have given forth their true melody. It is not to his beautiful diction and varying metres, it is not to his wonderful descriptive powers and high poetic gifts, that we attribute this success, but it is to those two passions of his soul which impress themselves on all that he writes—love of God and love of Ireland. And here an opportunity is afforded us of speaking of Mr. De Vere as the poet of Ireland. That he is far superior to any Irish poet of the present day is beyond all question, and that his equal, in everything save popularity, to any English poet of the day is a verdict competent judges have not hesitated to give.

We often ask ourselves, How is it, then, he is so little known and read by his countrymen in America? For twenty years he has scorned “the siren's tinsel lure,” and devoted all his talents to sounding the praises of Ireland and of Ireland's Catholicity. His sole aim through life has been to enshrine Ireland's faith and Ireland's song in the temple of fame. Patriotism is his only incentive to labor; he seems indifferent to popularity, and perhaps this is one reason why he enjoys so little. But there are other reasons, we think, and they also are in his favor. Mr. De Vere is too polished, too thoughtful, and too spiritual to be a popular poet.

If he would descend from his high poetic ideal to sing love songs, he would soon be popular; but he will never prove a recreant bard. Those for whom he has so long and so faithfully labored must disenthrall themselves from the spirit of the age, and ascend to his level; then will they find in him all they can desire, and proclaim him their laureate. They will not find in him, it is true, the inimitable sweetness of Moore or the poetic fire of Davis, but they will find in him the patriotism of both, a polish superior to either, and, over all and above all, they will find a muse ennobled by the highest sentiments of religion and morality.

This little volume will be found to contain not only some of the most forcible arguments for Christianity that have ever been advanced, but particularly a collection (in the first chapter) of testimonials from ancient heathendom to what is only realized in Christ and his religion. Nothing can be more interesting, surely, than the study of the great tradition of expectation which fulfilled the prophecy of the dying Israel: “And He shall be the expectation of the nations” (Gen. xlix. 10). Our noble author opens his first chapter with this sentence: “From the east to the west, from the north to the south, in every language, in the literature of all nations, with a voice spontaneous, universal, and unanimous, the entire human race cried aloud for the coming of a Divine Teacher.” And when we have delightedly perused this first chapter, we as heartily endorse its concluding sentence: “This we believe to have most clearly demonstrated that, ... with one voice, unanimous, spontaneous, and universal, the human race cried out for the coming of a God of revelation.”

The work is designed for a defence of Christianity against the infidelity of the day. And we think it a most able and a singularly attractive one. Let our young men especially read it. It will make them a match for any sceptical show of learning.

Recent converts and inquirers after religious [pg 572] truth frequently experience some difficulty in understanding the ceremonies of the church and the various devotional practices of Catholics. We know of no more suitable book to place in the hands of such persons than this little treatise of Canon Oakeley. It is concise, clear, and methodical. Nothing is left unexplained, from the practice of taking holy water upon entering the church to the consecration of a bishop. This book will be found to be of great use not only to converts, but to Catholics in general, containing as it does a thoroughly reliable explanation of everything connected with our worship. This second edition is an evidence of the favor with which it has been received by the Catholic public.

This modest volume is from the author whose translations from Dante, that have appeared in our magazine, are attracting deserved attention.

Mr. Parsons' powers as a lyric poet are considerable. His verse has, for the most part, the easy and often careless diction of a school which many think gone out, but which we believe destined to revive. Yet here and there we see the influence of Tennyson. The lines, “To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,” are in the latter style. For strength his sonnets are his best efforts. We wish he had favored us with more of them.

There is ample variety in the pieces collected. The poet has travelled much. “The Shadow of the Obelisk” sets us musing in Rome. “The Birthplace of Robert Burns” takes us to “bonnie Scotland.” “St. James' Park” tells us the writer has philosophized in London. While the “Willey House,” “On the Death of Daniel Webster,” and “Hudson River” are themes from his native America. The lines, “On a Magnolia Flower,” are fragrant with the South—the pale, sad South—and one of the gems of the book.

