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diff --git a/old/51886-0.txt b/old/51886-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3accc22..0000000 --- a/old/51886-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3381 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Down at Caxton's, by Walter Lecky - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Down at Caxton's - -Author: Walter Lecky - -Release Date: April 29, 2016 [EBook #51886] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DOWN AT CAXTON'S *** - - - - -Produced by Emmy, MWS and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - -DOWN AT CAXTON’S. - - BY WALTER LECKY, - _Author of “Green Graves in Ireland,” “Adirondack - Sketches,” etc._ - - - BALTIMORE: - JOHN MURPHY & CO. - 1895. - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY WM. A. MCDERMOTT. - - - PRESS OF JOHN MURPHY & CO. - - - - - I DEDICATE - - _THIS SERIES OF SKETCHES_ - - DONE AT ODD MOMENTS STOLEN FROM THE BUSY LIFE OF A COUNTRY - DOCTOR, IN THE WILDEST PART OF THE ADIRONDACKS, TO THAT - DEAR FRIEND, WHO WROTE FOR ME AND OTHER - WANDERERS—IDYLS OF A SUMMER SEA— - - TO - - CHARLES WARREN STODDARD - - OF THE - - CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY, WASHINGTON, D. C. - - - - -CONTENTS - -Transcriber's Note: This table of contents was created by the -transriber. - - MEN. - Richard Malcolm Johnston. - Marion Crawford. - Charles Warren Stoddard. - Maurice Francis Egan. - John B. Tabb. - James Jeffrey Roche. - George Parsons Lathrop. - Rev. Brother Azarias. - - WOMEN. - Katherine Eleanor Conway. - Louise Imogen Guiney. - Mrs. Blake. - Agnes Repplier. - - A WORD. - Literature and Our Catholic Poor. - - - - -MEN. - - - - -RICHARD MALCOLM JOHNSTON. - - -In that charming and dainty series of books published under the -captivating title of “Fiction, Fact and Fancy,” and edited by the -gifted son of the prince of American literary critics, there is a -volume with the companionable name of Billy Downs. It is as follows -that Mr. Stedman introduces the creator of Billy Downs and a host of -other characters, mostly types of Middle Georgia life, that shall live -with the language. “So we reach the tenth milestone of our ramble, -and while we are resting by the wayside let us hail the gentleman who -is approaching and ask him for ‘another story.’ We who have heard him -before know that he seldom fails to respond to such a request, and -always, too, in a manner quite inimitable. As he comes nearer you may -observe the dignified, yet courteous and kindly bearing of a gentleman -of the old school. The white hair and moustache, the sober dress, -betoken the veteran, although they are almost contradicted by eyes and -an innate youthfulness in word and thought. It is not difficult to -recognize in Colonel Richard Malcolm Johnston the founder of a school -of fiction and the dean of Southern men of letters.” The Colonel is the -founder of a school of fiction, if by that school, we understand those, -who are depicting for us the Georgia life of the ante-bellum days. -In no otherwise can we assent to Mr. Stedman’s phrase. For American -critics to claim the dialect school of fiction as their own in origin, -is on a par with their other critical achievements. Dialect was born -a long time before Columbus took his way westward. The first wave of -mankind leaving the parent stock, in their efforts to survive, carried -with them the germ of dialect. Fiction in its portrayal of men and -manners of a given period, was bound to reproduce it faithfully—the -very least to give us a semblance of that life. This could not be done -in many instances without the use of dialect. To do so were to deprive -the portraiture of individuality. - -Fiction produced on such lines would be worthless. Of late there has -been much cavil against dialect writers. This cavil, strange to say, -emanates from the Realists. - -They lay down the absurd code, that Art is purely imitative. She -plays but a monkey part. Her sole duty is to depict life, paying -leading attention to the portrayal of corns, bunions, and other -horny excrescences, that so often accompany her. Realists will not -be persuaded that such excrescences are abnormal. From a jaundiced -introspection of their own little life, they frame canons of criticism -to guide the world. With these congenial canons lying before them, one -is astonished, if such a phrase may be used in the recent light of that -school’s pyrotechnic display, that they can condemn dialect. Granted, -for the sake of argument, that Art is merely imitative, will not the -first duty of the novelist be to reproduce the exact language, and -that when done by the master-hand of a Johnston carries with it not -only the speaker’s tone, but the power of producing a mental image of -the speaker—the very acme of the Realists’ school? To paint a Georgia -cracker speaking the ordinary Boston-English would be like crowning the -noble brow of a South Sea native with a tall Boston beaver. The effort -would be unartistic, the effect ludicrous. Colonel Johnston believes -in the imitativeness of Art, to the extent of reproducing for us the -peculiar dialect of Middle Georgia. He has informed us that there is -not a phrase in his novels that he has not heard amid the scenes of his -stories. To reproduce these is a distinct triumph of the novelist’s -art, but the Colonel has done more; into his every character has he -breathed a soul. His figures are not the automaton skeletons of the -Realists, but living men and women who have earnestly played life on -the circumscribed stage of Middle Georgia. - -This life is fast passing away. Prof. Shaler, a competent authority, -tells us: “At present the strong tide of modernism is sweeping over the -old slave-holding States with a force which is certain to clear away -a greater part of the archaic motives which so long held place in the -minds of the people. With the death of this generation, which saw the -rebellion, the ancient regime will disappear.” It can never be lost -as long as the novels of Malcolm Johnston are extant. There, in days -to come, by the cheery ingle-nook, will a new generation live over in -his delightful pages the curious life of Georgia. Cuvier asked for a -bone to construct his skeleton. The readers of the Dukesborough tales, -Billy Downs, etc., will not only have the skeleton, but live men and -women preserved for them by the novelist’s elixir. He has known his -country and kept close to mother earth, having in his mind that “no -language, after it has faded into diction, none that cannot suck up -feeding juices secreted for it in the rich mother earth of common folk, -can bring forth a sound and lusty book. True vigor and heartiness of -phrase do not pass from page to page, but from man to man.... There is -death in the dictionary.” That the Colonel’s language has sucked up -feeding juices secreted for it in the rich mother earth of common folk -will be seen on every page. Let us take at random the communication of -Jones Kendrick to his cousin Simeon Newsome, as to S’phrony Miller. Sim -is a farmer lad overshadowed by the overpowering “dictionary use” of -his Cousin Kendrick. Sim has gone a-wooin’ S’phrony. Kendrick hearing -of this and urged by his mother and sister, comes to the conclusion -that he would like to have S’phrony himself. This important fact he -admits to Cousin Sim in the following choice morsel: Sim is overseeing -his hands on the plantation; Kendrick approaches and is met by Sim. -Kendrick speaks: - -“Ma and sister Maria have been for some time specified. They have both -been going on to me about S’phrony Miller in a way and to an extent -that in some circumstances might be called obstropolus, and to quiet -their conscience I’ve begun a kind of a visitation over there, and -my mind has arriv at the conclusion that she’s a good, nice piece -of flesh, to use the expressions of a man of the world, and society. -What do you think, Sim, of the matter under consideration, and what -would you advise? I like to have your advice sometimes, and I’d like -to know what it would be under all circumstances and appearances of a -case which, as it stands, it seems to have, and it isn’t worth while -to conceal the fact that it does have, a tremendous amount of immense -responsibility to all parties, especially to the undersigned, referring -as is well known in books and newspaper advertisements to myself. What -would you say to the above, Sim, in all its parts and parties?” It -may interest the reader to know that Sim acquiesced “in all its parts -and parties,” and that S’phrony became Mrs. Kendrick, while Sim took -another mate. Of further interest to the imaginative young woman is -the fact, that Mrs. Newsome and Mr. Kendrick perishing a few years -later by some sort of quasi-involuntary but always friendly movements, -executed in a comparatively brief time, S’phrony and Sim became one. -In calling Johnston the dean of Southern men of letters, Stedman does -not define his position. Page, the creator of Marse Chan, and one of -the most talented of Southern dialect writers, negatively does so. In -an article that has literary smack, but lacks critical perception, -he rates him below Miss Murfree, James Lane Allen, and Cable. These -three writers Page places at the head of Southern writers of fiction. -Critics nowadays will adduce no proof; they simply affirm. The text of -this discrimination should be the exactness of the character drawing, -the life-like reproduction of environments, and the expertness of the -dialect as a vehicle to convey the local flavor. It will hardly be -gainsaid that Johnston knows his Georgia no less than Cable knows -Louisiana. Johnston is a native of Georgia; the time of life most -susceptible to local impressions was spent there. Cable’s boyhood was -otherwise. It will not be thought of that in the painting of Creole -life, Cable has excelled the painter of Georgia life. In the handling -of dialect, Johnston and Harris touch the high water mark of Southern -fiction. It was an old critical dictum that an author to succeed must -be in sympathy with his subject; this may be affirmed of Johnston. -It is otherwise with Cable, and especially with Lane, whose Kentucky -pictures are often caricatures. Cable poses as the friend of the -colored man. His pose is dramatic. It lends a charm to his New England -recitations. We have a great love for champions of every kind. The most -of Mr. Cable’s pages deal with Creole life, and for that life he has no -sympathy. He paints it as essentially pagan, albeit it was essentially -Catholic. A padre makes him sniff the air and paw ungraciously. The -ceremonies of the church are so many pagan rites. Cable belongs to -the school that contemns what it does not understand. His pictures of -Creole life are untrue, and much as they were in vogue some years ago, -are passing to the bourne of the forgotten. Johnston, although a living -Catholic, fond of his church, and wedded to her every belief, draws -an itinerant preacher of the Methodists with as much enthusiasm and -sympathy as he would the clergy of his own church. He has no dislikes, -nothing that is of man but interests this sunny-hearted romancer of the -old South. - -Strange as it may seem, the knowledge of his wonderful power of -story-telling came late and in an accidental way. It is best described -in his own words. “Story-writing,” said the Colonel, “is the last -thing for me in literature. I had published two or three volumes on -English literature, and in conjunction with a friend had written a -life of Alexander Stephens, and also a book on American and European -literature, but had no idea of story-writing for money. Two or three -stories of mine had found their way into the papers before I left -Georgia. I had been a professor of English literature in Georgia, but -during the war I took a school of boys. I removed to Baltimore and took -forty boys with me and continued my school. There was in Baltimore, in -1870, a periodical called the _Southern Magazine_. The first nine of my -Dukesborough Tales were contributed to that magazine. These fell into -the hands of the editor of _Harper’s Magazine_, who asked me what I got -for them. I said not a cent, and he wanted to know why I had not sent -them to him. ‘Neelers Peeler’s Conditions’ was the first story for -which I got pay. It was published in the _Century_, over the signature -of Philemon Perch. Dr. Holland told Mr. Gilder to tell that man to -write under his own name, adding that he himself had made a mistake in -writing under a pseudonym. Sydney Lanier urged me to write, and said -if I would do so he would get the matter in print for me. So he took -‘Neelers Peeler’s Conditions,’ and it brought me eighty dollars. I was -surprised that my stories were considered of any value. I withdrew from -teaching about six years ago, and since that time have devoted myself -to authorship. I have never put a word in my book that I have not heard -the people use, and very few that I have not used myself. Powelton, -Ga., is my Dukesborough. I was born fourteen miles from there. - -“Of the female characters that I have created, Miss Doolana Lines was -my favorite, while Mr. Bill Williams is my favorite among the male -characters. I started Doolana to make her mean and stingy like her -father, but I hadn’t written a page before she wrenched herself out -of my hands. She said to me, ‘I am a woman, and you shall not make me -mean.’ These stories are all of Georgia as it was before the war. In -the hill country the institution of slavery was very different from -what it was in the rice region or near the coast. Do you know the -Georgia negro has five times the sense of the South Carolina negro? -Why? Because he has always been near his master, and their relations -are closer. My father’s negroes loved him, and he loved them, and if a -negro child died upon the place my mother wept for it. Some time ago I -went to the old place, and an old negro came eight miles, walked all -the way, to see me. - -“He got to the house before five o’clock in the morning, and opened the -shutters while I was asleep. With a cry he rushed into the room. ‘Oh, -Massa Dick.’ We cried in each other’s arms. We had been boys together. -One of my slaves is now a bishop—Bishop Lucius Holsey, one of the most -eloquent men in Georgia.” - -These charming bits of autobiography show us the sterling nature of -Malcolm Johnston, a nature at once cheerful, kind and loving. It is -the object of such natures, in the pessimistic wayfares of life, to -make friends, illuminating them with sunshine and tickling them with -laughter. - - - - -MARION CRAWFORD. - - -In front of the Ara Coeli I stood. A swarthy Italian was telling of -the dramatic death of Cola di Rienzi. His English was lightly worn, -but it seemed to please his audience, and it was for that purpose -they had paid their lire. The crazy-quilt language of the cicerone -and his audacious way of handling history, made him cut an attractive -figure in the eyes of most tourists, whose desires are amusement rather -than study. As a type, to use a phrase borrowed from the school of -psychological novelism, he was a study. To the student Rome is a city -of absorbing interest, to the ordinary American bird of passage a dull -place. It all depends on your point of view. If you are a scholar, a -collector of old lace, or a vandal, Rome is your happy hunting ground. -If these pursuits do not interest you, Roman beggars with all sorts -and conditions of diseases, sometimes by nature, mostly by art, Roman -fleas, and the gaunt ghosts of the Campagna quickly drive you from the -capital of the Cæsars and Popes. A few other annoyances might be added, -such as sour wine, whose mist fumes are not to be shriven by your -bottle-let of eau de Cologne, garlic on the fringe of decay, and the -provoking smell of salt fish in the last stage of decomposition. But -you have come to Rome; it is a name to conjure with, and despite the -drawbacks, you must have a glimpse, an ordinary bowing acquaintance, -with the famed old dame. At the office, an English office, in the -Piazza di Spagna, you have asked for a “droll guide.” Who could listen -to a scholarly one amid such active drawbacks as wine, fleas and fish? -Michael Angelo Orazio Pantacci is your man. What do you care for -good English? Did you not leave New York to leave it behind? What do -you care for Roman history? Pantacci is your man, and his lecture on -Cola di Rienzi is a masterpiece. A stranger joined our little crowd. -Pantacci at that moment had attained his descriptive high-water mark. -His pose and voice were touchingly dramatic. Cola was, as he expressed -it, “to perish.” The stranger smiled and passed on. His smile was a -composite affair. It was easy to see in it Michael Angelo’s historical -duplicity and our ignorant simplicity. The stranger was tall, with the -shoulders slightly stooping, a nose as near an approach to the Grecian -as an American may come, a heavy black mustache, ruddy cheeks, that -whispered of English food mellowed with the glowing Chianti. Who is -that man? I said to my companion, whose eyes had followed the stranger -rather than Pantacci. “That,” said he, “is Marion Crawford, the author -of the Saracenesca books. You remember reading them at Albano.” Tell -me something about him. He is a very clever man. Cola has perished; -let us leave Pantacci. On the way to Cordietti’s tell me something of -his life. He knows how to tell a story, an art hardly to be met with -in contemporary fiction. Fiction has abrogated to herself the whole -domain of life, and thus the art of telling a story for the story’s -sake is lost. Fiction has a mission. She freights herself with all -isms. Scott, Manzoni, even the great wizard of Spanish fiction, could -they live again, were failures. Introspection is the cult, and, happily -for their fame, they knew nothing of it. These great masters told us -how scenes of life were enacted. Why, they left to the inquisitive -and later-day brood of commentators. Since then the all absorbing -scientific spirit prevails, and we moderns brush away the delightful -humor of Dickens for the analytical puzzles of Henry James; the keen -satire of Thackeray for the coxcomberies of George Meredith. Fairy cult -interests none, modern children are ancient men. Scepticism is rampant, -and the cause of it is, in a great manner, due to the modern novelist. -This product of the 19th century world-spirit coolly tells us that -romance lies dead. Realism has taken her place. If we are to believe -the theories of its votaries, it is without an ideal—a mere anatomical -transcript of man. What this theory leads to is well illustrated by -the gutter filth of Zola and Catulle Mendes. It makes novel writing -a trade. One ceases to be astonished at the output, if he thoroughly -grasps the difference between a tradesman and an artist. Trade is a -word much used by realists. Grant Allen, writing of that realistic -necromancer, Guy de Maupassant, has nothing apter to define his -position than the phrase “he knows his trade.” In point of fact, Grant -Allen enunciates a truth in this phrase, one that might be carried -still further, by saying that his whole school are journeymen laborers, -tradesmen, if you prefer, turning out work, tasteless and crude, at the -bidding of the erubescent young person of the period. It is readily -assumed that work of this kind is not, despite the word-jugglery of -their school, realism. It does not deal with the true man, but with -a phrase, and that abnormal. A better phrase in use in speaking of -the works of this school is, “literature of disease.” The artist who -lives must have a model, and that we call the ideal. The nearer he -approaches this the more lasting his work. All the great artists had -ideals. Workmen may be guided by the rule of thumb. The first lesson a -great artist learns is, “The art that merely imitates can only produce -a corpse; it lacks the vital spark, the soul, which is the ideal, and -which is necessary in order to create a living organic reality that -will quicken genius and arouse enthusiasm throughout the ages.” The -gulf between the trade-novelist and the artist-novelist is of vital -importance. The former believes that art is simply imitation, the -latter, that art is interpretation. One is a stone-cutter, the other a -sculptor. - -Crawford’s canon is that art is interpretative, not imitative, and, -moreover, he has a story to tell and tells it for the story’s sake. He -has no affinity with that school so pointedly described by the Scotch -novelist, Barrie, as the one “which tells, in three volumes, how Hiram -K. Wilding trod on the skirt of Alice M. Sparkins without anything -coming of it.” “Cordietti’s,” said my friend, “give the order and I -will tell you what I know of Crawford.” Paulo, said I to the waiter, -some Chianti, and—well, a pigeon. “Crawford,” said my friend, “was born -in Rome about thirty-five years ago. His career has been a strange one, -full of life. His early years were spent in Rome, where his father was -known as a sculptor, his boyhood in the vicinity of Union Square, his -early manhood in England and India. In the latter country he was the -editor, proof-reader, typesetter of a small journal in the natives’ -interest. As such he was a thorn to the notorious freak, Blavatsky. -Crawford is an American by inheritance, an Italian by breeding, an -Englishman by training, an Indian by virtue of writing about India -with the knowledge of a native. In 1873, by the financial panic, Mrs. -Crawford lost her large fortune, and Marion was forced to shift for -himself. He became a journalist, and as such wandered over most of -the interesting