La Reforme en Italie, les Precurseurs:
Discours Historiques de César Cantu.
Traduits de l'Italien par Aniset Digard et Edmond Martin.
Paris: Adrien le Clere, 29 Rue Cassette. 1867.
Caesar Cantu is the author of the best universal history extant, and of other historical works of the first class. He has undertaken the task of crushing the destructive pseudo-reformers of Italy under the weight of his massive historical erudition. The first volume of the present work, which is the only one yet published, brings down the subject to the 16th century, and will be followed by three others. The author is a sound and orthodox Catholic, yet, as a layman and as a historian, his work has not the distinctively professional style and spirit which are usually found in the works of ecclesiastical authors. He is fearless and free in speaking the historical truth, even when it is discreditable to ecclesiastical rulers and requires the exposure of scandals and abuses in the church. His spirit is calm and impartial, and the theological and ascetical elements are carefully eliminated. He has gone back to the very origin of Christianity, in order to trace the course of events from their beginning, and has traced the outlines of the constitution of historical Christianity. Church principles and dogmas are, however, exhibited in a purely historical method, and as essential portions of the history of facts and events. Such a writer is terrible to parties whose opinions and schemes cannot bear the light of history. The whole class of pseudo-reformers, whether semi-Christian or openly infidel, are of this sort. Cantu sweeps them off the track of history by the force and weight of his erudition, as a locomotive tosses the stray cows on the track of a railway, with broken legs, to linger and die in the meadows at each side of it. It is only Catholic truth, either in the supernatural or the natural order, which can bear investigation, or survive the crucial test of history. The so-called Reformation retains its hold on the respect of the world only through ignorance. When history is better and more generally known, it will be universally admitted that it was not only a great crime, but a great blunder, a faux pas in human progress.
The Infant Bridal, and other Poems.
By Aubrey De Vere. London: MacMillan & Co.
We are glad to see this book, rather for the memories than the novelties it brings us. Almost all its contents have been published in the author's other volumes, and there is nothing in this to alter the opinions, either good or ill, that we took occasion to express in a former review of them at large. The most remarkable about the book is the selection of the republished pieces. It only verifies anew the observation that authors, no more than we of the world, have the giftie to see themselves as others see them. Some of the best poems are there, and some of the worst. The Infant Bridal and The Search for Proserpine are perhaps the very two poorest of all the author's longer productions. Still, perhaps the many faults we fancy we see in the tact of the compilation, only come to this—that we ourselves would have compiled differently, and possibly worse.
But we meet, all over these elegant tinted pages, lines and beauties that we fondly remember loving of old—fine blank verse, wonderful descriptions, delicious idyls. These latter, by the way, are equally remarkable and unremarked. They are from the same fount with Theocritus, Bion, and Moschus. We cannot resist giving one extract, from Glance, p. 64:
"Come forth, dear maid, the day is calm and cool,
And bright though sunless. Like a long green scarf,
The tall pines, crowning yon gray promontory,
In distant ether hang, and cut the sea.
But lovers better love the dell, for there
Each is the other's world. How indolently
The tops of those pale poplars, bending, sway
Over the violet-braided river brim!
Whence comes this motion? for no wind is heard,
And the long grasses move not, nor the reeds.
Here we will sit, and watch the rushes lean
Like locks, along the leaden-colored stream
Far off; and thou, O child, shall talk to me
Of Naiads and their loves."
One more sample of the contents of this volume, and we have said all there is to say. It is an unusual vein for De Vere, but one in which, like Tennyson, he engages never lightly and always with telling success. It is the close of A Farewell to Naples, p. 255:
"From her whom genius never yet inspired.
Or virtue raised, or pulse heroic fired;
From her who, in the grand historic page.
Maintains one barren blank from age to age;
From her, with insect life and insect buzz.
Who, evermore unresting, nothing does;
From her who, with the future and the past,
No commerce holds—no structure rears to last.
From streets where spies and jesters, side by side.
Range the rank markets and their gains divide;
Where faith in art, and art in sense is lost.
And toys and gewgaws form a nation's boast;
Where passion, from affection's bond cut loose,
Revels in orgies of its own abuse;
And appetite, from passion's portals thrust.
Creeps on its belly to its grave in dust;
Where vice her mask disdains, where fraud is loud.
And naught but wisdom dumb, and justice cowed;
Lastly, from her who planted here unawed,
'Mid heaven-topped hills and waters bright and broad,
From these but nerves more swift to err has gained
And the dread stamp of sanctities profaned;
And, girt not less with ruin, lives to show
That worse than wasted weal is wasted woe—
We part; forth issuing through her closing gate.
With unreverting faces, not ingrate."
Cannot this book speak better for itself than our good word?