Mr. Parsons is a Unitarian, as he takes care to indicate; but, like Longfellow, he has Catholic sympathies. However, there is one short translation from Dante, entitled “A Lesson for Easter,” the last two lines of which seem to talk Protestantism:

But the preceding lines should throw light on the Catholic poet's meaning:

All this is unmistakable orthodoxy; and, therefore, the two lines quoted, which come next, speak of the evidence of the Old and the New Testament for the “one Fold and one Shepherd” and the infallible “Leader.”

We conclude by hoping that Mr. Parsons will vouchsafe us another volume of minor poems, and especially of sonnets.

The indefatigable Nun of Kenmare could not have employed her pen on a worthier subject than the life and labors of the Apostle of Temperance. She will have accomplished a great end if this work serves to keep green in the hearts of her countrymen and of all Catholics the memory of one who accomplished more good than many who possessed more brilliant abilities, yet who neglected to employ their talents in that usurious activity which wins a blessing.

This, as well as the preceding work, belongs to a series of publications by the same author, embracing religious, historical, and miscellaneous books, which have attained an extraordinary popularity in the old country and in the United States.

This work has been compiled “for the use of colleges, schools, and families.” It contains short biographical sketches of the principal characters of history, together with chronological tables. The subjects are for the most part well selected, and, as far as we have read, are well and correctly treated. The style of the [pg 573] author is terse and vigorous, and well adapted to this kind of composition.

The printing is excellent, the binding neat, but the figure in the frontispiece has suffered not a little at the hands of the artist—an accident which mars somewhat the general appearance of the book.

Our readers have already had a sufficient taste of this author's quality in “The Progressionists,” now going through our pages, to desire the further treat to be found in the new products of his pen. We do not recall any series of fictitious writings, designed to combat vicious principles and actions, more admirable as specimens of vigorous and effective composition. The most obtuse progressionist could scarcely fail to comprehend the drift of the underlying argument, while the more fastidious reader will be carried along by the interest of the tale through which it is conveyed. Father Noethen is performing an acceptable service in making these works known to the English reader.

Bolanden's works fairly palpitate with the gravity of themes of living interest. The new German Government, the burthen of the present tale, has given evidence of their telling effect by ordering their suppression.

Geraldine was one of the first successful religious novels which followed the revival of Catholic doctrine in England, and bids fair to hold its own for many a year to come. It enjoys a wider reputation than either of Miss Agnew's other works, one of which, Rome and the Abbey, forms a sequel to this.

Mr. O'Shea also issues a reprint of Cardinal Wiseman's Lectures on the Connection between Science and Revealed Religion; intended, apparently, as the commencement of an uniform series of the great author's works.

It is to be regretted that this work had not undergone a thorough revision by some competent hand before its reappearance, in order to adapt it to the present state of scientific investigation. Although true science can never be out of harmony with revelation, its successive developments may enable us to see the conditions of that harmony and relation in a clearer light than when the Lectures were originally published.

This work is already known to many readers in the presentation edition issued by the Messrs. Sadlier some years since, and the recent English edition of which the above is a fac-simile. We are glad to see an edition like this made accessible to the great body of readers, though the fire in which the publisher was involved, will interfere for a time with that consummation. It has a number of pictorial illustrations, and there are appended the letters apostolic concerning the dogmatic definition of the Immaculate Conception.

Liza is another work from the pen of M. Turgenieff, the distinguished Russian novelist, several of whose works are already familiar to us. His quiet sarcasm in depicting the Russian of the old school, who needs no scratching to reveal the genuine Tartar—crafty and brutal, but with a kindly streak withal—and the Russian of the present generation who has imbibed foreign habits and theories by no means elevating, is admirably calculated to correct the evils of a transition state of society. The former affords us two affecting pictures in this book of women of repressed lives, who humbly kiss with their dying lips the hand that has crushed them. One of them leaves a young son, Fedor Lavretsky, who never forgets his pale and gentle mother, who in turn hardly dared caress him for fear of the sharp eyes and cutting tongue of her sister-in-law, Glafira, who had taken charge of the child. He is brought up under a system of repression, and, when his father dies, he goes to Moscow determined to repair the defects of his education. There he falls in love with the face of a beautiful girl who regards him as a schÖne Partie and marries him. He gives himself up to the happiness of his new life, and is induced by his wife to leave his estate, and, after various changes, to go to Paris, where admiration seems to have intoxicated her. Fedor, becoming aware of her real character, settles an annuity [pg 574] on her, leaves her, and returns to his native land. He cannot bear, however, to go to his own seat where he passed the first happy days of his married life, but betakes himself to his aunt's place—the stern Glafira, who had died during his absence. The desolate house is once more opened, and he stands alone in the room where she breathed her last, and looks with softened heart on the sacred icons in their gilded frames in the corner, and the worn carpet, covered with drippings from the wax candles she had burned before them, and on which she had knelt to pray. His old servant waits on him, he drinks tea out of the great cup he had used in his boyhood, looks over the large book full of mysterious pictures which he had found so wondrous in childish days. Everything recalls the earlier remembrances of his life. “On a woman's love my best years have been wasted,” thought he.