part of the globe. On his return to New York, at the -request of his uncle, Sam Ward, the epicurean, who had discerned his -kinsman’s rare power of story-telling, he wrote his first book, Mr. -Isaacs. It was a success. Of the writing of that book, Crawford has -told us it was “very curious. I did not imagine that I possessed a -faculty for story-writing, and I prepared for a career very different -from the career of a novelist. Yet I have found that all my early life -was an unconscious preparation for that work. My boyhood was spent -in Rome, where my parents had lived for many years. There I was put -through the usual classical training—no, it was not the usual one, for -the classics are much better taught in Italy than in this country. A -boy in Italy by the time he is twelve is taught to speak Latin, and his -training is so thorough that he can read it with ease. From Rome I went -to Cambridge, England, and remained at the university several years. -Then I studied for a couple of years at the German universities. During -this time I went in for the sciences, and I expected to devote myself -to scientific work. Finally I went off to the East, where I did a good -deal of observing, and continued my studies of the Oriental languages, -in which I had taken considerable interest. It was while I was in the -East that I met Jacobs, the hero of Mr. Isaacs. Many of the events I -have recorded in Mr. Isaacs were the actual experiences of Jacobs.” - -The writing of his first novel occupied the months of May and June, -1882; it was published the same year, and at once established its -author in the front rank of living American writers of fiction. Since -then Crawford has written twenty volumes of fiction. Crawford is frank -and he tells us how he manages to produce in a few years the amount -of an ordinary lifetime. “By living in the open air, by roughing it -among the Albanian mountaineers, wandering by the sunny olive slopes -and vineyards of Calabria, and by taking hard work and pot luck with -the native sailors on long voyages in their feluccas,” are the means -of the novelist to hold health and make his pen work a laxative -employment. In these picturesque journeys, he lays the foundation of -his stories, makes the plots and evolves the characters. He does not -believe in Trollope’s idea of sitting down, pen in hand, and keep on -sitting until at its own wild will the story takes ink. The story in -these excursions has been fully fashioned, and it becomes but a matter -of penmanship to record it. How quickly this is done may be seen from -the rapid writing of the novelist, which averages 6,000 words the -working day. This rapid composition has its defects, defects that are -in some measure compensated by the photographic views of the life and -manners of the people. These views are in the rough, but they are truer -than when toned down. Poetry needs paring. The greatest novels have -been those that came like Crawford’s, fresh from the brain, and were -hastily despatched to the printer. Scott did not mope over the sheets. -Thackeray’s were written to the tune of “more copy.” Your American -critic, Stoddard, says:—“That Crawford is a man with many talents, and -with great fertility of invention, is evident in every story that he -has written. He has written more good stories and in more diverse ways -than any English or American novelist. It does not seem to matter to -him what countries or periods he deals with, or what kind of personages -he draws, he is always equal to what he undertakes.” It may interest -you, in ending this biographic sketch, to add that he is a convert to -the Catholic Church, and with the American critic’s idea in view, a -cosmopolitan. I was not astonished by the former information. To those -who know Italy and Mr. Crawford’s wonderful drawing of it, there could -be but one opinion, that the faith of the novelist was the same as that -of his characters. No Protestant novelist, no matter how many years he -had lived in Italy, could have drawn the portraits that play in the -Saracenesca pages. One of his friends had this in his mind’s eye when -he wrote of the superiority of the novelist’s writings on Italy over -those of his countrymen. This writer tells us that “Crawford added the -indispensable advantage of being a Catholic in religion, a circumstance -that has not only allowed him a truer sympathy with the life there, -but has afforded him an open sesame to many things which must be -sealed books to Protestants.” As to my friend’s summing up Crawford as -a cosmopolitan, in the every-day meaning of that word, I take issue. -Cosmopolitan novelist is one who can produce a three-volume novel, -whose scenes are laid in all the great centers of commerce, while -he sits calmly in his library. No previous study of his novelistic -surroundings are necessary. Does the age want the beginning of the plot -in Cairo or Venice, half-way at Tokio, and a grand finale beyond the -Gates Ajar? Your novelist is ready to turn out the regulation type -with the greatest ease. Cosmopolitan novel-writing is simply a trade. -The living through of local and artistic impressions, the study of -types in their environment, the color of surroundings are unnecessary. -Imagination, divorced from nature study, is left to guide the way. - -Once Crawford followed this school, and the result was “An American -Politician,” the “worst novel ever produced by an American.” Had -Crawford been a tradesman he might have produced a passable book, but -being an artist, he failed, not knowing what paint to mix in order -to get the coloring. The difference between an artist and tradesman, -the one must go to nature direct, the other takes her secondhand. No -artist can catch the lines of an Italian sunset from a studio window -in London. “Art is interpretive, not imitative.” Crawford is only a -novelist in the true sense when he knows his characters and their -surroundings. This is amply proven in the charming volumes that make -his Saracenesca series. Here he is at home, so to speak. The Rome -of Pius IX, with its struggles, its ambitions, the designs of wily -intriguers, the fall of the temporal power of the Papacy, the rise of -an united Italy, the flocking to Rome of the scourings and outcasts of -the provincial cities, the money-mad schemes of daring but ignorant -speculators, and over all the lovely blue Italian sky, rise before us -in all their minuteness at the biddance of Marion Crawford. His work is -hardly inferior to genuine history; “for it affords that insight into -the human mind, that acquaintance with the spirit of the age, without -which the most minute knowledge is only a bundle of dry and meaningless -facts.” Who that knows Rome of the Popes and Rome of the Vandals will -not feel heavy-hearted at these lines? - -“Old Rome is dead, too, never to be old Rome again. The last breath has -been breathed, the aged eyes are closed forever, corruption has done -its work and the grand skeleton lies bleaching on seven hills, half -covered with the piecemeal stucco of a modern architectural body. The -result is satisfactory to those who have brought it, if not to the rest -of the world. The sepulchre of old Rome in the new capital of united -Italy.” The exclusiveness of the patrician families of Rome, families -that a brood of novelists pretend to draw life-like, is happily hit by -the painter Gouache. - -Gouache, long resident in Rome, being asked what he knows of Roman -families, replies, “Their palaces are historic. Their equipages are -magnificent. That is all foreigners see of Roman families.” Who that -has seen the great Leo carried through the grand sala, a vision of -intellectual loveliness, will not recall it as he reads? “The wonderful -face that seemed to be carved out of transparent alabaster, smiled and -slowly turned from side to side as it passed by. The thin, fragile hand -moved unceasingly, blessing the people.” “True,” said my friend, “his -pages are delicious bits of the dead past. At every sentence we halt -and find a memory. He has the sense of art, if Maupassant’s definition -of it as ‘the profound and delicious enjoyment which rises to your -heart before certain pages, before certain phrases’ be correct.” - -Dinner was finished. A check, Paulo. We rose and went. - - - - -CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. - - -Venice, that lovely city by the sea, has been described a thousand -times by the painter’s brush, by the poet’s pen. It is the last bit of -poetry left to us, in the ever increasing dulness of this world—the -only place that one would expect to meet a goblin or a genial Irish -fairy. It is not the intention of this paper to describe the queenly -city. More than a thousand kodak fiends are daily doing that work, -with the eagerness of a money-lender and the artistic sense of a -fence painter. A city may, however, have many attractions, other than -its magic beauty; nay, even a dull uninteresting place may become -interesting from some great historic event that happened there, or -from some impression caught and treasured in memory’s store-house. -Venice has a charm for me other than the poetry that lurks in its every -stone; it was there that I first dipped into one of those rare hooks -whose charms grow around the heart soft and green as a vine-tendril. - -A professor of mine, one of those men who hugs one saying in life, -thereon building a false reputation for wisdom, was in the habit -of saying, “Accidents are the spice of life.” As it is his only -contribution approaching the threshold of the philosopher’s goddess -that I heard in the five years of his weary cant, I willingly record -it. To me it expresses a truth, albeit five years is a long hunt. -Illustrations sometimes improve the text, and this brief paper, by the -way, is but a design to enhance the professor’s. It was an accident, -pure and simple, that made me wend my way to the Rialto, there to lean -against the parapet watching some probably great unknown painting, -something that might be anything the imagination cared to conjure up. -It was an accident that made an English divine ask me in sputtering -French what the painter was working on. It was an accident that made -me inform him in common American English that my telescope, by some -accidental foresight, was at my lodgings. The divine was a genial -man, one of those breaths of spring that we sometimes meet in life. -Invited to my lodgings, he fancied a few tiny volumes of the apostle -of “sweetness and light” to pass those hours that hang heavily, in all -lands save Eden. In my pocket he thrust, as he remarked, “a no ordinary -book, one that will hold you as in a vice.” This proceeding was rather -remarkable, had he not in the same breath invited me to take a gondola -to one of the isles, and there enjoy the pocketed volume. It is -delightful to meet a genuine man, speaking your mother-tongue, after -weary months of Italian delving. To the little isle we went, an isle -known to readers of Byron, as the place where he labored long under -Armenian monks to learn their guttural tongue, the monks say “with -success.” I knew nothing, in those days, of destructive criticism. -After a tour in the monastery, of the ordinary Italian type, I lay down -on the green sward under the beneficent shade of a huge palm, wrapped -in the odors of a thousand flowers that sleepily nodded to the music -of the creamy breakers on the rocky shore. Books have their atmosphere -as well as men. Deprive them of it, and many a charm is lost. I drew -the little volume from my pocket, and there in that atmosphere, akin to -the one in which it was begot, I read of life in summer seas, life that -floats along serene and sweet as a bell-note on a calm, frosty night, -life - - “Where the deep blue ocean never replies - To the sibilant voice of the spray.” - -My Anglican friend was unable to give any clue to the author’s -identity, other than what the meagre title-page afforded. The -title-page was of that modest kind that says, “Enter in and see for -yourself.” It had none of the tricks of book-making, and none of the -airs of a _parvenu_. Under other skies than Italian I learned that -the author of “South Sea Idyls,” Charles Warren Stoddard, poet and -traveller, was one of the kindest and most modest of men. In truth, -that it was the combination of these rare qualities that had kept him -from the crowd when lesser men made prodigious sales of their wares. -To the man of mediocrity, it is a tickling sensation to float with the -current to the music of the shore-rabble, who shout from an innate -desire to hear their voices. With the possessor of that rare gift, -genius, the mouthings of the present count little; it is for a future -hold on man, that he toils. It is to do something, to paint a face, -to carve a bust whose glorious shape shall hand to the ages a form -of beauty, to weave a snatch of melody that shall go down the stream -of time consoling dark souls. Mediocrity is mortal, genius immortal. -The common mind, without bogging in metaphysics or transcendentalism, -subjects so dear to American critics, may readily grasp the destination -by a comparison in poetry of the “Proverbial Philosophy” with “In -Memoriam,” in prose “Barriers Burned Away,” with “Waverly.” Another -point for mediocrity, perhaps from its possessor’s view the best: -it is well recompensed in this life. The very reverse is the case -with genius. If then the author of the “South Sea Idyls” is not as -popular with the crowd as the writers of short stories who revel in -analysis, whether it be a gum-boil or the falling of my lady’s fan, -he can have no fear. It is but his badge of superiority. The few great -men, who are the literary arbiters of each century, have spoken, and -their verdict is the verdict of posterity. “One does these things but -once,” say they, “if one ever does them, but you have done them once -for all; no one need ever write of the South Sea again.” Here, it is -well to impress on the casual reader, in the light of this verdict, a -great historic truth cobwebbed over by critical spiders; that it was -not the Italians that gave the chaplet to Dante, nor the Spaniards to -Cervantes, nor the Portuguese to Camoëns, nor the Germans to Goethe, -but the great cosmopolitan few, scattered over the world, guardians of -the garden of immortality. - -Charles Warren Stoddard was born in Rochester, N. Y., 7th August, 1843. -At an early age he left his native state, with his family and emigrated -to California, that fertile foster-mother of American literary men. -In that delightful state, region of plants and flowers, was passed his -boyhood, a boyhood rich in promise, strengthened by a good education. -With a natural bent for travel, fed by the tales of travellers and the -waters of romance, it was his happy luck, at the age of twenty-three -to find himself appointed to that really bright journal, the _San -Francisco Chronicle_, as its correspondent. The commission was a roving -one, and the young correspondent was left free to contribute sketches -in his own inimitable way. Let us believe that the editor well knew -the choice mind he had secured in the young writer, and so knowing was -unwilling to put restrictions of the common newspaper kind in his way. -How could such a correspondent be harnessed in the dull statistics -and ribald gossip of these days? It was otherwise, as we his debtors -know. He was to wander at his own sweet will. The slight vein of sweet -melancholy that came with his life, drove him far from the grimy haunts -of civilization, far from the sickening thud of men thrown against the -cobble-stones of poverty. He sailed away with not a pang of sorrow to -those golden isles embedded in summer seas, where the moon - - “Seems to shine with a sunny ray, - And the night looks like a mellowed day. - - Isles where all things save man seem to have grown hoar in calm. - In calm unbroken since their luscious youth.” - -To a man of Stoddard’s genius and delicate perception, one thing could -have been foreseen. These lands yet warm with the sunshine of youth -would play melodies on his soul, as the winds on Æolian harps; melodies -hitherto unknown to the jaded working world. That he could catch these -airs and give them a tangible form, was not so sure. Others had heard -these siren airs, but failed to yoke them to speech. Melville, now and -then, had reproduced a few notes; notes full of dreamy beauty, making -us long for the master who was to give the full and perfect song. That -master was found in Stoddard. He produced, as Howells so finely has -said, “the lightest, sweetest, wildest, freshest things that ever were -written about the life of that summer ocean,” things “of the very make -of the tropic spray,” which “know not if it be sea or sun.” Whether you -open with a prodigal in Tahiti and see for yourself “that there are -few such delicious bits of literature in the language,” or follow the -writer, who, thanking the critics, prefers to find out for himself the -worth of a writer, commences at the beginning with the charming tale -of “Kana-ana,” you will be in company with the acute critic who has -pronounced the life of the summer sea, “once done,” by Stoddard, “and -that for all time.” What should we look for in such a book? “Pictures -of life, for melody of language, for shapes and sounds of beauty;” -and these are to be found without stint in the “South Sea Idyls.” The -form of Kana-ana haunts me, “with his round, full girlish face, lips -ripe and expressive, not quite so sensual as those of most of his -race; not a bad nose, by any means; eyes perfectly glorious—regular -almonds—with the mythical lashes that sweep.” Kana-ana, who had tasted -of civilization, finding it hollow, pining for his own fair land, and -when restored to the shade of his native palms, wasting away, dying -delirious, in his tiny canoe, rocked to death by the spirit of the -deep. Or is it Taboo—“the figure that was like the opposite halves -of two men bodily joined together in an amateur attempt at human -grafting, whose trunk was curved the wrong way; a great shoulder -bullied a little shoulder, and kept it decidedly under; a long leg -walked right around a short leg that was perpetually sitting itself -down on invisible seats, or swinging itself for the mere pleasure of -it,” meeting him by the enchanting cascade. Or is it Joe of Lahaina, -whose young face seemed to embody a whole tropical romance. Joe, his -bright scape-grace, met with months after in that isle of lost dreams -and salty tears, the leper-land of Molokai. Who shall forget the end of -that tale, where the author steals away in the darkness from the dying -boy? - -“I shall never see little Joe again, with his pitiful face, growing -gradually as dreadful as a cobra’s, and almost as fascinating in its -hideousness. I waited, a little way off in the darkness, waited and -listened, till the last song was ended, and I knew he would be looking -for me to say good night. But he did not find me, and he will never -again find me in this life, for I left him sitting in the dark door of -his sepulchre—sitting and singing in the mouth of his grave—clothed all -in Death.” - -It matters little whether it be Kana-ana, Taboo or Joe of Lahaina, -the hand of a master was at their birth, the spell of the wizard is -around them. The full development of Stoddard’s genius is not found -in character-drawing, great as that gift undoubtedly is, but in his -wonderful reproduction of the ever-changing hues of land and sea, under -the tropical sun. What description is better fitted to fill the eye -with beauty, the ear with melody, than these lines from the very first -page of his “South Sea Idyls?” - -“Once a green oasis blossomed before us—a garden in perfect bloom, -girdled about with creamy waves; within its coral cincture pendulous -boughs trailed in the glassy waters; from its hidden bowers spiced -airs stole down upon us; above all the triumphant palm trees clashed -their melodious branches like a chorus with cymbals; yet from the very -gates of this paradise a changeful current swept us onward, and the -happy isle was buried in night and distance.” - -It is not easy to make extracts from this charming book. It is a -mosaic, to be read as a whole. A tile, no matter how beautiful it may -be, can give no adequate conception of the mosaic of which it forms a -part. It may, however, stimulate us to procure it. These extracts taken -at random, would that they might have the same effect. The book, once -so rare, is now within the easy reach of all. The new edition lately -published by the Scribners is all that one could ask, and is a fitting -home for the undying melodies of the summer seas. To read it is to be -reminded of the opening lines of Endymion. - - “A thing of beauty is a joy forever, - Its loveliness increases; it will never - Pass into nothingness; but will keep - A bower quiet for us and a sleep, - Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.” - -Stoddard’s other works are a volume of poems, San Francisco, 1867; -“Mashallah,” a work that produces, as no other work written in English, -the Egypt of to-day. In this work his touch is as light as that of -Gautier, while his eyes are as open as De Amicis; and a little volume -on Molokai. At present he is the English professor at the Catholic -University. - -With the quoting of a little poem, “In Clover,” a poem full of his -delicate touches, I close this sketch of a writer to whom I am much -indebted for happy hours under Italian skies and in Adirondack camps. - - “O Sun! be very slow to set; - Sweet blossoms kiss me on the mouth; - O birds! you seem a chain of jet, - Blown over from the south. - - O cloud! press onward to the hill, - He