  The Life of Demetrius Augustin Gallitzin, Prince and Priest. By Sarah M. Brownson. With an Introduction by O. A. Brownson, LL.D. New York: Pustet. 1872. Women of talent and cultivation make admirable biographers. In religious biography we know of nothing more charming than the lives written by MÈre Chauguy. In recent English literature, the Lives of Mother Margaret Mary O'Halloran, by a lady whose name is unknown to us, and of S. Jane Frances de Chantal, by Miss Emily Bowles, are among the most perfect specimens of this very agreeable species of writing which we have met with in any language. This new and carefully prepared biography of a priest who was illustrious both by birth and Christian virtue, by a lady already known as the author of several works of fiction, well deserves to be classed with the best of its kind in English Catholic literature. It is a work of thorough, patient, and conscientious labor, and for the first time adequately presents the history and character of Prince Gallitzin in their true light. Certainly, we never knew before how truly heroic and admirable a man was this Russian prince who came to pass his life as a missionary in the forests which crowned in his day the summit of the Alleghanies in Pennsylvania. The charm of a biography is found in a certain fulness and sprightliness of style and manner, a picturesqueness and ideality of ornament and coloring, a warmth and glow of sentiment, which give life and reality to the narrative. Miss Brownson still possesses the juvenile Élan which naturally finds its expression in the style we have indicated, and has also attained that sobriety and maturity of judgment which give it the rightly subdued tone and finish. In several matters of considerable delicacy which she has been obliged to handle, we think she has shown tact and discretion, while at the same time using enough of the freedom of a historian to bring out the truth of facts and events which needed to be told in order to make a veritable record and picture of the life of her subject. The prince is fortunate in his biographer. Would it were the lot of every great man in the church to find a similar one! Miss Brownson's book seems to us the best religious biography which has been written by anyone of our American Catholic authors. We would like to see more works of this sort from feminine writers, to whom we are already so much indebted for works both of the graver and the lighter [pg 713] Bibliographia Catholica Americana.A list of works written by Catholic authors and published in the United States. By Rev. Joseph M. Finotti. Part I., 1784 to 1820 inclusive. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1872. 8vo. pp. 319. It was said of Bartlett's Dictionary of Americanisms that it was the first dictionary that a man could read through with pleasure. The same in the way of bibliography may be said of this; for, if any of our readers supposes that the title tells the truth, he is mistaken. It is not a mere list, as the author modestly calls it. Some twelve years ago, Mr. Shea published in one of our Catholic papers a list of titles of “The First Catholic Books printed in this County,” coming down to the same date and including the same period as our author, and giving sixty-eight titles. This meagre beginning of American Catholic bibliography has in F. Finotti's hands grown to nearly five hundred titles, including some few imprints later than 1820. It is not merely a collection of titles of Catholic works, but of all works by Catholic authors printed in the country, with notes of the highest interest to Catholics who care at all for what was done by our fathers in the faith in this republic. Biographical notices, notices of celebrated books, accounts of controversies of the time, anecdotes illustrative of Catholic life in the earlier days, notes of Catholic printers and journalists, all find their place in these notes, in which the abundant knowledge of our earlier men and times, and things acquired by the patient and loving research of years, fairly bubble out spontaneously. It is not a history indeed, but to the historian will be invaluable as an authority and a guide. On some points this work is absolutely exhaustive. The collection of pamphlets and works growing out of the Hogan affair in Philadelphia, considering their perishable nature, is perfectly wonderful, and his library alone can enable any one to go thoroughly into the history of