Going to pay his respects to his great-aunt, who is admirably drawn with a few vivid touches, he meets with Liza, whom he left a child, but is now nineteen years of age. There is a natural grace about her person; her face is pale, but fresh; her eyes lustrous and thoughtful, her smile fascinating, but grave, and she has a frank, innocent way of looking you directly in the face. Lavretsky is instantly struck with her appearance, and the impression is deepened the oftener he sees her. Liza's mother is one of those women, qui n'a pas inventÉ la poudre, la bonne daÌne, as one of her visitors ungratefully remarks. Her daughter owes the elevation and purify of her character to the nurse of her childhood, who gave herself up to penitential observances. Instead of nursery tales, she told Liza of the Blessed Virgin, the holy hermits who had been fed in their caves by the birds, and the female martyrs from whose blood sprang up sweet flowers. She used to speak of these things seriously and humbly, as if unworthy to utter such high and holy names, and Liza sat at her feet with reverent awe drinking in the holy influences of her words. Aglafia also taught her to pray, and took her at early dawn to the matin service. Liza grew up thoroughly penetrated with a sense of duty, loving everybody, but loving God supremely and with tender enthusiasm. Till Lavretsky came, no one had troubled the calmness of her inner life.

After some time, learning through a newspaper that his wife is dead, he confesses his love to Liza. She feels drawn towards him, her heart seems to respond to his love, but it is hardly with genuine passion; it is rather the agitation of a lily too rudely stirred by the breeze. Not that she has no depth of feeling; but, as she afterwards acknowledges, when she did indulge in hopes of happiness, her heart shuddered within her. Love seemed almost a profanation, as if a stranger had entered her pure maiden chamber.

Suddenly, the wife, supposed to be dead, reappears. It is all a mistake. Her husband is stunned. He feels he can never give back his love to one who has no longer his respect. And Liza is lost to him. After several attempts, he sees her again. Her eyes have grown dimmer and sunken, her face is pale, and her lips have lost their color. She implores him to be reconciled to his wife, and they part without her allowing her hand to meet his.

Six months later, Liza takes the veil in a remote convent in Russia. The Greek as well as the Latin convent seems to be the ideal refuge of startled innocence and purity. Once Lavretsky goes there, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He sees her as she is leaving the choir. She passes close by him with the quick, noiseless step of a nun, but keeps steadily on without looking at him. But he sees the almost imperceptible tremor of her eye; she bends her emaciated face still lower, and the hands that hold the rosary are clasped more tightly together.

But the chief value of M. Turgenieff's novels to a Catholic lies not in the stories themselves certainly, but in the delightful pictures of Russian life and manners they present, and the influence they have had in softening the rugged manners of the north and changing the condition of the serfs.

This little book contains a tolerably full account of all that is known about the moon, and that is of interest to the general reader. Our knowledge of our [pg 575] satellite is in some respects hardly equal to that which we have recently acquired of the much more distant sun; though so near, comparatively, to us, it is still too far away for the telescope ever to give us as clear a view of it as we need; and the spectroscope is of little use in its examination. We shall never know much about it, and especially about its other side, unless we go to see it; and a trip to the moon, chimerical as it may seem, may not always remain an impossibility for some adventurous person who is willing to run his chance of finding in the apparently uncomfortable little place the necessary conditions for human life. However, not a few of us will be content with the information given in this book, which is vastly greater than what most persons would probably acquire by examining the moon with the finest telescope; for a telescope is of little service to one unaccustomed to use it, and few things are more provoking to an experienced moon-gazer than evident failure of others to see what seems to him so plain. To those, then, who really wish to get a good idea of the moon, and especially of its physical constitution and probable scenery, in really the most satisfactory way, this little volume, notwithstanding a few slight inaccuracies (such as the placing of Petit's bolide at 9,000,000 miles from the earth), will be quite interesting and valuable. These inaccuracies, if in the original, should have been corrected in the translation.