needs you for his falling streams - The sun shall be my solace still - And feed me with his beams. - - O little humpback bumble bee! - O smuggler! breaking my repose, - I’ll slily watch you now and see - Where all the honey goes. - - Yes, here is room enough for two; - I’d sooner be your friend than not; - Forgetful of the world, as true, - I would it were forgot.” - - - - -MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. - - -The poet-critic Stedman, in his book on American poetry, gives a few -lines to what he terms the Irish-American school. His definition is a -little misleading, as some of the poets he cites were more American -than the troop of lesser bards that grace his polished pages. It -is rather a strange notion of American critics that Prof. Boyesen, -having cast aside the language of Norseland to sport in the larger -waters of our English tongue, is metamorphosed into a true American, -while the literary sons and daughters of Irish parents, born and -striking root in American soil, are marked with a foreign brand. It -is the old story of English literary prejudice reproduced by American -critics. American _modistes_ go to Paris for their fashions, American -critics to the Strand for their literary canons. It is pleasant to -know that the bulk of the people stay at home. In this Irish-American -school one meets with the name of Maurice Francis Egan. “A sweet and -true poet” is Stedman’s criticism. Coming from a master in the art -of literary interpretation, it must occupy a place in all coming -estimates of Mr. Egan’s poetry. This criticism is, nevertheless, -short and unsatisfactory, it gives no true idea of the poet’s place -in the letters of his country. It merely, if one is inclined to agree -with Stedman, establishes that Mr. Egan has a place among the bards. -In the hall of Parnassus, however, there are so many stalls that the -ordinary reader prefers to have the particular place assigned to each -bard pointed out. The author of this sketch, while not accredited to -the theatre of Parnassus, may be able to give to those who are not -under the guidance of a uniformed usher some hints whereby Mr. Egan’s -particular place may be discerned; that place is among the minor poets. -The major stalls are all empty, waiting for the coming men, so glibly -prophesied about by the little makers of our every-day literature. - -Maurice Francis Egan, poet, essayist, novelist, journalist, and -all-round literary man, was born in Philadelphia, Pa., May 24, 1852. -His first instructors were the Christian Brothers, at their well-known -La Salle College in that city. From La Salle he went to Georgetown -College, as a professor of English. After leaving Georgetown he edited -a short-lived venture, _McGee’s Weekly_. In 1881 he became assistant -editor of the _Freeman’s Journal_, and remained virtually at the head -of that paper until the death of its founder and the passing of the -property to other hands. The founding of the Catholic University, and -the acceptance of its English professorship by Warren Stoddard, made -a vacancy in the faculty of Notre Dame University. This vacancy was -offered to and accepted by Mr. Egan. - -There are few places better fitted as a poet’s home than Notre Dame. -Beautiful scenery to fill the eye, brilliant society to spur the -mind, and a spacious library freighted with the riches of the past. -In comparison with the majority of the Catholic writers, the poet’s -journey in life has been comparatively smooth, though far from what it -should have been. He has published the following volumes:—“That Girl of -Mine,” 1879; “Preludes,” 1880; “Song Sonnets,” London, 1885; “Theatre,” -1885; “Stories of Duty,” 1885; “Garden of Roses,” 1886; “Life Around -Us,” 1886; “Novels and Novelists,” 1888; “Patrick Desmond,” 1893; -“Poems,” 1893. To this list must be added innumerable articles in -magazines and weekly journals. Judged by the signed output, it is safe -to write that the English professor of Notre Dame is a very busy man. -The wonder is that a mind so occupied by so many diverse things can -write entertainingly of each. - -The poet’s first book, a few sonnets and poems, was for “sweet -charity’s sake,” and had but a limited circulation. It is safe to say -that every first book of a genuine poet, despite its crudities, will -show the seeker signs of things to come. Egan’s book was not without -promises, but in truth these promises are only partly fulfilled in his -latest volume of verse. There may be many reasons adduced for this -disparity between promise and fulfilment. One of them is the haste -with which poetry is published. Horace’s dictum of using the file has -been long since forgotten. The rabble calls for poetry, and, like the -Italian and his lentils, care little for the quality. If the poet -harkens to the calls (and who among the contemporary bards has laughed -it to scorn?) he exchanges perpetuity for the present, notoriety for -fame. Nor will the rabble leave the poet freedom in choosing his -material. He is simply a tradesman, and must use what is placed at his -disposal. Things great and grand must be left unto that day when the -poet, untrammelled by worldly care, shall write his heart’s dream. If -the time ever comes, the poet learns in sorrow that his dreams will -never float into human speech, for the hand has lost its cunning. So -the days of youth and manhood pass, blowing bubbles or decorating -platitudes. Death snatches the poetling, and oblivion is his coverlid. -The songs he sang died with the rabble. The new generation asked for -a poet that could drill into the human heart and bring forth its -secrets—a listener to nature, her interpreter to man. To such a one the -vocabulary of a minor bard is useless. Another reason, more applicable -to our author, is that he has been unfortunate to be a pioneer in -Catholic American literature. His poems, appealing, as they do, to -a distinct class, and that far from being a book-buying one, will -fail to attract the lynx-eyed critic who cares only for the general -literary purveyor. From such a source, the poet’s chance of corrective -criticism has been slight. The class to which Mr. Egan belongs has -no criticism to offer its literary food givers. If an author’s book -sells, his name is blazoned forth in half a hundred headless petty -journals. His most glaring defects become through their glasses mystic -beauty spots. He is invited to lecture on all kinds of subjects. A -clique grows around him, whose duty it is to puff the master. The -reasons, frankly adduced, have limited the scope and dwarfed the really -fine genius of Maurice Egan. His latest volume, while containing many -poems that reveal hidden powers, has much of the crudity and faults of -earlier work. These poems speak of better things that will be fulfilled -by the poet if he will consecrate himself wholly to his art, shutting -his mind to the rabble shout and eulogious criticism. Then may he hear -the rhythms and cadences of that music whose orchestra comprises all -things from the shells to the stars, all beings from the worm to man, -all sounds from the voice of the little bird to the voice of the great -ocean. To these translations men will cling to the last, and in their -clinging is the poet’s fame. In his shorter poems, and notably in his -sonnets, Mr. Egan is at his best. Here his scope is broader, his touch -is firmer. The mastery of musical expression, lacking in his longer -poems, is here to be met with in the fulness of its beauty. As a writer -of sonnets, Mr. Egan has had great success. In this line of writing -he is easily at the head of the younger American school of poets. “A -Night in June” is a charming piece of word painting, full of beauty -and power. The reader of this exquisite sonnet will feel how deftly -the poet has put in words the silent magic of such a night, when air -and earth have songs to sing. In the sonnet to the old lyric master -Theocritus, the poet’s graceful interpretative touch is equally felt. - - Daphnis is mute, and hidden nymphs complain, - And mourning mingles with their fountain’s song; - Shepherds contend no more, as all day long - They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus plain: - The master-voice is silent, songs are vain; - Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong - Done by the gods, when gods and men were strong, - Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain. - O sweetest singer of the olden days, - In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead; - The gods are gone, but poets never die; - Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, - Sicilian nightingales enrapturéd - Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky. - -The sonnet “Of Flowers” gives a happy setting to a beautiful thought: - - There were no roses till the first child died, - No violets, no balmy-breathed heartsease,— - No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees, - The honey-hearted suckle, no gold-eyed - And lowly dandelion, nor, stretching wide - Clover and cowslip cups, like rival seas, - Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze - Runs giddy races, playing seek and hide. - For all Flowers died when Eve left Paradise, - And all the world was flowerless awhile, - Until a little child was laid in earth. - Then, from its grave grew violets for its eyes, - And from its lips rose-petals for its smile; - And so all flowers from that child’s death took birth. - -To those who have lovingly lingered over the pages of Maurice de -Guerin, pages that breathe the old Greek world of thought, the -following sonnet, that paints that modern Grecian with a few masterly -strokes, will be keenly relished. It is the fine implications of these -lines that is the life of our hope for the poet and the future. - -MAURICE DE GUERIN. - - The old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes - Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair, - Unseen by others; to him maiden-hair - And waxen lilacs and those birds that rise - A-sudden from tall reeds, at slight surprise, - Brought charmed thoughts; and in earth everywhere, - He, like sad Jacques, found a music, rare - As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise. - A Pagan heart, a Christian soul, had he, - He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed, - Till earth and heaven met within his breast! - As if Theocritus, in Sicily, - Had come upon the Figure crucified, - And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest. - -As an essayist, Mr. Egan has touched many subjects, and always in an -entertaining vein. Some of his essays are remarkable for their plain -speaking. He has studied his race in their new surroundings, knows -equally well their virtues and failings. If he can take an honest -delight in the virtues, he is capable of writing with no uncertain -sound on the failings, failings that have been so mercilessly used -by the vulgarly comic school of American playwrights. His essays are -corrective and should find their way into every Irish-American home. -They would tend to correct many abuses and aid in the detection of -those bunions so sacredly kept on the feet of the Irish race—last relic -of the Penal times. A recent essay throws a series of blue lights—the -color so well liked by Carlyle—on our shallow collegiate system. Will -it be read by our Catholic educators? That is a question that time will -answer. If they read it aright they will be apt to change their system -of teaching the classics parrot-like, an empty word translation. They -will transport their pupils from the bare class-room to the sunny skies -of Greece and Rome, and under these skies see the religious dogmas, -the philosophical systems, the fine arts, the entire civilization of -those ancient thought giving nations. “What professor,” says de Guerin, -“reading Virgil and Homer to his pupils, has developed the poetry -of the Iliad or Æneid by the poetry of nature under the Grecian and -Italian skies. Who has dreamt of showing the reciprocal relation of the -poets to the philosophers, the philosophers to the poets, and these in -turn to the artists—Plato to Homer, Homer to Phidias? It is a want of -this that makes the classics so dull to youth, so useless to manhood.” - -Mr. Egan, as a novelist, has written many books, dealing mostly with -Irish-American life. These novels are filled with strong, manly -feeling, and Catholic pictures beautiful enough to arrest the attention -of the most fastidious. In these days of romance readers such books -must serve as an antidote to the subtle poison that permeates the -fictive art. They are pleasant and instructive, and that is a high -tribute in these days of dulness and spiced immorality. Take him all in -all, perhaps the most acceptable tribute is, that whatever may be his -gifts in the various rôles he has essayed, heavy or slight, they have -been ungrudgingly used for his race and religion. - - - - -JOHN B. TABB. - - -A friend once wrote to me: “What do you know about a poet who signs his -name John B. Tabb, his poems are delicious?” My answer was, that I knew -nothing of his personal history, but that his poems had found their way -into my aristocratic scrap-book. Here I might pause to whisper that -the adjective aristocratic, in my sense, has nothing haughty about -it. When joined to the noun scrap-book, a good commentator—they are -scarce—would freely translate the phrase the indwelling of good poetry. -Since then my personal knowledge of the poet has grown slowly, a slight -stock and no leaves. Even that, like my old coat, is second-handed. -Such material, no matter how highly recommended by the keepers of the -golden balls, is usually found to be a poor bargain. But here it is, -keeping in mind that rags are better than no clothing, and that older -proverb—half a loaf is better than no bread. - -“John B. Tabb, (I quote) was born in Virginia, when or where I know -not. Becoming a Catholic he studied for the priesthood and was -ordained.” Here my data fails me. At present he is the professor of -literature in St. Charles’ College, Maryland. It is something in his -favor, this scanty biographical fare. Where the biography is long, -laudatory, and in rounded periods, it is approached as one would a -snake in the grass, with a kind of fear that in the end you may be -bitten. “May I be skinned alive,” said that master of word-selection -and phrase-juggler, Flaubert, “before I ever turn my private feelings -to literary account.” And the reader, with the stench of recent -keyhole biography in his nostrils, shouts “bravo.” Flaubert’s phrase -might easily have hung on the pen of the retiring worshipper of the -beautiful, “the Roman Catholic priest, who drudges through a daily -round of pedagogical duties in St. Charles’ College.” This quoted -phrase may stand. Pedagogy, at best, is a dull pursuit for a poet. It -is not congenial, and I have held an odd idea that whatever was not -congenial, disguise it as you may, is drudgery. And all this by way of -propping the quoted sentence. The strange thing is that in the midst -of this daily round of drudgery the poet finds time to produce what a -recent critic well calls “verse-gems of thought.” These verse-gems, -if judged by intrinsic evidence, would argue an environment other -than a drudgery habitation. In truth, it is hard to desecrate them by -predicating of them any environment other than a spiritual one. - -This brings us to write of Fr. Tabb’s poetry that it is elusive, from -a critical point of view. When you bring your preconceived literary -canons to bear upon it, they are found wanting—too clumsy to test the -delicacy, fineness of touch, and the permeated spiritualism embodied in -the verse-gem. It is well summarized in the saying that “it possesses -to the full a white estate of virginal prayerful art.” One might define -it by negatives, such as the contrary of passion poetry. The point -of view most likely to give the clearest conception would be found -in the sentence: an evocation from within by a highly spiritualized -intelligence. The poet has caught the higher music, the music of a soul -in which dwell order and method. In other words, he has assiduously -cultivated to its fullest development both the spiritual sense and the -moral sense. - -It is easy to trace in Fr. Tabb’s poetry the influence of Sidney -Lanier. It has been asserted, and with much truth, that Lanier’s -influence has strangely fascinated the younger school of Southern -poets. Sladen, in his book on Younger American Poets, tells us that -“Lanier differs from the other dead poets included in his book, in that -he was not only a poet but the founder of a school of poetry.” To his -school belongs Fr. Tabb, a school following the founder whose aim is to -depict - - “All gracious curves of slender wings, - Bark mottlings, fibre spiralings, - Fern wavings and leaf flickerings. - - Yea, all fair forms and sounds and lights, - And warmths and mysteries and mights, - Of Nature’s utmost depths and heights.” - -The defects of this school are best seen in the founder. He was a -musician before a poet, and helplessly strove to catch shades by -words that can only be rendered by music. Fr. Tabb has learned -this limitation of his school. For the glowing semi-pantheism of -Lanier he has substituted the true and no less beautiful doctrine of -Christianity. All his verse-gems are redolent of his faith. They are -religious in the sense that they are begotten by faith and breathe the -air of the sanctuary. To read them is to leave the hum and pain of -life behind, and enter the cloister where all is silent and peaceful, -where dwelleth the spirit of God. Of them it is safe to assert that -their white estate of virginal, prayerful art shall constitute their -immortality. Fr. Tabb has not, as yet, thought fit to give them a -more permanent form than they have in the current magazines. Catholic -literature, and especially poetry, is so meagre that when a true -singer touches the lyre it is not to be wondered at that those of his -household should desire to possess his songs in a more worthy dwelling -than that of an ephemeral magazine. In the absence of the coming -charming volume I quote from my scrap-book a few of the verse-gems, -thereby trusting to widen the poet’s audience and in an humble way gain -lovers for his long-promised volume. - -What could illustrate the peculiar genius of our poet better than the -delicious gem that he has called - -“THE WHITE JESSAMINE.” - - I knew she lay above me, - Where the casement all the night - Shone, softened with a phosphor glow - Of sympathetic light, - And that her fledgling spirit pure - Was pluming fast for flight. - - Each tendril throbbed and quickened - As I nightly climbed apace, - And could scarce restrain the blossoms - When, anear the destined place, - Her gentle whisper thrilled me - Ere I gazed upon her face. - - I waited, darkling, till the dawn - Should touch me into bloom, - While all my being panted - To outpour its first perfume, - When, lo! a paler flower than mine - Had blossomed in the gloom! - -“Content” is another gem of exquisite thought and workmanship. - -CONTENT. - - Were all the heavens an overladen bough - Of ripened benediction lowered above me, - What could I crave, soul-satisfied as now, - That thou dost love me? - - The door is shut. To each unsheltered blessing - Henceforth I say, “Depart! What wouldst thou of me?” - Beggared I am of want, this boon possessing, - That thou dost love me. - -“Photographed” may well make the trio in the more fully illustrating -his genius:— - -PHOTOGRAPHED. - - For years, an ever-shifting shade - The sunshine of thy visage made; - Then, spider-like, the captive caught - In meshes of immortal thought. - - E’en so, with half-averted eye, - Day after day I passed thee by, - Till, suddenly, a subtler art - Enshrined thee in my heart of heart. - -“Not even the infinite surfeit of Columbus literature of the last six -months can deprive Fr. Tabb’s tribute in Lippincott’s of its sweetness -and light,” says the _Review of Reviews_: - - With faith unshadowed by the night, - Undazzled by the day, - With hope that plumed thee for the flight - And courage to assay, - God sent thee from the crowded ark, - Christ bearer, like the dove, - To find, o’er sundering waters dark, - New lands for conquering love. - -As a final selection, we may well conclude these brief notes on -a poet with staying powers by quoting a poem, contributed to the -_Cosmopolitan_, called “Silence;” a poem permeated with his fine -spiritual sense: - - Temple of God, from all eternity - Alone like Him without beginning found; - Of time, and space, and solitude the bound, - Yet in thyself of all communion free. - Is, then, the temple holier than he - That dwells therein? Must reverence surround - With barriers the portal, lest a sound - Profane it? Nay; behold a mystery! - - What was, remains; what is, has ever been: - The lowliest the loftiest sustains. - A silence, by no breath of utterance stirred— - Virginity in motherhood—remains, - Clear, midst a cloud of all-pervading sin, - The voice of Love’s unutterable word. - - - - -JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. - - -In this age of rondeaus and other feats in rhyme, it is pleasant -to meet with a little book that abhors all verse tricks of the -fin-de-siècle poets, and judiciously follows the old masters. Such -a little book peeps at me from a corner in my library, marked in -capitals, “Poems Worth Reading.” It was given to me years ago by its -author, and as a remembrance, a few lines from the poem that appealed -most to my intellect in those days, was written on its fly-leaf. It was -its author’s first book, and was put forth