that unhappy matter which was destructive to so many souls. Of the writings and publications of the celebrated Mathew Carey, we have also here by far the most accurate and comprehensive account ever drawn up, comprising nearly twenty-five pages. Many will be amazed to see how many sterling Catholic books were issued early in the century, and thus be able to judge of the zeal and true religious feeling of the little body of Catholics who so generously sustained the publishers, as well as of the public spirit of a man like Bernard Dornin—in our mind, as in F. Finotti's, the type of what a Catholic publisher should be. Of him as of many other Catholics our author gives biographical notices that we should look for in vain in all the cyclopÆdias and biographical dictionaries. Book notices often end with the assertion that the book should be in every family; we hardly suppose the publishers ready to supply every Catholic family in the country with a copy, for the edition is small, and must be taken up at once. It is by no means merely a book for the Dryasdust collector or antiquarian. It must find its place in the libraries of many of our gentlemen who love their religion and love books, as well as in our college libraries. We trust that it will impel all to endeavor to have some of the early printed Catholic books, as matters of laudable pride. If they can even find some that have escaped the Argus eyes of the reverend collector and his associate book-hunters, they will, we trust, be good enough Christians to bear with equanimity even that severe trial to a bibliographer. This Bibliography commends itself to those interested in the bibliography of the country or the history of printing in the United States. In the Historical Magazine some months since there was a Bibliography of works on Unitarianism, but it was silent as to Father Kohlmann's work, and to a sermon by a Catholic clergyman of Pittsburg. So, too, Sabin's Bibliopolist recently gave a list of books printed in Brooklyn, but was silent as to a Catholic Doctrine printed there in 1817, as well as of Coate's very curious Reply to Rev. F. Richards' supposed reasons for becoming a Catholic. There is one strange point about American bibliography, and that is that the laborers in it have been almost exclusively from Europe. Ludewig gave the Bibliography of Indian Languages and that of Local History; O'Callaghan, that [pg 714] Le Liberalisme. Lecons donnees a l'Universite Laval. Par l'AbbÉ Benjamin Paquet, Docteur en Theologie, et Professeur À la FacultÉ de Theologie. Quebec: De l'Imprimerie du Canadien. Brochure, pp. 100. 1872. Lower Canada, considered both in respect to the condition of the Catholic Church therein, and to the political well-being of its people, is an eminently fortunate region, despite the rigor of its climate. It is especially pre-eminent in respect to the Catholic education given to young men of the leisured classes, and others who go through the intermediate and higher courses. Laval University is truly a splendid institution among many others which make Quebec an unique city in Northern America. These remarks are suggested by the pamphlet before us, which is a specimen of the sound and opportune instruction given at the Laval University. The Lectures contained in it give an exposition which is both learned and clear of that most important portion of the Syllabus which relates to the errors of modern liberalism condemned in the Pontifical Acts of Pius IX. When will the Catholics of the United States enjoy privileges similar to those which are the portion of the Catholics of Lower Canada? The AbbÉ Paquet's Lectures were delivered as a part of his course on the law of nature and of nations, and were attended not only by his pupils, but by a numerous and select audience, several of whom requested their publication. We have already sufficiently expressed our approbation of their doctrine and style, and they have been favorably noticed in Europe. We are confident that a considerable number of our readers will hasten to procure them, and receive great profit from their perusal. Cardinal Wiseman's Works. New Edition, first 3 vols. New York: P. O'Shea. This is a reissue of a new London edition which we most cordially commend. The first two volumes, containing the Lectures on the Connection between Science and Revealed Religion, have already been noticed in these pages. The third volume contains the splendid treatise on the Holy Eucharist. Cardinal Wiseman was a great writer, a great prelate, and a remarkably devout and holy man. His works are among our choicest treasures, and as such ought to be everywhere circulated and continually perused by those who wish to imbue their minds with the purest doctrine and the most valuable knowledge. The Life of S. Augustine, Bishop, Confessor, and Doctor of the Church.By P. E. Moriarty, D.D. Ex-Assistant General O.S.A. Philadelphia: Cunningham. 