The author manifests a high degree of insight and the æsthetic sense, an intimate knowledge of feminine nature, and more of that of the opposite sex than its members may dream of—in acquiring which the delicate intuitions of her own sex doubtless serve a better purpose than the mere logic and learning of ours. Although the story introduces the reader into the highest social circles, and its incidents are of the most absorbing interest, there is no sacrifice of the dramatic unities, or any departure from the essential simplicity of the narrative. This severity of style, we may say, is at once the most winning quality of a work of genius, and the best test of its success; making the latter dependent on inherent excellence, rather than adventitious aids. In works of this character, art in letters reaches its highest development—that in which it becomes the most natural.
A noticeable feature is the epigrammatic conciseness with which a sentiment or description is finished. The reader is never wearied with platitudes or over-minuteness of limning. Whatever idea occurs to the writer which she is willing to share with the reader is expressed in the fewest possible words. Is a scene to be presented to the mind's eye?—a few touches of the artist's pencil bring it vividly before us. The reader finds himself moved alternately to mirthfulness, or tears, or astonishment, as he encounters an unexpected bit of humor, and exquisite burst of pathos, or some reflection almost startling in depth or suggestiveness. Some passages are open to obvious inference, while others constitute studies if we would probe their philosophy. It was a question with those who watched the serial progress of the story, how the author could bring order and harmony out of the complications in which she had involved her principal characters; and the way this has been accomplished will be acknowledged as not the least of her achievements. No characters are interchanged or lose their identity. Each acts his part as naturally, and retains his individuality, as in real life; so that, when the dramatis personæ are at length summoned to the footlights for a final adieu, we feel inclined to protest, in the name of all the delighted auditors, against the call, as a premature termination of a very pleasant intercourse.
The reception Fleurange has met with thus far is very flattering. It has commended itself to the favorable judgment of the London Saturday Review, and other authorities of like critical acumen; has been crowned by the French Academy; and received the general approval of the press and public, so far as we have learned, while passing through the pages of Le Correspondant and The Catholic World. We know of no recent imaginative work of which we could speak in terms of more unqualified approbation, or better deserving a permanent place in our literature, both as a work of art and for the sound principles by which it is pervaded and informed.
On the translation, we do not know that we could bestow higher praise than to say that it reads like an original work of the first order; while we are convinced that it is a faithful and conscientious rendering from the French text.
Legends of St. Patrick By Aubrey De Vere. Dublin: McGlashan & Gill. London: Henry S. King & Co. 1872. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)
“If the Ireland of early times is ever understood, it will not be till after thoughtful men have deemed her legends worthy of their serious attention.” This [pg 571] remark Mr. De Vere makes in his preface, and not until we had read through his Legends did we fully realize its truth. It is a most certain fact that the twilight of Irish history can be changed into day only by the profound study of its legendary lore. We have read several lives of S. Patrick, and more than one history of Ireland have we studied, but from none of them did we get so clear an insight into the character of the saint and the genius of his people as from Mr. De Vere's Legends, few and short though they be.
The subjects are beautiful and poetic, and the author's conception of them lofty and spiritual. There is indeed a sacred melody about early Irish song which only a spiritual bard can evoke. Chords there are in Erin's ancient harp which a hand of mere flesh and blood may not touch. Mr. De Vere has sung those songs; he has touched these chords, and they have given forth their true melody. It is not to his beautiful diction and varying metres, it is not to his wonderful descriptive powers and high poetic gifts, that we attribute this success, but it is to those two passions of his soul which impress themselves on all that he writes—love of God and love of Ireland. And here an opportunity is afforded us of speaking of Mr. De Vere as the poet of Ireland. That he is far superior to any Irish poet of the present day is beyond all question, and that his equal, in everything save popularity, to any English poet of the day is a verdict competent judges have not hesitated to give.
We often ask ourselves, How is it, then, he is so little known and read by his countrymen in America? For twenty years he has scorned “the siren's tinsel lure,” and devoted all his talents to sounding the praises of Ireland and of Ireland's Catholicity. His sole aim through life has been to enshrine Ireland's faith and Ireland's song in the temple of fame. Patriotism is his only incentive to labor; he seems indifferent to popularity, and perhaps this is one reason why he enjoys so little. But there are other reasons, we think, and they also are in his favor. Mr. De Vere is too polished, too thoughtful, and too spiritual to be a popular poet.
If he would descend from his high poetic ideal to sing love songs, he would soon be popular; but he will never prove a recreant bard. Those for whom he has so long and so faithfully labored must disenthrall themselves from the spirit of the age, and ascend to his level; then will they find in him all they can desire, and proclaim him their laureate. They will not find in him, it is true, the inimitable sweetness of Moore or the poetic fire of Davis, but they will find in him the patriotism of both, a polish superior to either, and, over all and above all, they will find a muse ennobled by the highest sentiments of religion and morality.
The Truth. By Field Marshal the Duke of Saldanha. Translated from the Portuguese, by William John Charles Henry. London: Burns, Oates & Co. 1872. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)