with that shrinking modesty -that has heralded all meritorious work. Of preface, that relic of -egotism, there was none. - -It was dedicated to one who was close to his heart, to - - “JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY, - - My very dear friend, and an honorable gentleman.” - -It had O’Reilly’s warm word to speed and gain it a hearing, a word that -would have remained unwritten were it not that the little volume, of -its own worth, demanded that the word but expressed its merit. Since -those days, it has travelled and found a ready home. Its gentle humor -has made it quotable in the fashionable salons, its quaintness tickled -the lonely scholar, stinging notes against wrong and its brilliant -biting to the very core of silk-dressed sham, bespoke a hearty welcome -in the haunts of the poor and oppressed. - -The volume was one of promise and large hope. Of it O’Reilly wrote: -“Not for years has such a first book as this appeared in America.” -This recognition was but a truth. The author is a true poet, not a -rhyme trickster or a cherry-stone filer, that brood so thoroughly -detested by O’Reilly. He has something to say, a genuine, poetical -impression to give in each poem. His genius, as that of most poets of -Celtic blood, is essentially dramatic. This may best be seen in that -fine, man-loving poem, “Netchaieff.” Netchaieff, a Russian Nihilist, -was condemned to prison for life. Deprived of writing materials, he -allowed his fingernail to grow until he fashioned it into a pen. With -this he wrote, in his blood, on the margin of a book, the story of -his sufferings. Almost his last entry was a note that his jailer had -just boarded up the solitary pane which admitted a little light into -his cell. The “letter written in blood” was smuggled out of prison and -published, and Netchaieff died very soon after. The poet’s opening -lines, relating to the Czar, Netchaieff’s death in prison, show that -the human interest of this poet swallows up all other interests. The -human alone can heat his blood and rouse in impassioned verse his -indignation. How finely conceived is the satire in these lines: - - “Netchaieff is dead, your Majesty. - You knew him not. He was a common hind, - Who lived ten years in hell, and then he died— - To seek another hell, as we must think, - Since he was rebel to your Majesty.” - -There are many startling lines in this poem, lines that would give -our fairy-airy school of poets material for a dozen sonnets. “For the -People” is another poem that shows the ink was not watered. It is full -of truth, unpleasant to the ears of the well-fed and easy living, but -truth nevertheless, painted with a bold and masterly hand. It is the -critic’s way to call poems of this kind passionate unreasonableness, -while an irregular ode to a cat or a ballade of the shepherdess is -filled with passionate reasonableness. All which proves that these -amusing gentlemen are unconsciously sitting by the volcano’s side. -They have eyes and they see not; they have ears and they hear not. The -prophetic voice of the poets who will sing from their inner seeing, -caring not whether the age listens or hurries on, is lost on these -so-called literary interpreters. The tocsin blast dies on the breeze, -or speaks to a few lonely thinkers who catch its notes for future -warning; the reed’s soft sensuous music is hugged and repeated by the -critics and the commonplace. When the lava tumbles forth, then the -singer whose songs were a part of him, passionate, conceived in the -white heat of truth, may have the diviner’s crown. The critics and -commonplace, in their suffering, remember the warning in these burning -lines: - - “There’s a serf whose chains are of paper; there’s a king with - a parchment crown, - There are robber knights and brigands in factory, field and town; - But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of wage rent; - And the baron’s toll is Shylock’s, with a flesh and blood per cent. - - “The seamstress bends to her labor all night in a narrow room, - The child, defrauded of childhood, tiptoes all day at the loom, - The soul must starve, for the body can barely on husks be fed; - And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the price of bread. - - “Ye have shorn and bound the Samson, and robbed him of learning’s - light; - But his sluggish brain is moving, his sinews have all their might, - Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privilege, pride and caste! - The Giant is blind and thinking, and his locks are growing fast.” - -“Netchaieff” and “For the People” are poems with a meaning. Their -author is a thinker, a keen student of the social problems that -convulse our every-day life. He walks the city’s streets, and sees -sights and hears ominous murmuring. He uses the poet’s right to -translate these scenes and sights into his own impassioned verse. -This done, his duty done. The Creator must give brains to the -reader. If that has been done, the poet’s lines will fall fresh -and thought-provoking on his ears. It will take him from Mittens, -Marjorie’s Kisses, April Maids and the school of fantastic littleness, -to man’s inhumanity to man, the burning wrong of our day. An Adirondack -climb, but then the point of view repays the exertion. It is generally -written that the author of Songs and Satires is a comic poet. A -half-way truth is expressed. If by comic is meant humor, yes; all poets -who are worth looking into have in a greater or less degree that -precious gift. It is a distinct gain if the author is an artist and -knows how to use it, dangerous to the commonplace, who put it on with a -white-wash brush. It is a nice line that divides humor from buffoonery. -Our author is a humorist of that school whose genius has been used to -alleviate human suffering. Its shafts are not forged by the hammer of -spleen on the anvil of malice, but the workmanship of love mourning -for misery. His spirit is akin to Hood’s. His touch is light, but his -poniard is a Damascene blade well pointed. Cant has no foil to set it -off. “A Concord Love Song” is a charming bit of satire. I can well -remember the effect it had on a teacher of mine, a proud sage of that -school of word-twisting and transcendental gush. He sniffed and pawed -viciously, a sure sign that the poet’s dart was safely lodged in the -bull’s eye. Those who have, as a sleep seducer, read some of the -Concord fraternity’s vapid musings on the pensive Here and the doubtful -Yonder, will deliciously relish such lines as these: - - “Ah, the joyless fleeting - Of our primal meeting, - And the fateful greeting - Of the How and Why! - Ah, the Thingness flying - From the Hereness, sighing - For a love undying - That fain would die. - - “Ah, the Ifness sadd’ning, - The Whichness madd’ning, - And the But ungladd’ning - That lie behind! - When the signless token - Of love is broken - In the speech unspoken, - Of mind to mind.” - -It is to his later and serious poems that the critic must go to find -the poet at his best. “At Sea” is a poem with a memory, inasmuch as -it is the “embodiment of as beautiful a story of brotherly love as the -world makes record.” The poet’s brother, Mr. John Roche, pay-clerk in -the United States Navy, died a hero’s death in the Samoan disaster of -March, 1889. Doubtless it was from this loved brother that the poet -took his love for the sea, and the gallant deeds of our young navy. -Here he is in his own field. “The Fight of the Armstrong Privateer” -shows genuine inspiration. It has color and passion. The reader feels -the swing of the graphic lines and a quickness in his own blood, while -the tale of daring rapidly and gracefully unfolds itself. - -James Jeffrey Roche was born at Mount Mellick, Queens county, Ireland, -forty-six years ago. His father was a schoolmaster, and to him the poet -is indebted for his early education. At a suitable age he entered St. -Dunstan’s College, Charlottetown, Prince Edward’s Island, the family -having emigrated there in the poet’s infancy. Here he finished his -classics and showed his literary bent by the publishing of a college -journal. Having the valedictory assigned to him, he hopelessly broke -down. The present year he returned to St. Dunstan’s the orator of -Commencement day, as he wittily remarked, to finish the valedictory -that had overtaxed his strength as a small boy. After leaving college -the poet came to Boston, entered commercial life, remaining in that -hardly genial business for sixteen years. During these years his pen -was busy at the real vocation of his life. He was for several years the -Boston correspondent of the _Detroit Free Press_, and had been long an -editorial contributor to the _Pilot_, before he took the position of -assistant editor on it, in 1883. As a journalist Mr. Roche has few -equals. His keen mind easily grapples the questions of the day, while -his good sense in their discussion never deserts him. In a few lines -he goes to the core. If his trenchant sarcasm punctures the bubble, -his humor will not fail to make it ridiculous. It is not the windy -editorial in our day that tortures the quacks, but the bright, pointed -dart of a paragraph. It is so easy to remember, may be stored in the -reader’s brain so readily, and used with deadly effect at any moment. A -writer who knows him well has this to say: “As a journalist he combines -two qualities not often found together, discretion and brilliancy. The -former quality was well exemplified in his editorial course during the -recent crisis in the history of the Irish National movement. He handles -political topics ably, and in the treatment of the still broader social -and economic questions, writes with the strength and spirit worthy of -the associate and successor of that apostle of human liberty and human -brotherhood, John Boyle O’Reilly.” - -In truth, the one thing most essentially felt in this writer, whether -in prose or poetry, is his sanity. There is no buncombe in the former, -no mawkishness nor pedantic prettiness in the latter. His genius has -no pose. So much the better for his fame and future. Mr. Roche’s -prose works are: “The Story of the Filibusters,” a subject dear to a -poet’s heart, and the “Life of John Boyle O’Reilly,” his chief and -friend. This volume was the work of ten weeks, and that in the hours -free from his editorial charge. It was a feat that few men could so -successfully achieve. It had to be done. No sacrifice was too great -for Roche to make for his dead friend. That his health did not give -way after the sleeplessness, work and worry of those ten weeks, is -the wonder of those who stood near to him. Despite the limited time -allowed to Mr. Roche, his biography shows few signs of haste. It is -well and interestingly written, a lasting memorial and a deep tribute -of affection to one of the most lovable characters of the century. -O’Reilly rises from this book as he was. Friendship, while giving -what was his due, restrains all affections that might mar the truth -of the portrait. His stature was felt to be large enough, without any -additions that crumble to time. - -There are those of us who hope that the poet, with greater leisure, -will give to O’Reilly’s race a monograph to be treasured and read by -each household, a monograph where the best in O’Reilly’s character -shall be emphasized, and so lovingly set that those who read shall take -heed and learn, while blessing him who gave the setting. The book as -it is costs too much and is hardly compact enough for those who need -the strong lessons of such a life as O’Reilly’s. In a smaller compass -and at less cost, done in that delightful way so thoroughly shown in -his art of paragraphing, the little book would be a guide-post to many -a struggling lad and lass. And to the young of our race must we look -and to the exiled part for the full flowering. As the poet, so is -the man, cheery, unaffected, kindly and man-loving. He has no airs, -lacks the melodramatic of the airy-fairy school. He does not pretend -that the gift of prophecy is his, nor hint that it sleeps amid verbal -ingenuities. He has a song to sing, a tale to tell, and he does it with -all the craft that is in him. In person Mr. Roche is of the medium -height, well-built, rather dark complexioned, with abundant jet-black -hair and brilliant hazel eyes. - -In concluding this sketch of a genuine man and true poet, I am tempted -to quote the little poem he so graciously wrote in the fly-leaf of his -“Songs and Satires:” - - “They chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone; - The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; - The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone, - Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, - Ye left her there alone! - - “My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain; - The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the main; - But lo! a light is breaking, of hope for thee again; - ’Tis Perseus’ sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming, - Across the Western main. - O Ireland! O my country! he comes to break thy chain.” - - - - -GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. - - -In the footsore journey through Mexico, when dinner gladdened our -vision, poor Read would solemnly remark, “dinners are reverent things.” -Society accepted this definition. I use society in the sense that -Emerson would. “When one meets his mate,” writes the Concord sage, -“society begins.” Read was mine, and to-day his quaint remark haunts me -with melancholy force. Thoughts of a dinner with the subject of this -sketch, George Parsons Lathrop, and one whose fair and forceful life -has been quenched, flit through my mind. It was but yesterday that I -bade the gentle scholar farewell, unconsciously a long farewell, for -Azarias has fled from the haunts of mortality. - - “This is the burden of the heart, - The burden that it always bore; - We live to love, we meet to part, - And part to meet on earth no more.” - -Colonel Johnson had read one of his charming essays. Brother Azarias -and George Parsons Lathrop had listened with rapt attention to the most -loveable writer of the New South. After the lecture I was asked to -join them, for, as the author of Lucille asks, “where is the man that -can live without dining?” That dinner, now that one lies dead, enters -my memory as reverent and makes of Read’s remark a truth. Men may or -may not appear best at dinner. Circumstances lord over most dinners. -As it was the only opportunity I had to snap my kodak, you must accept -my picture or seek a better artist. Kodak-pictures, when taken by -amateurs, are generally blurred. And now to mine. - -A man of medium height, strongly built, broad shouldered, the whole -frame betokening agility; face somewhat rounded giving it a pleasant -plumpness, with eyes quick, nervous and snappy, lighting up a more -than ordinary dark complexion—such is Parsons Lathrop, as caught by -my camera. His voice was soft, clear as a bell-note, and, when heard -in a lecture hall, charming; a slight hesitancy but adds to the -pleasure of the listener. In reading he affects none of the dramatic -poses and Delsarte movements that makes unconscious comedians of our -tragic-readers. It is pleasant to listen to such a man, having no fear -that in some moving passage, carried away by some quasi-involuntary -elocutionary movement, he might find himself a wreck among the -audience. The lines of Wordsworth are an apt description of him: - - “Yet he was a man - Whom no one could have passed without remark, - Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs, - And his whole figure, breathed intelligence.” - -Mr. Lathrop was born in Honolulu, Hawaiian Islands, August 25, 1851. -It was a fit place for a poet’s birthplace, “those gardens in perfect -bloom, girded about with creaming waves.” He came of Puritan stock, -the founder of his family being the Rev. John Lathrop, a Separatist -minister, who came to Massachusetts in 1634. Some of his kinsmen have -borne a noble part in the creation of an American literature, notably -the historian of the Dutch and the genial autocrat, Wendell Holmes. -His primary education was had in the public schools of New York; from -thence he went to Dresden, Germany, returning in 1870 to study law -at Columbia College. Law was little to his liking. The dry and musty -tomes, wherein is written some truth and not a little error, sanctioned -by one generation of wiseacres to be whittled past recognition by -another generation of the same species, could hardly hope to hold in -thraldom a mind that had from boyhood browsed in the royal demesne of -literature. Law and literature, despite the smart sayings of a few -will not run in the same rut. In abandoning law for literature, he but -followed the law of his being. What law lost literature gained. On a -trip abroad a year later he met Rose Hawthorne, the second daughter -of the great Nathaniel, wooed, and won her. This marriage was by far -the happiest event in his life, the crowning glory of his manhood, a -fountain of bliss to sustain his after life. Years later, in a little -poem entitled, “Love that Lives,” referring to the woman that was his -all, he addresses her in words that needed no coaxing by the muses, but -had long been distilled by his heart, ready for his pen to give them a -setting and larger life. - - “Dear face—bright, glinting hair— - Dear life, whose heart is mine— - The thought of you is prayer, - The love of you divine. - - In starlight, or in rain; - In the sunset’s shrouded glow; - Ever, with joy or pain, - To you my quick thoughts go.” - -And summing up, he tells us the kind of a bond that holds them. It is -the - - “Love that lives; - Its spring-time blossoms blow - ’Mid the fruit that autumn gives; - And its life outlasts the snow.” - -In 1875 he became assistant editor of that staid and stately magazine -the _Atlantic Monthly_, thereby adding to his fame, while it brought -him into intimate relationship with the best current thought of the -time. Few American literary men have not, at some time of their career, -been closely allied with the press. Mr. Lathrop has been no exception. -For two years, from ’77 to ’79, his brilliant pen guided the destinies -of the _Boston Courier_. In 1879 he purchased Hawthorne’s old home, -“The Wayside,” in Concord, Mass., making it his home until his removal -to New York in 1883. His present residence is at New London, Conn., -where a beautiful home, with its every nook consecrated to books and -paintings, tells of an ideal literary life and companionship. Mr. -Lathrop’s genius is many sided. This is often a sign of strength. Men, -says a recent critic, with a great and vague sense of power in them are -always doubtful whether they have reached the limits of that power, and -naturally incline to test this in the field in which they feel they -have fewer rather than more numerous auguries of success. Into many -fields this brilliant writer has gone, and with success. In some he -has sowed, in others reaped a golden harvest. He was a pioneer in that -movement which rightfully held that an author had something to do with -his brain-work. It seems strange that in this nineteenth century such -a proposition should demand a defender. Sanity, however, is not so -widespread as the optimists tell. The contention of those that denied -copyright was, “Ideas are common property.” So they are, says our -author, but granting this, don’t think you have bagged your game? How -about the form in which those ideas are presented? Is not the author’s -own work, wrought out with toil, sweat and privation—is not the labor -bestowed upon that form as worthy of proper wage as the manual skill -devoted to the making of a jumping jack? Yet no one has denied that -jumping-jacks must be paid for. This was sound reasoning and would have -had immediate effect, had Congress possessed a ha’penny worth of logic. -As it was, years were wasted agitating for a self-evident right, men’s -energies spent, and at length a half-loaf reluctantly given. - -In another field Mr. Lathrop has been a worker almost single-handed, -that of encouraging a school of American art. A few years ago a daub -from France was valued more than a marvellous color-study of John La -Farge, or a canvas breathing the luminous idealism of Waterman. Critics -sniffed at American art, while they went into rhapsody over some -foreign little master. Our author, whose keen perception had taught him -that the men who toiled in attics, without recompense in the present, -and dreary prospects for the future, for the sake of art, were not to -be branded as daubers, but as real artists, the fathers of American -art, became their defender. He pointed out the beauties of this new -school, its strength, and above all, that whatever it might have -borrowed from foreign art, it was American in the core. Men listened -more for the sake of the writer than interest in his theme. Gradually -they became tolerant and admitted that there was such a thing as -American art. - -It was natural that the son-in-law of America’s greatest story-teller -should try his strength in fiction. His first novels show a trace of -Hawthorne. They are romantic, while the wealth of language bewilders. -This, as a critic remarks, was an “indication of opulence and not of -poverty.” The author was feeling his way. His later works bear no -trace of Hawthorne; they are marked by his own fine spiritual sense. -The plots are ingenious, poetically conceived and worked out with -a deftness and subtlety that charms the reader. There is an air of -fineness about them totally foreign to the pyrotechnic displays of -current American fiction. The author is an acute observer, one who -looks below the surface, an ardent student of psychology. His English -is scholarly, has color and dramatic force. His novels are free from -immoral suggestions, straining after effect, overdoing the pathetic -and incongruous padding, the ordinary stock of our _fin de siècle_ -novelists. The reading of them not only amuses, a primary condition of -all works of fiction, but instructs and widens the reader’s horizon -on the side of the good and true. In poetry Mr. Lathrop has attained -his greatest strength. Some of his war-poems are full of fine feeling -and manly vigor. He is no carver of cherry-stones or singer of inane -sonnets and meaningless rondeaus, but a poet who has something to say; -none of your humanity messages, but songs that are human, songs that -find root in the human heart. Of his volumes “Rose and Rooftree,” -“Dreams and Days,” a critic writes: - -“There are poems in tenderer vein which appeal to many hearts, and -others wrought out of the joys and sorrows of the poet’s own life, -which draw hearts to him, as “May Rose” and the “Child’s Wish Granted” -and “The Flown Soul,” the last two referring to his only son, whose -death in early childhood has been the supreme grief of his life. The -same critic notes the exquisite purity and delicacy of these poems, and -that “in a day when the delusion is unfortunately widespread that these -cannot co-exist with poetic fervor and strength.” - -In March of 1891 Mr. Lathrop, after weary years of aimless wandering -in the barren fields of sectarianism found, as Newman and Brownson had -found, that peace which a warring world cannot give, in the bosom of -the Catholic Church. Where Emerson halted, shackled by Puritanism and -its traditional prejudice towards Catholicism, Lathrop, as Brownson, -in quest of new worlds of thought, critically examined the old church -and her teachings, finding therein the truth that makes men free. This -step of Lathrop’s, inexplicable to many of his friends, is explained -in his own way, in the manly letter that concludes this sketch. Such a -letter must, by its truthfulness, have held his friends. “May we not,” -says Kegan Paul, “carry with us loving and tender memories of men from -whom we learn much, even while we differ and criticise?” - -“Humanly speaking, I entered into Catholicity as a result of long -thought and meditation upon religion, continuing through a number of -years. But there must have been a deeper force at work, that of the -Holy Spirit, by means of what we call grace, for a longer time than -I suspected. Certainly I was not attracted by ‘the fascinations of -Rome,’ that are so glibly talked about, but which no one has ever been -able to define to me. Perhaps those that use the phrase refer to the -outward symbols of ritual, that are simply the expressive adornment of -the inner meaning—the flower of it. I, at any rate, never went to Mass -but once with any comprehension of it, before my conversion, and had -seldom even witnessed Catholic services anywhere; although now, with -knowledge and experience, I recognize the Mass—which even that arch, -unorthodox author, Thomas Carlyle, called ‘the only genuine thing of -our times’—as the greatest action in the world. Many Catholics had been -known to me, of varying merit; and some of them were valued friends. -But none of these ever urged or advised or even hinted that I should -come into the Church. The best of them had (as large numbers of my -fellow-Catholics have to-day) that same modesty and reverence toward -the sacred mysteries that caused the early Christians also to be slow -in leading catechumens—or those not yet fully prepared for belief—into -the great truths of faith. My observations of life, however, -increasingly convinced me that a vital, central, unchanging principle -in religion was necessary, together with one great association of -Christians in place of endless divisions—if the promise made to men -was to be fulfilled, or really had been fulfilled. When I began to ask -questions, I found Catholics quite ready to answer everything with -entire straightforwardness, gentle good-will, yet firmness. Neither -they nor the Church evaded anything. They presented and defended the -teaching of Christ in its entirety, unexaggerated and undiminished; -the complete faith, without haggling or qualification or that queer, -loose assent to every sort of individual exception and denial that is -allowed in other organizations. I may say here, too, that the Church, -instead of being narrow or pitiless toward those not of her communion, -as she is often mistakenly said to be, is the most comprehensive of -all in her interpretation of God’s mercy as well as of his justice. -And, instead of slighting the Bible, she uses it more incessantly than -any of the Protestant bodies; at the same time shedding upon it a -clear, deep light that is the only one that ever enabled me to see its -full meaning and coherence. The fact is, those outside of the Church -nowadays are engaged in talking so noisily and at such a rate, on -their own hook, that they seldom pause to hear what the Church really -says, or to understand what she is. Once convinced of the true faith, -intellectually and spiritually, I could not let anything stand in the -way of affirming my loyalty to it.” - - - - -REV. BROTHER AZARIAS. - - -It is delicious in this age of hurried bookmaking, to run across a -thinker. It gives one the same kind of sensation that comes to the -sportsman, when a monarch of the glen crosses his path. Bookmakers -are as many as leaves of the Adirondacks after the hasty gallop of a -mountain storm; thinkers are scarce. When, then, amid the leafy mass, -one discovers the rare bird hiding from vulgar gaze, an irresistible -desire to find his lurking place seizes the observer. This lurking -place may be old to many; it was only the other day that I discovered -it,—when a friend placed in my hands “Phases of Thought and Criticism,” -by Brother Azarias. This book, the sale of which has been greater -in England than on this side of the water, is one of suggestive -criticism—a criticism founded on faith. The author holds with another -thinker, that “Religion is man’s first and deepest concern. To be -indifferent is to be dull or depraved, and doubt is disease.” Each -chapter of his book expresses a distinct social and intellectual force. -Each embodies a verifying ideal; for, continues the author, “the -criticism that busies itself with the literary form is superficial, for -food it gives husks.” - -While the author will not concede that mere literary form is the all -in all that our modern masters claim, yet he would not be found in the -ranks of M. de Bonniers, who declares that an author need not trouble -himself about his grammar; let him have original ideas and a certain -style, and the rest is of no consequence. The author of “Phases of -Thought,” believes first in the possession of ideas, for without them -an author is a sorry spectacle. He also believes that an attractive -style will materially aid in the diffusion of these ideas. Many good -books fall still-born from the press, for no other reasons than their -slovenly style. Readers now-a-days will not plod along poor roads, -when a turnpike leads to the same destination. The grammar marks the -parting of ways. Brother Azarias rightfully holds that good grammar is -an essential part of every great writer’s style. Classics are so, by -correct grammar as well as by original ideas. This easy dictum of the -slipshod writers—that if an idea takes you off your feet you must not -trouble yourself about the grammar that wraps it, is but a specious -pleading for their ignorance of what they pretend to despise. - -The great difference between this book and the many on similar subjects -is in the manner of treatment. It starts from a solid basis; that -basis the creed of the Catholic Church. The superstructure of lofty -thought reared on this basis is in a style at once pellucid and crisp. -The author is not only a thinker rare and original; he is a scholar -broad and masterly. - -Believing that his Church holds the keys of the “kingdom come,” and as -a consequence, a key to all problems moral and social that can move -modern society, he grapples with them, after the manner of a knight of -old, courteously but convincingly. His teaching is that, outside the -bosom of the Catholic Church jostle the warring elements of confusion -and uncertainty. In her fold can man find that rest, that sweet -peace promised by the Redeemer. Her philosophy is the wisdom worth -cherishing, the curing balm that philosophers vainly seek outside her -pale. To the weary and thought-stricken would this great writer bring -his often and beautifully taught lesson, that the things of this world -are not the puppets of chance, nor lots of the pantheistic whole, but -parts of a well-ordered system, governed by a paternal being, whom -we, His children, address in that touching prayer, “Father, who art -in Heaven.” From that Father came a Son, not mere man, not only a -great prophet, not only a law-giver, but the true Son of God, equal -to the Father, from all eternity, whose mission was, to teach all men -that would listen, the way that leads to light. That this identical -mission is, and will be continued to the consummation of the ages by -the Catholic Church. That in the truth of these things, all men, who -lovingly seek, will be confirmed, not that mere intellect alone could -be the harbinger of such truths, for, as he has so well put it:—“Human -reason and human knowledge, whether considered individually or -collectively in the race are limited to the natural. Knowledge of the -supernatural can come only from a Divine Teacher.” - -One may be convinced of every truth of revealed religion, and yet not -possess the gift of faith. That gift is purely gratuitous. If, however, -the seeker humbly and honestly desires the acquisition of these truths, -and knocks, the door of the chamber of truth shall be opened unto him, -for this has the Saviour promised. That door once opened, the Spirit of -God breathes on the seeker, it opens the eyes of the soul, it reveals -beyond all power of doubt or cavil, or contradiction, the supernatural -as a fact, solemn, universal, constant throughout the vicissitudes of -the age. While the author fashions these lofty truths on the anvil of -modern scholarship, the reader finds himself, like the school children, -in Longfellow’s poem, looking in through the artist’s open door full -of admiration, fascinated by burning sparks. Pages have been written -about the ideal, defining it, in verbiage fatiguing and elusive. - -It is a trick of pretended scholarship, to hide thought with massive -word-boulders. What a difference in the process of this rare scholar? - -A flying spark from his anvil lights up the dullest intellect. It is -a stimulus to the weary brain, after wading through essays as to what -constitutes an ideal, to have the gentle scholar, across the blazing -pine logs, on a winter’s night, say: “A genius conceives and expresses -a great thought. The conception so expressed delights. It enters men’s -souls; it compels their admiration. They applaud and are rejoiced that -another masterpiece has been brought into existence to grace the world -of art and letters. The genius alone is dissatisfied. Where others -see perfection, he perceives something unexpressed; beyond the reach -of his art. Try as best he may, he cannot attain that indefinable -something. Deep in his inner consciousness he sees a type so grand and -perfect that his beautiful production appears to him but a faint and -marred copy of that original. That original is the ideal; and the ideal -it is that appeals to the aesthetic and calls forth men’s admiration.” -What a divining power has this student, in plummeting the vagaries of -modern culture! - -“Every school of philosophy has its disciples, who repeat the sayings -of their masters with implicit confidence, without ever stopping to -question the principles from which those sayings arise or the results -to which they lead.” These chattering disciples will affect to sneer -at the Christian belief, while they lowly sit at the feet of one of -their mud gods singing “thou art the infallible one.” They will not -question their position simply because “these systems are accepted not -so much for truth’s sake as because they are the intellectual fashions -of the day.” Such men change their philosophy as quickly as a Parisian -dressmaker his styles. It may yet be shown by some mighty Teuton that -vagaries in philosophy and dress are closely allied, and that the -synthetic philosophy of Herbert Spencer is responsible for the coming -of crinoline. What a delightful thrust at that school of criticism -that singles out an author or a book as the very acme of perfection, -seeing wisdom in absurdities and truth in commonplace fiction, is given -in these lines: “Paint a daub and call it a Turner, and forthwith -these critics will trace in it strokes of genius.” With a twinkle in -his eye he asks, “Think you they understand the real principles of -art criticism?” You will be easily able to answer that question when -you have mastered this pithy definition of true criticism, be it of -literature or of art, “that it is all-embracing.” It has no antagonism -to science so long as she travels in her rightful domain. When “science -has her superstitions and her romancings as unreal and shadowy as those -of the most ephemeral literature, then it is the duty of criticism to -administer the medicine of truth and purge the wayward jade of her -humors.” - -To such a mind as that of the author of “Phases of Thought,” with its -thorough knowledge of the art of criticism and its perfect equipment, -the separating of the chaff from the meal of an author becomes not -only a pleasure but a duty. This is best seen by a perusal of Chapter -III, dealing with Emerson and Newman as types. With a few masterly -strokes the real Emerson, not the phantom or brain figment of Burroughs -and Woodberry and the long line of fad disciples, passes before us. -Not an inch is taken from his stature. His intellectual beauties and -defects, so strongly drawn, but confirm the reader in the truth of the -portraiture. One catches not only a glimpse of the man, but the springs -of his soul-struggles. Emerson in his hungry quest for intellectual -food, ranged through the philosophies of the east and west, purposely -ignoring that of the Catholic Church. This sin cost him whole worlds of -thought hidden from his vision. Newman had the same hunger to appease, -but where Emerson turned away Newman, ever in search for truth, kept -on, and found it in the Catholic Church. The analysis of these two -minds is done in a masterly way. Azarias has no prejudices. If he puts -his fingers on defects and descants on their nature and treatment, he -will, no less, point out beauties and lovingly linger among them. He is -a knight in the cause of truth, and would not herd with the carping -critics. He will tell you that Emerson’s mind was like an Æolian harp. -“It was awake to the most delicate impressions, and at every breath -of thought it gave out a music all its own,” and that the reading of -him with understanding “is a mental tonic bracing for the cultured -intellect as is Alpine air for the mountaineer.” The pages of this book -teem with thought clothed in language whose sparkling beauty is all the -author’s own. From such a book it is difficult to select. Emerson has -well said, “No one can select the beautiful passages of another for -you. Do your own quarrying.” I abide by this quotation, and should ask -every lover of the beautiful and true to buy this fecund book. - -Patrick Francis Mullaney, better known as Brother Azarias, was born -in Killenaule County, Tipperary, Ireland, June 29th, 1847. Like the -majority of eminent men that his country has given birth to, he came -of its noble peasantry. The old tale was here enacted. The parents -left the land of their birth in search of a home in our better land. -This found, Azarias joined them. At the age of fifteen he joined the -Christian Brothers. That great Order gave free scope to his fine -abilities. In 1866 he was chosen professor of mathematics and English -literature at Rock Hill College, Maryland. He continued in this -position for ten years. At the expiration of his professorship he -travelled a year through Europe, collecting materials and writing his -“Development of Old English Thought.” On his return he became president -of Rock Hill College, holding that position until recalled to Paris by -his Superior in 1866. After an absence of three years Brother Azarias -returned to the States as professor of English literature at the De -La Salle Institute, New York. This is not only an important position, -but it gives leisure, and that ready access to the great libraries, so -prized by literary men. - - - - -WOMEN. - - - - -KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY. - - -“Next room to that of Roche’s,” said the dear O’Reilly, showing me his -nest of poets, “is a gentle poetess.” - -The door was wide open. It is a question with my mind if the room ever -knew a door. Be this as it may, there sat, with her chair close drawn -to her desk, a frail, delicate-looking woman. The ordinary eye might -see nothing in a face that was winsome, if not handsome; yet, let the -dainty mouth curve in speech, and at once a subtle attraction, lit up -by lustrous eyes, permeated the face. One characteristic that made -itself felt, in the most sparse conversation with this woman, was her -humility, a rare virtue among American literary women. I have known -not a few among that irritable class who, no sooner had they sipped the -most meagre draught of fame, than they became intoxicated with their -own importance, and for the balance of life wooed that meretricious -goddess, Notoriety. In fiery prose and tuneful song they told of the -dire misfortunes that had been heaped upon their sex by that obstinate -vulgar biped, man. Their literature—for that is the name given to -the crudest offspring of the press in these days—is noisy, and, says -a witty writer, a noisy author is as bad as a barrel organ,—a quiet -one is as refreshing as a long pause in a foolish sermon. Clergymen, -who have listened to a brother divine on grace, will be the first to -see the point. Our authoress—(a female filled with the vanity that -troubled Solomon says I should write female author)—is a quiet and -unobtrusive writer. Of the tricks that catch and the ways that are -crooked in literature, she knows nothing, and what is better, no amount -of tawdry fame could induce her to swerve a jot from the hard stony -road that leads to enduring success, the only goal worth striving for -in the domain of letters. I am well aware that in the popular list of -women-writers mouthed by the growing herd of flippant readers that have -no other use for a book than as a time-killer,—a herd to whom ideas -are as unpalatable as disestablishment to an English parson—you will -fail to find the name of Katherine Conway. The reason is simple. She -has no fads to air in ungrammatical English, no fallacies to adduce -in halting metre. It was a Boston critic who echoed the dictum of -the French critic—that grammar has no place in the world of letters. -Only have ideas, that is, write meaningless platitudes, grandiose -nothings, something that neither man, the angels above nor the demons -down under the sea, may decipher, and this illusive verbiage will -make you famous. A school of critics will herald your work with such -adjectives as “noble, lofty, absorbing, soul-inspiring;” nay, more, -a pious missionary friend may be found to to translate the verbiage -into Syriac, as a present for converts. Borne on the tide of such -criticism, not a few women writers have mistaken the plaudits of -notoriety, that passing show, for fame. It was a saying of De Musset’s -that fame was a tardy plant, a lover of the soil. Be this as it may, -it is safe to assert that its coming is not proclaimed by far-fetched -similes, frantic metaphors, sensuous images, ranting style, ignorance -of metre, want of grammar; the dishes are not of the voluptuous, morbid -or the monstrous kind. Its thirst is not slaked at sewers of dulness -spiced with immorality. These symptoms savor of one disease known -to all pathologists as notoriety. In an age of this dreaded disease -it is surely refreshing to meet with works that breathe gentleness -and repose,—a beautiful trust in religion, and a warm, natural heart -for humanity. These traits will the reader find in abundance in the -pages of Katherine Conway. “What kills a poet,” says Aldrich, “is -self-conceit.” Of all the forms self-conceit may assume none is more -foolish or detrimental, especially to a woman-poet, than the pluming -of oneself as the harbinger of some renovating gospel, some panacea -for human infirmities. What is the burden of your message? says the -critic to the young poet. Straightway the poet evolves a message, -and as messages of this kind ought to be mysterious, the poet wraps -them in a jargon as unintelligible as Garner’s monkey dialect. Thus -in America has risen a school of woman poetry, deluded by false -criticism, calling itself a message to humanity, dubbed rightly the -school of passion, and one might add, of pain. This school may ask, “Am -I to be debarred from treating of the passions on the score of sex.” -By no means; the passions are legitimate subjects. Love, one of them, -is your most attractive theme, but as Lilly has it, love is not to you -what it is to the physiologist, a mere animal impulse which man has -in common with moths and molluscs. Your task is to extract