1873. This is a popular biography, though proceeding from the pen of a learned man, and showing marks of erudition. The sketch is a complete one, and shows great power of generalization and condensation in the writer, with vigor and impetus of style. It is not, however, minute in respect to the saint's public life, or his great work as a philosopher and doctor of the church. This could not be expected in a work of moderate size adapted for popular reading. There is, however, a brief summary of the saint's writings, with a synopsis, and an account of the Augustinian Order, all of which are of interest and value to the general reader. Photographic Views; or, Religious and Moral Truths Reflected in the Universe. By F. X. Weninger, D.D., S.J. New York: P. O'Shea. 1873. A handsomely printed volume, with a very ornamental title-page quite appropriate to the nature of the book. The views of truth presented in this book are expressed in aphorisms. Good taste, poetic sensibility, spiritual wisdom, and the purest Christian feeling are their chief characteristics. We are disposed to think this the best of F. Weninger's works. There are many persons who take great delight in aphorisms of this kind, and we think all such readers will like this book. It is good also as a help to meditation, and a treasury of short spiritual readings for those who have not time for long ones; and will be useful to those who like to stop occasionally in more laborious occupations of the mind, and gather a little spiritual nosegay. [pg 715]Memoirs of Madame Desbordes-Valmore.By the late C. A. Sainte-Beuve. With a Selection from her Poems. Translated by Harriet W. Preston. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1873. Madame Valmore was one of those poets of the affections who “Learn in suffering what they teach in song.” No one can look for a moment at her portrait as depicted in this touching book without feeling that the thorn is continually pressing against her gentle breast. Her poetry and her letters are the very outcry of impassioned love and grief. “I am like the Indian that sings at the stake,” she says. One of her volumes is entitled Tears, every line of which is a pensive sigh. Her poems are full of “the charm of that melancholy which M. de Segur calls the luxury of grief.” M. Michelet says: “She alone among us had the gift of tears—that gift which smites the rock and assuages the thirst of the soul!” M. Sainte-Beuve calls her “the Mater Dolorosa of poetry,” but that title, consecrated to a higher, diviner type of sorrow, is one that most of us would shrink from applying to ordinary mortals. It would almost seem as if the highest, purest notes—“half ecstasy, half pain”—only spring from the soul overshadowed by sorrow, as the eyes of some birds are darkened when they are taught to sing. Mme. Valmore herself, in allusion to a brother poet, wonders “if actual misery were requisite for the production of notes that so haunt one's memory.” The tombs among which she used to play as a child in the old churchyard at Douai seem to have cast their funereal shadows over her whole life—shadows that lend to her sad muse so attractive a charm. One of her poems thus begins: “Do not write. I am sad and would my life were o'er. A summer without thee?—Oh! night of starless gloom!— I fold the idle arms that cannot clasp thee more— To knock at my heart's door, were like knocking at a tomb. Do not write.” Mme. Valmore's nature was eminently feminine. Her heart was her guide. She was a being of impulse and sympathy. But her instincts were so delicate and true that they were to her what reason and philosophy are to colder natures. Her imagination was thoroughly Catholic. It is only Catholicity that develops souls of such tender grace and beauty, and she was brought up under its influences. A cheerful piety, Catholic in tone, seems to have pervaded her life, and consoled and sustained her in its many dark hours. She loved to pray in the deserted aisle of some