Dr. Crosby introduces this really able and valuable essay with a just and manly rebuke of the unparalleled absurdity and impudence of our modern materialistic scientists; and it is high time for him, considering what balderdash he is obliged to listen to from his chancellor's chair. The essay of Mr. Leifchild is a series of arguments on the topics of natural theology, in which some of the principal manifestations of the power and wisdom of God in the physical world are pointed out and referred to their true cause and end. The author most absurdly saws off the limb of the tree on which grows all the fruit he admires so much and gathers so carefully, by denying the value of metaphysics. But, in spite of that, his sound mind holds implicitly the very metaphysics he ignorantly despises, and he is therefore able to reason very well and conclusively. Most persons who read books of this kind are more ready to listen to a geologist teaching theology than to a professed theologian, and they prefer the roundabout method of coming to a point by induction to the straight road of logical deduction. This book is likely to be useful, therefore, and is, besides, printed in very clear, legible type, which makes it a pleasant book to read, though laboring under the sad inconvenience of having neither index nor table of contents. There are a good many interesting facts and statements about eminent writers interspersed, e.g., Spinoza and Leibnitz; but the author is seriously mistaken in ascribing any pantheistic doctrines or tendencies to Henry Suso and Tauler. We are happy to welcome such books from English writers who are adepts in the physical sciences. For these sciences, and the men who are really masters of them, we have a great respect in their own sphere. And we consider it a very praiseworthy and useful task for men of this kind, to undertake to show the conformity of these sciences with the queen over all the scientific realm—Christian philosophy.

In this little book we have a very charming, as also very learned, exposition of mediÆval art. The Minnesinger or minstrel-knights of the latter half of the XIIth and earlier half of the XIIIth centuries are but little known outside of Germany. In this book we are introduced to the principal masters of this beautiful and ephemeral school of song, Gottfried von Strassburg, Walter von der Vogelweide, Ulrich von Lichtenstein, Hartmann von der Aue, Regenbogen, Conrad von WÜrzburg, and Henrich von Meissen, known as “Frauenlob,” or “ladies' praise.” These poets sang chiefly of religion and love. But foremost among all women, the great Mother [pg 576] of God chiefly claimed their enthusiastic homage, as we see by the long extracts given by Mr. Kroeger of some of their glorious “Hymns to the Virgin.” Here is an example, from “The Divine Minnesong,” attributed sometimes to Gottfried of Strassburg:

We have, unfortunately, no space for a selection of the beauties collected for us in this book, and can only recommend our readers to procure it for themselves. It is full of gems, and is especially welcome to us as evidence of the high degree to which the burning faith of those days had led and guided lyrical art. Hartmann von der Aue's “Poor Henry” is, so we are told, “the original of that sweet story of self-sacrifice which Longfellow has made universally known as the ‘Golden Legend,’ (p. 190).” The same hymn we have already quoted has this allusion to the “living wine of true remorse” and the following words:

Conrad von WÜrzburg, in his “Golden Smithy,” represents himself as a gold-smith working an ornament for the Queen of Heaven, and says, “If in the depth of the smithy of my heart I could melt a poem out of gold, and could enamel the gold with the glowing ruby of pure devotion, I would forge a transparent shining and sparkling praise of thy work, thou glorious Empress of Heaven.” Walter von der Vogelweide sings these grand words:

Mr. Kroeger has done a service to art, to history, and to religion in opening thus before our eyes a few of the treasures of the so-called dark ages.

This is as elegant a little paper in outward appearance as we remember to have seen. The articles are written with taste and correctness, and we offer a hearty welcome to the young gentlemen of classic Georgetown on their editorial dÉbut. We have only one piece of advice to give them, which is, to be careful that their wit and humor be as classic and scholarly as their serious pieces. Most papers, especially juvenile ones, break down on this point. We wish our young friends honor and success in their enterprise.

The Catholic Publication Society will publish in a few days Wild Times, a story by Miss Caddell.