from human -life, even in its commonest aspects, its most vulgar realities, what it -contains of secret beauty; to lift it the level of art, not to degrade -art to its level. Few American writers more fully realized these -great artistic truths than the master under whose fatherly tuition -Miss Conway had long been placed. Boyle O’Reilly was a Grecian in his -love for nature. As such it was his aim to seek the beautiful in its -commonest aspects, its most vulgar realities. No amount of claptrap or -fine writing could make him mistake a daub for a Turner. In the bottom -of his soul he detested the little bardlings who had passed nature by, -without knowing her, who wove into the warp and woof of their dulness -the putridity of Zola and morbidity of Marie Bashkirtseff. Under such -a guide, the poetic ideal set before Miss Conway has been of the -highest, and the highest is only worth working for. This ideal must -be held unswervingly, even if one sees that books that are originally -vicious are “placarded in the booksellers’ windows; sold on the street -corners; hawked through the railroad trains; yea, given away, with -packages of tea or toilet soap, in place of the chromo, mercifully -put on the superannuated list.” These books are but foam upon the -current of time, flecking its surface for a moment, and passing away -into oblivion, while what Miss Conway happily calls the literature of -moral loveliness, or what might as aptly be called the literature of -all time, remains our contribution to posterity. Its foundations, to -follow the thought of Azarias, are deeply laid in human nature, and -its structure withstands the storms of adversity and the eddies of -events. For such a literature O’Reilly made a life struggle; his pupil -has closely followed his footsteps in the charming, simple, melodious -volume that lies before me, “A Dream of Lilies.” Rarely has a Catholic -book had a more artistic setting, and one might add, rarely has a -volume of Catholic verse deserved it more. Here the poetess touches -her highest point, and proves that years of silence have been years of -study and conscientious workmanship. In her poem “Success” may be found -the key to this volume; - - “Ah! know what true success is; young hearts dream, - Dream nobly and plan loftily, nor deem - That length of years is length of living. See - A whole life’s labor in an hour is done; - Not by world-tests the heavenly crown is won, - To God the man is what he means to be.” - -“Dream nobly and plan loftily” has been the guiding spirit of this -volume. It is a book of religious verse in the true sense, not in the -general acceptance of modern religious verse, which is generally dull -twaddle, egotism, mawkishness, blind gropings and haunting fears. The -gentle spirit of Christ breathes through it, making an atmosphere of -peace and repose. There is no bigotry to jar, no narrowness to chafe -us, but the broad upland of Christian charity and truth. Nor has our -author forgotten that even truth if cast in awkward mould may be passed -over. To her poems she has given a dainty setting without sacrificing -a jot of their strength. After reading such a book a judicious bit of -Miss Conway’s prose comes to my mind. “And as that Catholic light, the -only true vision, brightens about us, we realize more and more that -literary genius, take it all and all, has done more to attract men -to good than to seduce men to evil; that the best literature is also -the most fascinating, and even by its very abundance is more than a -match for the bad; that time is its best ally; that it is hard, if -not impossible, to corrupt the once formed pure literary taste; and, -finally, that as makers of literature or critics or disseminators -of it, it is our duty to believe in the best, hope in the best, and -steadfastly appeal to the best in human nature; for we needs must love -the highest when we see it.” - -Katherine Eleanor Conway was born of Irish parents, in Rochester, on -the 6th of Sept., 1853. Her early studies were made in the convent -schools of her native city. From an early age she had whisperings of -the muse. These whisperings at the age of fifteen convinced her that -her true sphere of action was literature. In 1875 she commenced the -publication of a modest little Catholic monthly, contributing poems and -moral tales, under the _nom-de-plume_ of “Mercedes,” to other Catholic -journals, in the spare hours left from editing her little venture and -teaching in the convent. In 1878 she became attached to the Buffalo -_Union and Times_. To this journal she contributed the most of the -poems to be found in her maiden volume,—“On the Sunrise Slope,”—a -volume whose rich promise has been amply fulfilled in the “Dream of -Lilies.” Her health failing, she sought a needful rest in Boston. Her -fame had preceded her, and the gifted editor of the _Pilot_, ever on -the lookout for a hopeful literary aspirant of his race, held out a -willing hand to the shy stranger. “Come to us,” he said, in a voice -that knew no guile, “and help us in the good fight.” That fight—the -crowning glory of O’Reilly’s noble life—was to gain an adequate -position for his race and religion from the puritanism of New England. -How that race and religion were held before his coming, may be best -told in the language of Miss Conway, taken from a heart-sketch of her -dead master and minstrel:— - -“Notwithstanding Matignon and Cheverus, and the Protestant Governor -Sullivan, Catholic and Irish were, from the outset, simply -interchangeable terms—and terms of odium both—in the popular New -England mind; in vain the bond of a common language, in vain the -Irishman’s prompt and affectionate acceptance of the duties of American -citizenship. To but slight softening of prejudice even his sacrifice of -blood and life on every battle-field in the Civil War, in proof of the -sincerity of his political profession of faith. He and his were still -hounded as a class inferior and apart. They were almost unknown in the -social and literary life of New England. Their pathetic sacrifices -for their kin beyond the sea, their interest in the political -fortunes of the old land, were jests and by-words. Their religion was -the superstition of the ignorant, vulgar and pusillanimous; or, at -best, motive for jealous suspicion of divided political allegiance -and threatened “foreign” domination. Their children suffered petty -persecutions in the public schools. The stage and the press faithfully -reflected the ruling popular sentiment in their caricatures of the -Catholic Irishman.” - -She accepted O’Reilly’s call and stood by his side with Roche, Guiney, -Blake, until the hard fought battle against the prejudice to Irishism -and Catholicism, planted in New England by the bigoted literature of -Old England, was abated, if not destroyed; until its shadows, if cast -now, are cast by the lower rather than the higher orders in the world -of intellect and refinement. “And the shortening of the shadow is proof -that the sun is rising,” proof that her work has been far from vain. -And when from the grey dawn of prejudice will come forth the white -morrow of charity and truth, the singer and her songs will not be -forgotten. - - - - -LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. - - -In speaking with the author of a “Dream of Lilies,” I casually -mentioned the name of another Boston poetess, “one of the _Pilot_ -poets,” as the gifted Carpenter was wont to speak of those whose genius -was nursed by Boyle O’Reilly. For a few years previous to my coming, -little waif poems, suggestive of talent and refinement, had seen light -in the columns of that brilliant journal. They had about them that -something which makes the reader hazard a bet that the youngster when -fully fledged would some day leave the lowlands of minor minstrelsy -for a height on Parnassus. From this singer Miss Conway had that -morning received a notelet. It was none of the ordinary kind, a little -anarchistic, if one might judge from the awkward pen-sketch of a -hideous grinning skeleton-skull held by cross-bones which served as an -illustration to the bantering text that followed, in a rather cramped -girlish hand. The notelet was signed Louise Imogen Guiney. - -“Are you not afraid, Miss Conway,” said I, “to receive such warning -notes?” “It is from the best girl in America,” was the frank reply; -“read it.” A perusal of the few dashing lines was enough, and my -generous host, reading my eyes, gave me the coveted notelet. That -notelet begot an interest in the writer; an interest fully repaid -by the strong, careful work put forth under her name. Louise Imogen -Guiney, poet, essayist, dramatist, was born in Boston, that city of -“sweetness and light,” in January, 1862. Her parents were Irish. Her -father, Patrick Guiney, came from the hamlet of Parkstown, County -Tipperary, at an early age. He was a man of the most blameless and -noble character. During the civil war, as Col. Guiney of the Irish -Ninth Massachusetts Volunteers, his heroism on behalf of his adopted -country won him the grateful admiration of all lovers of freedom. This -admiration at the close of the war was substantially shown by his -election as Judge of Probate. Constant suffering from an old wound, -received at the battle of the Wilderness, gave the old soldier but few -years to enjoy honors from his fellow-citizens. His death was mourned -by all who loved virtue and honor. Of him a Boston poet sang: - - “Large heart and brave! Tried soul and true! - How thickly in thy life’s short span, - All strong sweet virtues throve and grew, - As friend, as hero, and as man. - Unmoved by thought of blame or praise, - Unbought by gifts of power and pride, - Thy feet still trod Time’s devious ways - With Duty as thy law and guide.” - -Good blood, you will say, from whence our poet came, and blood counts -even in poetry. I have no anecdotes to relate of Miss Guiney’s early -years. I am not sure that there were any. Anecdotes are usually -manufactured in later life, if the subject happens to become famous. -Her education was carefully planned, and intelligently carried out. -She was not held in the dull routine of the school-room, but was -allowed to emancipate herself in the works of the poets. What joy must -have been her’s, scampering home after the study of _de omni scibili_, -the ordinary curriculum of any American school, to a quiet nook and -the dream of her poets. Amid these dreams came the siren whisperings -of the muse, telling her of the poet within struggling for life and -expression. These struggles begot a tiny little volume happily named -“Songs at the Start.” The great American reviewer, who, ordinarily, - - “Bolts every book that comes out of the press, - Without the least question of larger or less,” - -on this occasion, by some untoward event, stumbled on a truth when he -informed us, with the air of one who rarely touches earth, that the -book bore signs of promise. The people, by all means a better critic, -were more apt in their judgment of the young singer. A few years -later they asked her to write the memorial poem for the services in -commemoration of General Grant. Thus honored by her native city, in -an easy way she was led to climb the ladder of fame. In 1885 appeared -her first volume of essays, “Goose Quill Papers;” in 1887 a volume -of poems bearing the fanciful name of “White-Sail;” in 1888 a pretty -book for children; in 1892 “Monsieur Henri, a Foot-note to French -History.” It us something to be noted in regard to a “Foot-note to -French history,” that the novelist Stevenson, in his far-off home in -Samoa, was publishing at the same time a work which bore a decided -likeness to her title. Stevenson’s book was published as “A Foot-Note -to History.” In 1893 appeared her latest volume of verse, being a -selection of poems previously published in American magazines. This -selection (the poet has a genuine knack for tacking taking names to -her volumes) is quaintly named “A Wayside Harp,” and dedicated to a -brace of Irish poets, the Sigerson sisters. The graceful dedication -as well as many of its strongest and most artistic poems, were the -outcome of a trip to Great Britain and Ireland. The author travelled -with open eyes, and brought back many a dainty picture of the scenes -she had so lovingly witnessed. This volume fulfils the early promise, -and what is more, gives indubitable signs that the poet possesses a -reserve force. Not a few women poets write themselves out in their -first volume. Not so with Miss Guiney, every additional volume shows -greater strength and more complete mastery of technique. After the -surfeit of twaddle passing current as poetry, such a book as “A Wayside -Harp” should find a waiting audience, Miss Guiney has the essentials of -a poet, which I take to be color, music, perfume and passion. In their -use she is an artist. In her first book an excess of these everywhere -prevailed; it was from this excess, however, that the prudent critic -would have hazarded a doubt as to her fitness to join the company of -the bards. Since then she has been an ardent student. This study has -not only taught her limitations, a thing that saves so much after -pruning, but that other lesson, forgotten by so many bardlets, that -the greatest poetic effects are the result of the masterful mixing of -a few simple colors. It is well that she has learned these lessons at -the outset of her career. Let not the fads and fancies of this _fin de -siècle_ and the senseless worship of those poetasters who scorn sense -while they hug sound lead her from the true road of song. No amount -of meaningless words airily strung together, no amount of gymnastic -rhyming feats can produce a poet. They are the badges of those wondrous -little dunces that pass nature with a frown, alleging in the language -of the witty Bangs that “Nature is not art.” Guiney’s friend and -faithful mentor, O’Reilly, had taught her to abhor all those who spent -their waking hours chiselling cherry stones. To him it was a poet’s -duty to aim high, attune his lyre, not to the petty, but the manly -and hopeful; never to debase the lyre by an utterance of selfishness, -but to consecrate it with the strains of liberty and humanity. If -Guiney follows the teachings of her early friend—teachings which are -substantially sound, she will yet produce poems that the world will -not willingly let die. That Rosetti fad of hiding a mystic meaning -in a poem, now occupying the brains of our teeming songsters, is now -and then to be met with in our poet. It is a trade-trick. Poetry is -sense—common-sense at that, and you cannot rim common-sense things -with mystical hues. Abjuring these trade-tricks, and shaking off the -trammels of her curious and extensive reading and evolving from herself -solely, she has, says Douglas Sladen, a great promise before her. As an -instance of this promise let us quote that fine poem, “The Wild Ride,” -which is full of genuine inspiration, and which may be the means of -introducing to some the most thoroughly gifted Catholic woman writer of -our country. - - -THE WILD RIDE. - - I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, - All day, the commotion of sinewy mane-tossing horses; - All night from their cells the importunate tramping and neighing, - Cowards and laggards fall back but alert to the saddle, - Straight, grim, and abreast, vault our weather-worn galloping legion, - With a stirrup cup each to the one gracious woman that loves him. - The road is thro’ dolour and dread, over crags and morasses! - There are shapes by the way, there are things that appall or entice us! - What odds! We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the riding! - I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, - All day, the commotion of sinewy, mane-tossing horses; - All night from their cells the importunate tramping and neighing, - We spur to a land of no name, outracing the storm wind; - We leap to the infinite dark, like the sparks from the anvil, - Thou leadest! O God! All’s well with thy troopers that follow. - -It was only natural that the daughter of an Irish patriot should -sing of her father’s land, and that in a style racy of that land. -It was a hazardous experiment, as many an Irish American singer has -learned in sorrow. That Miss Guiney has come out of the trying ordeal -successfully, may be seen in the following little snatch, full of the -aroma of green Erin: - - -AN IRISH PEASANT SONG. - - I try to knead and spin, but my life is low the while; - Oh, I long to be alone, and walk abroad a mile; - Yet when I walk alone, and think of naught at all, - Why from me that’s young should the wild tears fall? - - The shower-stricken earth, the earth-colored streams, - They breathe on me awake, and moan to me in dreams; - And yonder ivy fondling the broken castle wall, - It pulls my heart, till the wild tears fall. - - The cabin-door looks down a furze-lighted hill, - And far as Leighlin cross the fields are green and still; - But once I hear a blackbird in Leighlin hedges call, - The foolishness is on me, and the wild tears fall! - -Miss Guiney possesses a charming personality. Her manner is -“unaffected, girlish and modest.” There is about her none of the -curtness and prudishness of the blue-stocking. Success has not turned -her head, literary homage has not made her forget that they who will -build for time must need work long and patiently, using only the best -material. By so doing may it be written of her work, as she has -written of Brother Bartholomew’s: - - “Wonderful verses! fair and fine, - Rich in the old Greek loveliness; - The seer-like vision, half divine; - Pathos and merriment in excess, - And every perfect stanza told, - Of love and of labor manifold.” - - - - -MRS. BLAKE. - - -Boston is a charming city. It is the whim of the passing hour to -sneer at the modest dame. Henry James has done so. Is not the author -of “Daisy Miller” and other interminable novels a correct person to -follow? The disciples of the Mutual Admiration Society in American -Letters will vociferously answer “yes.” Old-fashioned people may have -another way. Scattered here and there possibly a few there are who -hold that Hawthorne was a better novelist than Howells is, that Holmes’ -poetry is as good as Boyesen’s, and that Emerson’s criticisms are more -illuminative than James’. Be this as it may, Boston is a charming place -to all those who had the good fortune to have been welcomed by its -warm-hearted citizen, Boyle O’Reilly. To those who knew his struggles, -and the earnest striving, until his weary spirit sought its final home, -for Catholic literature in its true sense, the charm but increases. - -It was owing to his kindness that I found myself one blustery, raw day, -ringing the door-bell of an ordinary well to-do brick house. Houses -now and then carry on their fronts an inkling of their occupants. A -door was opened, my card handed to a feminine hand; the aperture was -not as yet wide enough to catch a glimpse of the face. The card was a -power. “Come in,” said a woman’s voice, and the door was wide open. I -followed the guide, and was soon in a plain, well furnished room, in -presence of a motherly-looking woman. She was knitting; at least that -is part of my memory’s picture. Near her hung a mocking-bird, whose -notes now and then were peculiarly sad. Despite the graceful lines of -the Cavalier Lovelace, iron bars do a prison make for bird and man. And -the songs sung behind these bars are but bits of the crushed-out life. -I was welcomed, and during busy years have held the remembrance of -that visit with its hour of desultory chat and a mocking-bird’s broken -song. The motherly-looking woman, with her strong Celtic face freshly -furrowed by sorrow in the loss of beloved children, was a charming -talker and a good listener, things rarely found in your gentle or fiery -poetess. She had just published, under the initials M. A. B., a volume -of children’s verse, and, as is natural with an author who had finished -a piece of work, was full of it. The pretense of some authors that they -are bored to speak of their own books is a sly suggestion to praise -them for their humility. Mrs. Blake—for that is the motherly-looking -woman’s name—spoke of her work without any hiccoughing gush or false -modesty. Her eyes lit up, and the observer read in them honesty. She -was deeply interested, as all thinking women must be, in the solution -of the social problems that have arisen in our times, and will not be -downed at the biddance of capitalist or demagogue. With her clear-cut -intellect she was able to grasp a salient point, purposely hidden by -the swarm of curists with their panacea remedies, that these problems -must be solved in the light of religion. Man must return to Christ, -not the “cautious, statistical Christ” paraded in the social show, not - - “The meteor blaze - That soon must fail, and leave the wanderer blind, - More dark and helpless far, than if it ne’er had shined,” - -but the Christ of the Gospels, the Bringer of peace and good-will—the -Bearer of burdens, the soul-guider—Christ, loving and acting, as found -in the Catholic Church. Hecker had begun the preface of his wonderful -book with a truth, “The age is out of joint.” Problems to be solved, -and lying around them millions of broken hearts. “The age is out of -joint.” Who will bring the light and rightify the age? Mrs. Blake -has but one answer. Bring the employers and the employed nearer the -Christ of the Catholic Church. This was O’Reilly’s often expressed -and worked-for idea. It is the key-note of much of his poetry. It is -the germ of his “Bohemia.” It was impossible to live, as Mrs. Blake -did, on the most friendly