shadowy church full of mystery and peace. “She had her Christ—the Christ of the poor and forsaken, the prisoner and the slave, the Christ of the Magdalen and the good Samaritan, a Christ of the future of whom she herself has sung in one of her sweetest strains: ‘He whose pierced hands have broken so many chains,’ ” —a line that appeals to all who have sinned and been forgiven! In her last years she thus writes: “I see at an immense distance the Christ who shall come again. His breath is moving over the crowd. He opens his arms wide, but there are no more nails—no more for ever!” Her devotion to Mary is constantly peeping out in her letters. After visiting a church at Brussels, she writes thus to her daughter: “To-day we saw the black Virgin with the Child Jesus also black like his mother. These Madonnas wring my heart with a thousand reminiscences. They are nothing in the way of art, but they are so associated with my earliest and sweetest faiths that I positively adore those stiff pink-lined veils and wreaths of perennial flowers made of cambric so stout that all the winds of heaven could never cause a leaf to flutter.” She writes her brother: “Lift up your hat when you pass the Church of Notre Dame, and lay upon its threshold the first spring flowers you find.” One of the most touching features of her life is her devotedness to this brother, an old soldier and pensioner in the hospital at Douai, whom she aided out of her own scanty purse, and still more by the moral support she was continually giving him in the most delicate manner; trying to ennoble his unfortunate past so as to give him dignity in his own eyes—a thing so often forgotten in our intercourse with those who are in danger of losing their self-respect. Mme. Valmore's charity and sympathies were not confined to her own kindred. They responded to every appeal. The condemned criminal and prisoners [pg 716] It is sad to see a woman with such a refined, poetical nature, and a heart sensitive to the last degree, condemned to a fate so chilling and unkind. But she never lost courage. Living in narrow lodgings, and on limited means, she contrived to give a certain artistic air to everything around her, and received her visitors with polished ease and self-possession, hiding her griefs under the grace of her manner and the vivacity of her conversation. Her courage and fortitude were admirable under adverse circumstances and such afflictions as the loss of her daughters. No book not strictly religious could teach a more forcible lesson of patient, cheerful endurance—how “to suffer and be strong.” The work is elegantly translated, and is a welcome addition to the lives of celebrated French ladies already issued by the same publishers. The English in Ireland in the Eighteenth Century. By James Anthony Froude, M.A. In 2 vols. Vol. I. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1873. We have here the first volume of a new and very elaborate work by the adventurous historian of England, and chivalrous champion of Henry VIII. and his daughter Elizabeth. It might perhaps have been hoped that enough had been said of Mr. Froude in these columns, and that our readers had done with him. His reputation as a faithful historian had been sorely damaged, and indeed irretrievably ruined, by several indignant critics in England, in Scotland, and in Ireland, as well as in the United States (by the short, sharp and decisive onslaught of Mr. Meline); so that it has been an actual surprise to the literary world to find him once more tempting Providence in a new book, heralded and advertised by a course of lectures in New York. But this is the nature of the man: he must surprise and startle, or he dies; he must provoke the most wondering and angry contradiction and comment, and gratify the small feminine spite that possesses him, provided he can sting and wound like a hornet. For him, to scold is to live. The present volume, although entitled The English in Ireland in the Eighteenth Century, is in fact occupied, for more than two hundred pages, with an account of the dealings of his country with Ireland during the XVIIth century, and presents his views of Irish history at the notable periods of the insurrection—or alleged “massacre”—in 1641, as well as the short reign of James II. The narrative ends at the time of the small French invasion under Thurot, shortly after the middle of the XVIIIth century; leaving Still to be treated the whole era of the Volunteering, the Insurrection of '98, and the Union, so-called. Indeed, if the author carry forward his subject into the present century, as he has carried it backward into the one before the last, he will have the great famines to deal with, and the multitudinous emigration; so that we may expect a vast picture, covering the whole canvas, portraying from the strictly English point of view that ghastly history in its full perspective. The Froude theory is, on the whole, quite simple; nothing can be more easily understood. It is, in few words, that the English nation having been “forced by situation and circumstances” to take charge of Ireland and its people, when it suited the English to change their religion, or to come back to it, or to change it again, they were bound in duty to compel the Irish to change along with them each time, by means of pains and penalties, from heavy fines to transportation and death on the gallows; also that the English having a strong wish to possess themselves of all the lands of Ireland, everything was lawful and right to effect that object. The reader will remark, with surprise (and the more surprise, the better for Froude), that in his lectures lately delivered in New York, which were a kind of abstract of the work then in press, he did not venture to say before an intelligent audience of freemen some of the things which he has dared to print in the book then just ready to burst upon the world. For example, he did not say, even before the “Christian young men,” such words as these which are found in the book (p. 609): [pg 717]“The consent of man was not asked when he was born into the world: his consent will not be asked when his time comes to die. As little has his consent to do with the laws which, while he lives, he is bound to obey.” This sentiment he perhaps thought it unnecessary to enunciate here; because, in fact, he intended it solely for the Irish, not by any means for the Americans, although it reads like a universal maxim for the human race. Again, he did not think it necessary to say in so plain words what he has laid down clearly enough in this passage (p. 213): “No government need keep terms with such a creed [meaning the Catholic Church] when there is power to abolish it. To call the repression of opinions which had issued so many times in blood and revolt by the name of religions persecution is mere abuse of words.” Elevations PoÉtiques et Religieuses.Par Marie Jenna. DeuxiÈme Edit. 2 vols. Paris: Adrien le Clerc et Cie. 1872. As the eye lingers upon a beautiful landscape, spring clad and fair in the clear light of the new-risen sun; as the ear loiters unwilling to lose the last echoed link of some simple melting melody; as the hand tarries loth to quit the gentle grasp that speaks unspoken sympathy, so have we—reluctant to lose such fair pictures, such moving lays, such deep and tender feeling—lingered and loitered and tarried with Marie Jenna, “the Poet of the Vosges.” Gifted with the nice perception of a true poet, Marie Jenna clothes the simplest ideas in language of such rare delicacy, so fresh, tender, vivid, and withal so musical, that mind, heart, eye, and ear, all are at once engaged. A bird, a butterfly, a flower, gains new interest in her hands; she flings a grace around it, she vests it with a dignity it never had before; she makes it live again. Take, for instance, the opening stanzas of “Le Papillon”: “Pourquoi t'approcher en silence Et menacer mon vol joyeux? Par quelle involontaire offense Ai-je pu dÉplaire À tes yeux? “Je suis la vivante Étincelle Qui monte et descend tour À tour; La fleur À qui Dieu donne une aile, Un souffle, un regard, un amour. “Je suis le frÈre de la rose; Elle me cache aux importuns, Puis sur son coeur je me repose Et je m'enivre de parfums. “Ma vie est tout heureuse et pure, Pourquoi dÉsires-tu ma mort? Oh! dis-moi, roi de la nature, Serais-tu jaloux de mon sort? “Va, je sais bien que tu t'inclines Souvent pour essuyer des pleurs, Que tes yeux comptent les Épines OÙ je ne vois rien que des fleurs. “Je sais que parfois ton visage Se trouble et s'assombrit soudain, Lorsqu'en vain je cherche un nuage Au fond de l'horizon serein. “Mais Celui dont la main divine A daignÉ nous former tous deux, Pour moi parfuma la colline, Et de loin te montra les cieux. “Il me fit deux ailes de flamme, A moi, feu follet du printemps; Pour toi, son fils, il fit une Âme Plus grande que le firmament. “Ecoute