terms with such a man and not be smitten -with his life-thought. In not a few published social papers Mrs. Blake -has thrown out valuable and suggestive hints as to the best means of -bringing the weary world under the sweet sway of religion. Her voice, -it is true, is but one voice in the social wilderness, but individual -efforts must not be thwarted, for is not a fresh period opening in -which the individuality, the personality, of souls acting under the -direct guidance of the Holy Ghost, will take up all that is good in -modern ideas, and the cords of our tent be strengthened and its stakes -enlarged? “What we have to dread is neither ‘historical rancor’ nor -‘philosophical atheism,’” “nor the instinct of personal freedom.” It -is, in the words of Dr. Barry, that we should set little store by that -“freedom wherewith Christ has made us free,” and that being born -into a church where we may have the grandest spiritual ideas for the -asking, we should fold our hands in slumber and be found, at length, -“disobedient to the heavenly vision.” Against such perils Hecker, the -noblest life as yet in our American church, made a life-fight. On his -side was Boyle O’Reilly, Roche, Mrs. Blake, Katherine Conway and Louise -Guiney. Nor pass such lives in vain. - -Mrs. Blake was born in Dungarvan, Co. Waterford, Ireland. In childhood -she was brought to Massachusetts. In 1865 she was married to Dr. J. -G. Blake, a leading physician of Boston. She has made that city her -home, and is highly esteemed in its literary and social circles. Among -her published books may be mentioned “Poems,” Houghton, Mifflin & Co., -1882, dedicated to her husband; “On The Wing,” a pretty volume of -Californian sketches; “Rambling Talk,” a series of papers contributed -to the Boston journals. - -Her sketches are the agreeable jottings of a highly cultivated woman; -seeing nature in the light of poetry rather than science, she has made -a series of charming pictures out of her wanderings. They are not free -from sentiment,—illusions if you will, but that is their greatest -charm. “The world of reality is a poor affair.” So many books of travel -are annually appearing,—books that have no excuse for being other than -to prove how widespread dulness and incapacity is, that a trip with a -guide like Mrs. Blake has but one failing,—its shortness. Neither in -her travels nor in her literary articles does Mrs. Blake body forth her -best prose utterance. These must be found in her earnest social papers, -where her woman’s heart, saddened by the miseries of its fellows, pours -out its streams of consolation and preaches (all earnest souls must be -preachers now-a-days) the only and all sufficient cure—the Church. - -An extract from one of these papers will best show her power. She is -portraying the Church manifesting itself in the individual as well -as the family life, pleading for the central idea of her system. -“Jesus Christ is the complement of man,”—the restorer of the race. The -Catholic Church is the manifestation of Jesus Christ. - -“There are, alas! too many weaknesses into which thoughtlessness and -opportunity lead one class as well as the other. But still there is -to be seen almost without exception, among practical Catholics, young -wives, content and happy, welcoming from the very outset of married -life the blessed company of the little ones who are to guard them -as do their angels in heaven; proud like Cornelia of their jewels; -gladly accepting comparative poverty and endless care; while their -sisters outside the Church buy the right to idleness and personal -adorning at the expense of the childless homes which are a disgrace and -menace to the nation. There is the honor and purity of the fireside -respected; the overpowering sweetness and strength of family ties -acknowledged; the reverential love that awaits upon the father and -mother shown. There are sensitive and refined women bearing sorrow -with resignation and hardship without rebellion; combating pain with -patience and fulfilling harsh duty without complaint. In a tremendous -over-proportion to those who attempt to live outside its helpfulness, -and in exact ratio to their practical devotion to the observances -of the Church, they find power of resisting temptation in spite of -poverty, and overcoming impulse by principle. Can the world afford to -ignore an agency by which so much is accomplished? - -“So much for the practical side, which is the moral that particularly -needs pointing at this moment. Of the spiritual amplitude and -sustaining which the Church gives there is little need to speak. Only a -woman can know what Faith means in the existence of women. The uplift -which she needs in moments of great trial; the sustaining power to -bear the constant harassment of petty worries; the outlet for emotions -which otherwise choke the springs, the tonic of prayer and belief; the -assurance of a force sufficiently divine and eternal to satisfy the -cravings of human longing—what but this is to make life worth living -for her? And where else, in these days of scepticism, is she to find -such immortal dower? It is a commentary upon worldly wisdom, that -it has attempted to ignore this necessity, and left woman under the -increased pressure of her new obligations, to rely solely upon such -frail reeds as human respect and conventional morality. She needs the -inspiration of profound conviction and practical piety a hundredfold -more than ever before. The woman of the old time, secluded within -the limits of the household, surrounded by the material safeguard of -custom, might lead an untroubled existence even if devotion and faith -were not vital principles with her. The woman of to-day, harassed, -beset, tempted, driven by necessity, drawn this way and that by bad -advice and worse example, is attempting a hopeless task when she tries -the same experiment.” - -The poetry of Mrs. Blake is rational and wholesome. She knows her gifts -and is content to use them at their best, giving us songs in a minor -key, that if they add little to human thought, yet make the world -better from their coming. In the poems of childhood she is particularly -happy. She knows children, their joys and sorrows, has caught their -ways. Her’s is a heart that has danced in the joy of motherhood and -been stricken when the “dead do not waken.” She is our only intelligent -writer of children’s poems. The assertion may be controverted. A -hundred Catholic poets for children may be cited writers “of genius -profound,” of “exquisite fancy,” “whose works should grace every parish -library.” I quote a stereotyped criticism, a constant expression with -Catholic reviewers. I laugh, in my hermitage, and blandly suggest, to -all whom it may concern, that insanity in jingles is not relished by -sane children. I speak from experience, having perpetrated a selection -from the one hundred on a class of bright boys and girls. Peaceful -sleep, and, let us hope, pleasant dreams, came to their aid. Shall I -ever, Comus, forget their faces in the transition moment from dulness -to delight? Let us cease cant and rapturous criticism. Catholic -literature, to survive the time that gave it birth, must be built on -other foundations. Hasty and unconscious productions must be branded -as such. We must have, as the French so well put it, a horror of -“pacotille” and “camelotte.” “If my works are good,” said the sculptor -Rude, “they will endure; if not, all the laudation in the world would -not save them from oblivion.” The same may well be written of Catholic -literature. Whether for children or grown-up men or women, as a -Catholic critic, whose only aim has been to gain an audience for my -fellow Catholic writers whose works can bear a favorable comparison -with the best contemporary thought, I ask that the best shall be -given, and that given, it shall be joyfully received; that trash shall -not fill the book-cases, lie on the parlor-tables, be puffed in our -weeklies, and genius and sacrifice be forgotten. I ask that the works -of Stoddard, Johnston, Egan, Roche, Azarias, Lathrop, Tabb, Miss -Repplier, Guiney, Katherine Conway, Mrs. Blake, find a welcome in each -Catholic household, and that the Catholic press make their delightful -personalities known to our rising generation. Of their best they have -given. Shall they die before we acknowledge it? - - - - -AGNES REPPLIER. - - -A friend of mine, a dweller in the city, a lover of red bricks, one to -whom the sound of the dray-cart merrily grinding on the pavement is -sweeter music than a burst of woodland song, has tardily conceded that -the Adirondacks, on a summer day, is pleasant. I value his testimony -and record it with pleasure. Let us be thankful for small favors when -cynics are the donors. For me these woods, lakes and crystal streams -hold an indescribable charm. They are the true abode of man. Here is -liberty, while the city is but a cage, with its thousands uttering the -plaintive cry of Sterne’s prisoned starling, “I cannot get out.” For -the hum of wheels we have the songs of birds, the music of waterfalls, -the purr of mountain brooks and the harmonies of the winds playing -through the thousand different species of trees, each one differing in -melody, but combining in one grand symphony. Orchestras are muffled -music when compared to nature’s lute. The pipes of Pan is but a poet’s -struggle to embody in speech such a symphony. For the city’s smells, -that not even a Ruskin could paint, albeit they are far from elusive, -we have the mountain air that has dallied with the streams and stolen -the fragrance of a thousand clover fields. Every man to his taste. -There is no disputing of this. Lamb loved bricks and Wordsworth such -scenes as ours; yet, Lamb would be as sadly missed from our libraries -as Wordsworth. Swing my hammock in the shade of yonder pines, good -Patsy. A robin is piping his sweetest notes to his brooding spouse, -the Salmon river runs at my feet, biting the sandy shore, laughing -loud when a saucy stone falls in its current. From over the hills -comes the scent of new-mown hay; bless me! this is pleasant. To add -to this enjoyment you have brought a book—something bright, you tell -me. I’ll soon see. And gliding into my hammock, I said my first good -morning to Agnes Repplier. It was a breezy good morning, one of those -where the hand unconsciously goes out as much as to say: Old fellow, -you don’t know how glad I am to see you. There was no friend with a -white cravat standing on the first page to introduce us, and tell us -that the authoress bore in her book a fecund message to struggling -humanity, and that the major part of that same humanity could not see -it; hence it was his duty to stand at the portal and solve the riddle. -There was no begging for recognition on the score of ancestors, fads -or isms. I am Agnes Repplier, said the book; how do you like me? A -few pages perused, and my own voice amusingly fell on my ears, saying -first class. Here was a woman who thought—not the trivial thought that -nauseates in the books of so many literary women—but virile aggressive -thought, that provokes, contradicts, and, like Hamlet’s ghost, will not -be downed. This thought is folded in a garment, whose many hues quicken -the curiosity and make her pages a continual feast of wit, droll irony, -and illuminative criticism all curiously and harmoniously blended. Her -pages are rich in suggestion, apt in quotation. You are constantly -aroused, put on your guard, laughingly disarmed, and that in a way -that Lamb would have loved. She has no awe in the presence of literary -gods. Lightly she trips up to them with her poniard, shows by a pass -that they are made of mud, and that the aureole that encircles them is -but the work of your crude imagination. Clearing away your shreds and -patches she puts the author in a plain suit before you, and, how you -wonder, that with all your boasted knowledge you have called for years -a jackdaw a peacock! - -How delightful to watch this critic armed _cap-a-pie_, demolishing -some fad, that has masqueraded for years as genuine literature. Is -it little Lord Fauntleroy, a character sloppy, inane, impossible to -real life, yet hugged to the heart by the commonplace. Miss Repplier -keenly surveys her ground, as an artist would the statue of his rival, -notes the foibles, cant, false poses, and crazy-quilt jargon used to -deck pet characters. Experience has taught her that you cannot combat -seriously the commonplace. “The statesman or the poet,” says Dudley -Warner, “who launches out unmindful of this, will be likely to come to -grief in his generation.” Sly humor, pungent sarcasm, are the weapons -effectively used. The little Lord is unrobed, and the life that seemed -so full of charity and virtue, becomes but a mixture of hypocrisy and -snobbery. Yet, if some of our critics could, “all the dear old nursery -favorites must be banished from our midst, and the rising generation -of prigs must be nourished exclusively on Little Lord Fauntleroy, and -other carefully selected specimens of milk and water diet.” The dear -land of romance, in its most charming phase, that phase represented -by Red Riding Hood, Ali Baba, Blue Beard, and the other heroes of our -nurseryhood must be eliminated, for children are no longer children, -in the old sense of believing “in such stuff” without questioning. -American children, at any rate, are too sensitively organized to -endure the unredeemed ferocity of the old fairy stories, we are told, -and it is added, “no mother nowadays tells them in their unmitigated -brutality.” These are the empty sayings of the realists, who would have -every child break its dolls to analyze the sawdust. The most casual -observer of American homes knows that our children will not be fed on -such stuff as realists are able to give, but will turn wistfully back -to those brave old tales which are their inheritance from a splendid -past, and of which no hand shall rob them. As Miss Repplier so well -puts it, “we could not banish Blue Beard if we would. He is as immortal -as Hamlet, and when hundreds of years shall have passed over this -uncomfortably enlightened world, the children of the future—who, -thank Heaven, can never, with all our efforts, be born grown-up—will -still tremble at the blood-stained key, and rejoice when the big -brave brothers come galloping up the road.” Ferocity, brutality, if -you will, may couch on every page, but this is much better than the -sugared nothingness of Sunday school tales, and beats all hollow, as -the expression goes, the many tricks perpetrated on children by the -school of analytical fiction. Children will read Blue Beard, and thank -Heaven, as grown-up men, for such a childish pleasure, adding a prayer -for her who wrote the “Battle of the Babies.” Bunner and others have -accused Miss Repplier of ignoring contemporary works, of rudely closing -in their face her library door and saying he who enters here must -have outgrown his swaddling clothes, must have rounded out his good -half-century. This may be one of Bunner’s skits. Even if it were not, -there is more than one precedent to follow. Hazlitt, in his delightful -chat on the “Reading of Old Books,” begins his essay, “I hate to read -new books.” This author has the courage of his convictions; you do not -grope in the dark to know why. Here is the reason, and it is easier to -assent to it than to deny it. “Contemporary writers may generally be -divided into two classes—one’s friends or one’s foes. Of the first we -are compelled to think too well, and of the last we are disposed to -think too ill, to receive much genuine pleasure from the perusal, or -to judge fairly of the merits of either. One candidate for literary -fame, who happens to be of our acquaintance writes finely, and like -a man of genius; but unfortunately has a foolish fad, which spoils a -delicate passage;—another inspires us with the highest respect for -his personal talents and character, but does not come quite up to -our expectation in print.” All these contradictions and petty details -interrupt the calm current of our reflections. These are sound reasons; -as if to clinch them he adds, “but the dust, smoke, and noise of -modern literature have nothing in common with the pure, silent air of -immortality.” - -Miss Repplier, an admirer of Hazlitt, and if one may hazard a guess, -her master in style, would not go so far. She believes in keeping up -with a decent portion of current literature, and “this means perpetual -labor and speed,” whereas idleness and leisure are requisite for the -true enjoyment of books. To read all the frothings of the press for -the sake of being called a contemporary critic were madness. She -concurs with another critic that reading is not a duty, and that no -man is under any obligation to read what another man wrote. When Miss -Repplier stumbles across an unknown volume, picking it up dubiously, -and finds in it an hour of placid but genuine enjoyment, although it -is a modern book, wanting in sanctifying dust, she will use all her -art to make in other hearts a loving welcome for the little stranger. -“A By-Way in Fiction” tells in her own way, of a recent book born of -Italian soil and sunshine, “The Chevalier of Pensieri Vani.” It is -the essayist’s right to read those books, ancient or modern, that -are to her taste, and it is a bit of impertinence in any writer to -particularly recommend to Miss Repplier a list of books, which she is -naturally indisposed to consider with much kindness, thrust upon her -as they are, like paregoric or porous plaster. “If there be people who -can take their pleasures medicinally, let them read by prescription -and grow fat.” Our authoress can do her own quarrying. One of the -darts thrown at this charming writer is, that she would have children -pore through books at their own sweet, wild will, unoppressed by that -modern infliction—foot-notes. That, when a child would meet the word -dog, an asterisk would not hold him to a foot-note occupying a page -and giving all that science knows about that interesting animal. This -is precisely the privilege that your modern critic will not allow. He -will have his explanations, his margins, “build you a bridge over a -rain-drop, put ladders up a pebble, and encompass you on every side -with ingenious alpen-stocks and climbing irons, yet when perchance you -stumble and hold out a hand for help, behold! he is never there to -grasp it.” What does a boy, plunging into Scott or Byron, want with -these atrocities? The imagery that peoples his mind, the music that -sweeps through his soul, these, and not your stilted erudition, are the -milk and honey of boyhood. “I once knew a boy,” says Miss Repplier, -in that sparkling defense, ‘Oppression of Notes,’ “who so delighted -in Byron’s description of the dying gladiator that he made me read it -to him over and over again. He did not know—and I never told him—what -a gladiator was. He did not know that it was a statue, and not a real -man described. He had not the faintest notion of what was meant by -the Danube, or the Dacian mother or a Roman holiday; historically and -geographically, the boy’s mind was a happy blank. There was nothing -intelligent, only a blissful stirring of the heartstrings by reason -of strong words and swinging verse, and his own tangle of groping -thoughts.” Had the reader stopped the course of the swinging verse -to explain these unknown words, boyish happiness would have flown, -oppression become complete, and let us hope sleep would have rescued -the bored boy from such an ordeal. - -Cowley, full of good sense, is on the side of our essayist. In his -essay “On Myself” he relates the charm of verse, falling on his boyish -ear, without comprehending fully its purport. “I believe I can tell -the particular little chance that filled my head first with such -chimes of verse as have never since left ringing there. For I remember -when I began to read, and to take some pleasure in it, there was wont -to lie in my mother’s parlor (I know not by what accident, for she -herself never in her life read any book but of devotion), but there -was wont to lie Spenser’s works; this I happened to fall upon, and -was infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, giants, and -monsters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there (though my -understanding had little to do with all this), and by degrees with the -tinkling of the rhyme and dance of the numbers, so that I think I had -read him all over, before I was twelve years old, and was thus made a -poet as immediately as a child is made an eunuch.” The charm of Miss -Repplier’s pages lies in their good sense. She is a lover of the good -and beautiful, a hater of shams and shoddies. Everything she touches -becomes more interesting, whether it be Gastronomy, Old Maids, Cats, -Babies, or the New York Custom House. Like Lamb and Hazlitt, a lover of -old books, finding in them the pure silent air of immortality, she will -welcome graciously any new book whose worth is its passport. - -Agnes Repplier was born in the city of brotherly love more than thirty -years ago. Her father was John Repplier, a well-known coal merchant. -Her earliest playmates were books. Her mother a brilliant and lovable -woman, fond of books, and, as a friend of her’s informed me, a writer -of ability, watched over and directed the education of her more -brilliant daughter. Under such a mother, amid scenes of culture, Agnes -grew up, finding in books a solace for ill-health that still continues -to harry her. When she entered the arena of authorship, by training and -study she was well equipped. At once she was reckoned as a sovereign -princess of “That proud and