ma voix qui t'implore, Loin de moi dÉtourne tes pas... Laisse moi vivre un jour encore, O toi qui ne finiras pas! “Mon bonheur À moi, c'est la vie, La libertÉ sous le ciel bleu, Le ruisseau, l'amour sans envie: Le tien ... c'est le secret de Dieu.” What can be fresher or more charming than this naÏve, earnest appeal for life and liberty? And again, in “Pour un Oiseau,” beginning with: “Il est À toi, c'est vrai ... FrÈre, veux tu qu'il meure? Sa beautÉ, sa chanson, tout est lÀ ... dans ta main; Et l'arbuste oÙ sa voix gazouillait tout À l'heure Au bosquet, si tu veux, sera muet demain. “Tu le tiens: sa faiblesse À ta force le livre; Mais aussi ta pitiÉ peut le laisser aller; Ne le fais pas mourir! il est si bon de vivre Lorsque l'ÉtÉ commence et qu'on peut s'envoler,” we find the same delicacy of thought, the same rippling, flowing language; and what joyousness and how cheery it sounds: il est si bon de vivre. But Marie Jenna strikes deeper chords, awakes more solemn strains, than these; and through them all, the graver as the lighter, binding them in one harmonious whole, there sings out the same clear note of firm, enlightened faith that never [pg 718] “Va, ton sein cache en vain le glaive qui le blesse: J'ai compris ton silence et j'ai priÉ pour toi. Laisse aller ta fiertÉ comme un poids qui t'oppresse, Et pleure devant moi. “Il est, je le sais bien, des jours oÙ la souffrance Trouve en sa solitude une Âpre voluptÉ; Et le monde lÉger voit passer en silence Sa pÂle majestÉ. “Et la main d'un ami s'arrÈtant incertaine, N'ose Écarter les plis de son voile de deuil. Il est des maux si grands, que la parole humaine Expire sur le seuil. “Mais deux jours sont passÉs; il est temps que je vienne; Oh! laisse un front d'ami penchÉ sur ta douleur! Ne te dÉtourne pas: Mets ta main dans la mienne, Ton Âme sur mon coeur. “Si je ne t'apportais qu'une amitiÉ fidÈle, Mes pas avec respect s'Éloigneraient d'ici. J'attendrais que la tienne enfin se souvint d'elle, Mais j'ai souffert aussi... “Je ne te dirai point cette vaine parole Que la douleur accueille en son muet dÉdain. Non, ce que j'ai pour toi, c'est un mot qui console, C'est un secret divin.” Already we seem to see awaked attention, a gleam of hope flit across the stern, wan face that marks such helpless, hopeless misery; now softening the hard, cold look that bid defiance to all sorrow, repelled all sympathy; now changing it to one of anxious longing and of mute entreaty for the proffered gift, le mot qui console. And see, or is it fancy only, or are there really tears now falling, “gemlike, the last drops of the exhausted storm”? Space forbids us to give it in its fulness, this secret divin, to curtail it would spoil it: so we send the reader to the original, and would ask him only if in the last stanza he does not hear two voices singing: “Heureux les affligÉs! dit la VÉritÉ mÊme. Heureux, c'est vrai, mon Dieu! quand vous avez parlÉ. Nous voulons bien souffrir si le bonheur suprÊme, Est d'Être consolÉ.” Then look at this exquisite little picture, “L'Enfant RessuscitÉ.” Rarely have we met with one more pathetic. It is very delicately painted, with shades so subtile that, in the simplicity of the whole, we are apt to overlook them. And here also we have a glimpse of that reverential love for childhood that is by no means the least characteristic trait of Marie Jenna: “Elle avait tant gÉmi, sa mÈre, et tant pleurÉ! Tant pressÉ sur son sein le front dÉcolorÉ, Que dans le corps glacÉ l'Âme Était revenue, Et qu'en bÉnissant Dieu, palpitante, Éperdue, Comme un trÉsor qu'on cache elle avait emportÉ Dans ses deux bras tremblants l'enfant ressuscitÉ! Trois mois s'Étaient passÉs depuis.....mais, chose Étrange! On eut dit que le ciel avait fait un Échange. L'enfant penchait son front comme un bouton flÉtri, Et depuis ces trois mois, jamais il n'avait ri. Il prÉfÉrait aux jeux l'ombre silencieuse; Sa mÈre en l'embrassant n'osait pas Être heureuse.... “Des volets entr'ouverts s'Élancent des chansons; Dans les clochers frÉmit la voix des carillons. Ecoute, mon Louis, ces chants, ces joyeux rires.... Vois; c'est le jour de l'an; dis ce que tu dÉsires. Chaque enfant pour Étrenne a des jouets nouveaux. En veux-tu de pareils? en veux-tu de plus beaux? Veux-tu ce bÉlier gris qu'on traÎne et qui va paÎtre Au printemps dans les prÉs l'herbe qui vient naÎtre? Mais regarde plutÔt; des pinceaux, des couleurs, Qui d'un papier tout blanc font un bouquet de