humble ... Gipsey Land,” one of the very -elect of Bohemia. She came, as Stedman says, “with gentle satire -or sparkling epigram to brush aside the fads and fallacies of this -literary _fin de siècle_, calling upon us to return to the simple ways -of the masters.” Her charming volumes should be in the hands of every -student of literature as a corrective against the debasing theories and -tendencies of modern book-making. The student will find that if she -does not know all things in heaven and on earth, she may plead in the -language of Little Breeches: - - “I never ain’t had no show; - But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir - On the handful o’ things I know.” - - - - -A WORD. - - - - -LITERATURE AND OUR CATHOLIC POOR. - - -We are told, with some show of truth, that this age shall be noted in -history as one given to the study of social problems. The contemporary -literature of a country is a good index to what people are thinking -about. Magazines are, as a rule, for their time, and deal with the -forces upward in men’s minds. The most cursory glance at their contents -will show the predominance of the Social Problem treated from some -phase or other. The best minds are engaged as partisans. Social -science may be said to be the order of the day. It has crushed poetry -to the skirts of advertising, romance is its happy basking ground. -The drama has made it its own. There are some, fogies of course, so -says your sapient scientist, who believe that the social science so -spasmodically treated in current literature is but a passing fad, and -that poetry shall be restored to her old quarters, romance amuse as of -old, and the drama be winnowed of rant, scenic sensation, and bestial -morality. These dreams may be vain, but then even fogies have their -hopes. A branch of this science—the tree is overshadowing—treats of the -literature and the masses. Anything about the masses interests me. - -When I read the other day, “Literature and the Masses; a Social Study,” -among the contents of a _fin de siècle_ magazine, I would have pawned -my wearing apparel rather than go home without it. Its reading was -painful, as all reading must be where the author knows less about his -subject than the ordinary reader. Later, another article fell in my -way, dealing with the same subject. Its author had more material, but -his use of it was clumsy. It was while reading this article, that I -noted the utter stupidity with which things Catholic are treated by the -ordinary literary purveyor. These ephemeral pen-wielders seem to hold -the most fantastic notions of the Church. What Azarias says of Emerson -is true of them: “They seek truth in every religious and philosophical -system outside of the teachings of the Catholic Church.” They will not -drink from Rome. To correct all this author’s errors is not my plan. In -this paper I restrict myself to a part of the same subject, Literature -and Our Catholic Poor. I prefer an independent study to patchwork. It -is the usual thing in such studies to present credentials. I present -mine. Five years’ life in the tenement districts of New York and other -great cities of the Union, in full contact, from the peculiarity of my -position, with the poor. During these years I was led to make a study -of their reading. This study, to be intelligible, must be prefaced by -a few hints on their life and environment. It is useless to deny the -often-repeated assertion that their lot in the great cities is hard -and crushing. It is a continual struggle for nominal existence. The -children commence work at a premature age. Their education is meagre -and broken. Marriage is entered in early life, without the slightest -provision. To these marriages there is little selection. The girls have -been brought up in factories, household restraint frets their soul. Of -household economy, so necessary to the city toiler, they know nothing. -If ends meet it is well. If not, there is trust and sorrow. The day -of their marriage means a few stuffy rooms, badly ventilated, filled -with the most bizarre and useless furniture put in by shylock, who -will, in the coming years, exact ten times their value. Thus started, -children are born, puny and sickly, prey of physician and druggist. -If these children survive, at an early age they follow the father and -mother by entering foundries and factories to toil life’s weary round -away. When they die the family is pauperized for years. It is a common -plaint of the tenements that “I would have been worth something if my -boy had not died.” Every death is not only a drain on the immediate -family, but on their friends, who are supposed to turn out and give -“the corpse a decent burial.” The decent burial means coaches, flowers -and whiskey. The most casual observer must notice the giant part liquor -plays, in the lives of the poor. Liquor and its concomitant, tobacco, -in the deadly form of cigarettes, are known to the boy. He has been -brought up in that atmosphere. His father has his cheap, ill-smelling -cigar and frothy pint for supper. His mother and a few gossiping -friends have chased the heavy day with a few pints “because they were -dry.” He delights in being the Mercury of the “growler.” Hanging by -the balustrade he sips the beer, “just to taste it.” That taste, alas, -lingers through life. As he grows older it becomes more refined. His -teachers are the sumptuous, dazzling bar-rooms guarding each city -corner, while betraying the nation. The owners of these vice palaces -are wise in their generation. For his stuffy home, broken furniture and -cheerless aspects, they show him wide, airy rooms, polished furniture, -bevelled glass mirrors, dazzling light, music, gaiety, companionship, -and the illusive charm of revelry. The reading matter in such places is -on a par with the other attractions. It is sensational. Its authors are -skilled in the base development of the passions. It smacks obscenity, -and early dulls the intellect to finer things. To be enmeshed in its -threads is the greatest sorrow of a young life. When the bar-room -does not allure, there is another siren to be taken into account. It -is the promiscuous gathering at the neighbor’s house who has been so -unfortunate as to find a music dealer to trust him with a piano at -three times its price. Here gather the Romeos and Juliets to - - “Sing and dance - And parley vous France, - Drink beer Alanna - And play on the grand piano.” - -The songs are of no literary value, sometimes comic, sometimes -sentimental, more often with an ambiguity that is more suggestive -than downright obscenity. Of the so-called comic, “McGinty” was a -great hit, while “After the Ball” was its equal in the sentimental -line. It is a strange sight to see pale, flaccid, worn-out Juliet -thrum the indifferent piano, while near her in a dramatic posture, -learned from some melo-dramatic actor, stands twisted Romeo, singing -some sentimental song, balancing his voice to the poor performer, -and indifferent piano. To hear such stuff—I speak from auricular -demonstration—is no small affliction. After songs come dances, weary -night flies quickly away. Work comes with the morrow. Sleepy and tired -they buckle on their armor and go out uncomplainingly to tear and -wear the sickly body. Thus generation after generation passes to the -tread-mill and beyond. It is not to be expected that the literature of -such people would be of a high grade. To say that they have no time -to read were a fallacy, inasmuch as they do read. Here the question -arises, what do they read? I answer that they possess a literature of -their own, both in weekly journals and published volumes. They support, -strange as it may seem, a school of novelists for their delectation. -These journals are a medley of blood-and-thunder stories, far-fetched -jokes, sporting news, etiquette as she is above stairs, marriage hints, -palmistry, dress making, now and then a page of original topical music -hemmed with fake advertising. The point to be noted in these journals, -a shrewd business one, they are never beyond the reader’s intelligence. -Their novels must be simple and amusing. That is, their author must -know how to spin a story. He must amuse. Each weekly instalment must -have its comic as well as tragic denouement. The hero must be a -villain of the most approved type, neither wanting in courage nor in -cunning. The heroine must be on the side of the angelic, mesmerized -by the prowess of her hero. A vast quantity of supers are constantly -on hand, in case of emergency. Murders, suicides, broken hearts and -lesser afflictions are of frequent occurrence. The hero may perish -at any moment, provided a more reckless devil takes his place. Half -a dozen heroines may come to grief in one serial. An author must be -lavish. Provided he is, style is not reckoned, and bad grammar but -adds a taking flavor. Woe be to the editor who would inflict on his -readers a novel of the school of Henry James or Paul Bourget. The -masses hold that the primary condition of fiction is to amuse. They -are right. These journals are carried in ladies’ satchels, they stick -out of young men’s pockets. On ferry-boats, in street cars, in their -stuffy rooms, in the few minutes snatched from the dinner hour they -are eagerly read. They may be crumpled and thrust into the pocket at -any moment. No handwashing is necessary to handle them. Their cost is -light, five cents a week. By a system of interchange a club of five -may for that cost peruse five different story papers. This system is -in general practice. The greatest amount for the least money strongly -appeals to the poor. The novels in book form are of a much lower grade -than the serials. Written by profligate men and women, in a vile style, -their only object is to undermine morality. Falsity to the marriage -vows, deception, theft, the catalogue of a criminal court, is strongly -inculcated as the right path. These novels, generally in paper covers, -are showy and eye-catching. A voluptuous siren on the cover, with an -ambiguous title allures the minor to his ruin. I have known not a few -book-sellers who passed as eminently respectable, do a thriving trade -in this class of books. The fact that they kept the stock in drawers -in the rear of their stores told of their conscious complicity in the -destruction and degradation of our youth. These novels are cheap, -within the reach of the poor, a point to be noted. The question -arises, what can be done to counteract this spread of pernicious -literature among our Catholic poor? There is but one answer on the -lips of those who should be heard; fight it with good literature—yet -literature not beyond their understanding. Put in their hands good -novels, whose primary purpose is to amuse. The good-natured gentleman -who would put into the hands of the poor as a Christmas gift Fabiola, -Callista, Pauline Seward, etc., would make a great mistake. These books -would become playthings for greasy babies or curled paper to light the -“evening smoke.” The bread winners will not be bored. They have worked -hard all day, and at evening want some kind of amusement. The book -must be nervy, a tonic. Dictionaries are scarce in the haunts of the -poor. Footnotes are an abomination. The author must whisk the reader -along. A rapid canter, only broken by hearty laughter or honest pity. -Have we any Catholic novels that will do this? It is the plaint of the -know-nothing scribes, tossing their empty skulls, to write a capital -No. From experience I answer yes. The novels of that true writer of -boys’ stories, Father Finn, are just the thing for the poor. They -want to read of boys that are not old men, none of your goody-goody -little nobodies. A boy is no fool. In real life he would not chum with -your sweet little Toms, your praying, psalm-singing Jamies, and your -dying angelic Marys. Nor shall he in books, thank heaven. Father Finn -has drawn the boy as he is. His books would be joyfully welcomed, if -published in a cheap paper form, say at twenty-five cents per copy. -List to the wail of the fattening Catholic publisher, who will read -that idea. It is, however, a sane one. If Protestants can make cheap -books, thereby creating the market, why not Catholics? Until this is -done it is useless to cry out, as authors do, nobody will buy my books. -Yes, your books will be bought if they are reasonable in price, and -properly placed before the public. As it is, your books are snuffed -out by the immense amount of trash handled by the ordinary Catholic -bookseller, and you help this by writing deep-dyed hypocrisy of the -trash-makers. Azarias mildly expresses my idea in one of his posthumous -papers: “Catholic reviewers must plead guilty to the impeachment of -having been in the past too laudatory of inferior work.” The stories -of that sterling man, Malcolm Johnston, called Dukesborough Tales, I -once gave to a wretched family. On visiting them a week after, what -delight it was to hear the health-giving laughter they had found in -them. To another family I gave Billy Downs. Asking how they liked them, -I was told that they were as “fine as silk.” A youth of fourteen, his -face decidedly humorous, volunteered the criticism that “Billy had -no grit.” During the illness of four or five patients of mine I read -the assembled family “Chumming With a Savage,” “Joe of Lahaina.” When -I came to the final sentence in Joe, where Charlie Stoddard leaves -him “sitting and singing in the mouth of his grave—clothed all in -death,” two of the youngsters burst into tears, while the father much -agitated, said, “Doctor, I don’t see how he had the heart to leave -him.” They were so much attached to the book that, although it had -been my choice old chum in many a land, I gave it to them. Lately I -gave “Life Around Us,” a collection of stories by Maurice F. Egan. -It was a great success. Egan has the true touch for the masses when -he wishes. Another little story much prized was Nugent Robinson’s -“Better Than Gold.” To these might be added in cheap form those of -Marian Brunowe, May Crowley, Helen Sweeney, a promising young writer, -and Lelia Bugg. How to reach the poor with these books presents few -obstacles. Cardinal Vaughan has solved the difficulty in England. -Attach to every parish church in city and country a library of well -selected interesting Catholic books. Let their circulation be free of -charge. The great majority of Catholic poor attend some of the Sunday -Masses. If the library is open, they will gladly take a book home. The -reading of this book will instil a taste. They will tell their friends -of it. It will be the subject of many a chat. If it is cheap, not a -few of the neighbors will wish to purchase it. Their criticism, always -racy and generally correct, will, as Birrell has pointed out in one -of his essays, be its sure pass to success. After a year’s friendly -intercourse the library will become a necessity, and they will gladly -pay a fee for their week’s delight. The author that has won their -hearts will be on their lips, his new books, on account of old ties, -will be eagerly purchased and loudly proclaimed. - -Families that are shy and backward as church-members, might be visited -and literature left. This I hold is priestly work. If they come not to -Christ, let us, as the teachers of old, bring Christ to them. It will -be read. After your footsteps can be no longer heard curiosity will -come to your assistance. The little maid will pick it up, the parents -will read. I have again and again left those charming temperance -manifestoes of Father Mahony in homes of squalor and misery, the -outcome of weekly drunks. These stray leaves, I am happy to write, in -many cases marked the beginning of better things. - -To counteract the serials is, to use an expression, a horse of another -color. Our weeklies are, as a general rule, dull. The poor take a -squint at some of the dailies. This squint gives them the gist of their -world. They do not care, as they will tell you, “to be reading the same -thing over twice.” Our weeklies are too often a rehash of the dailies. -Another remark that I often heard among them is, “that our weeklies -have too much Irish news.” They are not wanting in patriotism to the -home of many of their fathers, yet what interest could they be supposed -to take in the long-winded personal rivalries of Irish statesmen, -or the rank rant of the one hundred orators that strut that unhappy -isle. A bit of McCarthy, or Sexton, will be welcomed, but they rightly -draw the line at page after page of rhodomontade. If, instead of this -stuff, living articles were written, short stories, poems, biographies -of eminent Catholics, their Church and her great mission made known, -then would the poor read, and a powerful weapon against the serials -be placed in our hands. There are some of our weeklies that cannot be -classed under this criticism. They are few. - -The Ave Maria, founded and conducted by one who is thoroughly capable, -could be easily made a great favorite with the poor. Its contents -are varied and replete with good things. I have used it with effect. -Another and later venture is the Young Catholic, by the Paulists, which -will fill a want. Its editor is full of sane ideas. Boys’ stories, -full of adventure, spirited pictures, will win it a way to all young -hearts. These papers may never reach the poor, if folding our arms we -stand idly by, expecting the masses by intuition to know their value. -Could not parish libraries have cheap editions for free distribution -among the poorer denizens? To defray expenses, a collection might be -taken up twice a year. No good Catholic will begrudge a few cents, -when he knows that it will go to brighten the hard life of his less -fortune-favored brother. The critic who does nothing in life but sneer -may call this Utopian. It is the old cuckoo call, known to every man -that tries to help his fellows. Newman, Barry, Lilly, Brownson, Hecker, -Ireland, Spalding, all the glittering names on our rosary have heard -it, and went their way, knowing full well that if the finger of God -traces their path, human obstacles are of little weight. The plan, -however, is eminently practical. In one of the poorest parishes in the -diocese of Ogdensburgh, it has been tried and with abundant success. I -remember well last summer with what pleasure I heard a mountain urchin -ask his pastor, “Father, can I have the _Pilot_?” This urchin had made -the acquaintance of James Jeffrey Roche and Katherine E. Conway. He was -in good company. Infidelity is going to our poor. Her weapon is the -printing press. The pulpit is well, but its arm is too short. - -Shall we stand idly by and lose our own, or shall we buckle on the -armor of intelligent methods as mirrored in this paper, thereby not -only delivering our own from its coarseness and petrifaction, but -carrying the kindly light to those who know us not? Let us remember -in these days, when socialism claims the poor, that our Church is not -alone for the cultured, it is pre-eminently her duty to lead and guide -the masses. This, to a great extent, must be done by the newspaper and -book-stall. - -Our Church must man the printing press with the same zeal which -animated the Jesuit scholars, explorers and civilizers of three -hundred years ago; “then will our enemies be as much surprised as -disheartened.” - - - - -GREEN GRAVES IN IRELAND. - -BY WALTER LECKY, - -_Author of “Adirondack Sketches,” “Down at Caxton’s,” etc._ - - -PRESS COMMENTS: - -A new beam, a new factor in American Literature.—_Maurice F. Egan._ - -Charming essays.—_C. Warren Stoddard._ - -They deserve book form.—_Brother Azarias._ - -Destined to win early recognition.—_R. Malcolm Johnston._ - -Lecky imitates himself. He is pungent, witty, humorous and -epigrammatic, with dashes of occasional eloquence.—_Eugene Davis in -Western Watchman._ - -“Green Graves in Ireland,” by Walter Lecky, is a delightful little -book.—_Western Watchman._ - -It is a well written, and pathetic tribute to the heroes who suffered -in the holy cause of freedom.—_Donahoe’s Magazine._ - -There is mingled pathos and humor in the volume.—_Ave Maria._ - -The author’s style is bright and pungent; and this literary flavor -he preserves throughout the pages of this very attractive book. He -understands the spirit and sparkle of the Irish mind, and he has caught -a good deal of it in his jaunting car excursions about the Irish -capital.—_Catholic World._ - -A clever monograph. Walter Lecky has written exquisitely.—_Catholic -News, N. Y._ - -The book will interest all who really love the country of the bards, -and will be an excellent stimulus to young persons inclined to forget -the fame of their ancestors.—_Boston Pilot._ - -Large literary ability.—_Union Times._ - -An important and valuable addition to the growing literature of -America.—_True Witness._ - -The paper and type of the little volume are excellent; surprisingly -so, for the low price at which it may be procured. For the rest we can -say that Mr. Lecky’s style invests his subject with a charm which, we -think, will induce the most unwilling reader who has opened his little -book to persevere through its entire contents.—_American Ecclesiastical -Review._ - -Walter Lecky is comparatively a new name in literature, but it is -one destined to stand for good and beautiful things, especially the -Catholic readers. His Adirondack sketches in the Catholic World are one -of the brightest features of that excellent magazine.—_Boston Pilot._ - - - * * * * * - -Transcriber’s Note: Text uses “her’s” where most would expect “hers.” -Additionally, many of the quotation marks do not match. 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