fleurs. Oh! vois donc ce ballon de laine tricolore Qui s'ÉlÈve et retombe et se relÈve encore! Tu n'aimes pas courir..... Que puis-je te donner? Dis.....ta mÈre À prÉsent ne sait plus deviner. Veux-tu ce sabre d'or qui dÉjÀ ferait croire Que mon petit Louis mÉdite une victoire? Aimes-tu ce chalet d'un long toit recouvert? Mais non....qu'en ferais-tu? Veux-tu ce livre ouvert, OÙ prÈs de chaque histoire on regarde une image, Ou l'on rit, oÙ l'on pleure, oÙ l'on devient plus sage? Ah! voici des oiseaux! tu les aimerais mieux! Les oiseaux sont vivants; tu les ferais heureux! Si tu voulais des lisandes roses fleuries, J'en saurais bien trouver, Louis, pour que tu ries. RÉponds; je t'aime tant! n'oses-tu me parler? Tu pleurais ce matin; je veux te consoler. Dis-moi ce doux secret pendant que je l'embrasse. [pg 719]Que veux-tu, mon Louis? Et l'enfant, À voix basse: Des ailes pour m'envoler!” No one can fail to be struck with the sudden stillness that follows the mother's anxious striving to drive away the cloud that would hang over her little one; with the awe and fear, too, that fill her heart; with the mystery in the whispered answer of the strange mysterious child given back from death in answer to her passionate prayer. It sets us thinking of that other mother whose grief so touched the Master's heart that he spoke the word, “and he that was dead sat up and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.” Did that young man go home so grave, with never a smile to light his face, so strangely altered, that, after the first burst of gladness, his mother, clasping him to her bosom, dared not rejoice? Of the more serious pieces, perhaps not one equals in force “La plus grande Douleur.” It is the old tale, always new though so oft repeated: the old tale that startles, shocks, and brings sharp pain as for the first time it comes home to each one, telling that that strong bond which binds friends closer, draws classes nearer, makes nations firmer, has snapped and riven two hearts asunder; that the newly-awakened intellect first meeting early faith has turned aside, has chosen a road far other than that on which till now both friends had travelled hand in hand; that that “little superficial knowledge of philosophy that inclines man's mind to atheism” has come between them like an icy barrier, chilling the old friendship and making everything so dark and strange which before was warmth and light between them; and with effect so drear, so piercing, too, and sharp, that the unchanged heart feels any pain than that would be light to bear: “Oui mon Dieu! nous pouvons, sans que l'Âme succombe, Laisser notre bonheur À ce passÉ qui tombe; Nous pouvons au matin former un rÊve pur, Tout d'amour et de paix, tout de flamme et d'azur, Puis livrer les dÉbris de sa beautÉ ravie A ce vent du dÉsert, qui laisse notre vie Sans fleur et sans Épi comme un champ moissonnÉ; Meliner notre front pÂle et dÉcouronnÉ, Et devenir semblable À cette pauvre plante Qui n'est pas morte encore, et qui n'est plus vivante, Nous pouvons voir gisant sur un lit de douleur, Celui qui nous restait, l'ami consolateur, Compter chaque moment de son heure derniÈre, Poser nos doigts tremblants sur sa froide paupiÈre, Et baiser son visage, et nous dire; Il est mort! Nous le pouvons, mon Dieu! Parfois le coeur est fort. “Mais aimer une autre Âme, et la trouver si belle Qu'on frÉmit de bonheur en se penchant vers elle, Puis un jour contempler d'un regard impuissant Sur sa beautÉ cÉleste une ombre qui descend; De cette Âme oÙ passaient les souffles de la grÂce, Sentir parfois monter quelque chose qui glace, Douter, prier tous bas, pleurer d'anxiÉtÉ, Craindre, espÉrer..... Longtemps marcher À son cÔtÉ Sans oser voir au fond.... Puis un jour oÙ l'on ose, Reculer de partout oÙ le regard se pose, OÙ fut le feu sacrÉ toucher de froids dÉbris, Murmurer en tremblant un langage incompris OÙ Dieu passa, chercher sa lumineuse trace, Et n'y trouver plus rien ... rien! pas mÊme un soupir, Pas un cri douloureux vers l'aube qui s'efface, C'est trop souffrir!” The two volumes before us contain many poems, both short and long, of such great freshness and beauty, so full of original turns and delicate touches, that it is difficult to choose from amongst them. However, we have said enough to give a fair notion of Marie Jenna's style, and quite enough to show that it is her own, with its own peculiar charm. And so our task is done. If it be said that, having uttered only praise and found no fault, we have but half fulfilled the critic's task, we answer that we never meant the tone of criticism. All know that man's most perfect work is not without its blemish; but in our first walk through so fair a garden, meeting new beauties on every side, it would have been ungracious in us to have sought defects: that task we leave to others. Ours has been to welcome, and to tell of fresh flowers of much loveliness offered to us from across the sea, with the certainty that no one can read her “ElÉvations PoÉtiques” without feeling that he is indebted for some real enjoyment to the charming “Poet of the Vosges.” The Two Ysondes, and Other Verses.By Edward Ellis. London: Pickering. 1872. It takes but a short while to read this thin volume; nor will any one with a taste for true poetry find the perusal a task. The author undoubtedly possesses [pg 720] Neither is this the only, or even the most, objectionable feature of the poem; for, together with descriptions of emotions and caresses which would be chaste if the theme were lawful love, all idea of sin is kept away, and especially as regards its eternal consequences. There is not a word about remorse during life, or of repentance at death. But Tristrem dies in despair of beholding the object of his passion; and Ysonde, in turn, expires on the breast of her dead lover, declaring that she will “go with him beyond the bars of fate.” Now, we should not have troubled ourselves to make these strictures but that Mr. Ellis shows powers for the misuse of which he will be very responsible. Moreover, as is clear from some of his shorter lyrics, particularly “At a Shrine,” his mind has a religious bent, with (of course) Catholic sympathies. With regard to his verse, it is less Tennysonic than his thought. Better if, while originating metres (with which we have no quarrel whatever), he modelled both his lines and his diction on the peerless accuracy of England's laureate. Books And Pamphlets Received.From Kelly, Piet & Co., Baltimore: The Money God. By M. A. Quinton. From Lynch, Cole & Meehan, New York: English Misrule in Ireland: A Course of Lectures. By V. Rev. T. N. Burke, O.P. 12mo. pp. 299. From J. A. McGee, New York: “Thumping English Lies”: Froude's Slanders on Ireland and Irishmen. With Preface and Notes by Col. J. E. McGee, and Wendell Phillips' Views of the Situation. 12mo. pp. 224.—Half Hours with Irish Authors: Selections from Griffin, Lover, Carleton, and Lever. 12mo. pp. 330. From A. D. F. Randolph, New York: Christ at the Door. By Susan H. Ward. 12mo, pp. 232. From J. B. Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia: Expiation. By Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr. From J. R. Osgood & Co., Boston: The Romance of the Harem. By Mrs. A. H. Leonowens. 12mo. pp. viii.-277. From Roberts Bros., Boston: What Katy Did. By Susan Coolidge.—Thorvaldsen: His Life and Works. By Eugene Plon. 12mo. pp. xvi.-320.—The World Priest. By Leopold Schefer. 12mo. pp. xv.-371. From The Author: Sermon at the Month's Mind of the Most Rev. M. J. Spalding, D.D., Preached at the Church of the American College (Rome). By the V. Rev. Dr. Chatard, Rector. Paper, 8vo. pp. 30. From E. H. Butler & Co., Philadelphia: The Etymological Reader. By Epes Sargent and Amasa May. From S. D. Kiernan, Clerk, Department of Public Instruction: Report of the Board of Public Instruction of the City and County of New York, for the year ending Dec. 31, 1871; with Addenda to May, 1872.—Manual of the Department of Public Instruction, 1871-2. 18mo, pp. 262. From Holt & Williams, New York: Sermons by the Rev. H. R. Hawes, M.A. 12mo, pp. xiv. 347. From American Baptist Society, Philadelphia: The Baptist Short Method, with Inquirers and Opponents. By Rev. C. T. Hiscox, D.D. 18mo, pp. 216. From Hurd & Houghton, New York: The City of God and the Church Makers. By R. Abbey. 12mo, pp. xx. 315. From Burns, Oates & Co., London (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society): The Life of Monseigneur Berneux, Bishop of Capse. Vicar-Apostolic of Corea. By M. l'AbbÉ Pichon. Translated from the French, with a Preface by Lady Herbert. From John Hodges, London: (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society): The Lives of the Saints. By Rev. S. Baring-Gould, M.A. March. From J. R. Osgood & Co., Boston: His Level Best, and Other Stories. By Edward E. Hale. |
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