We cannot do better than quote the editor’s preface, by way of comment:
“The Syllabus of Pius IX. has been the subject of so many misconceptions that a plain and simple setting forth of its meaning cannot be useless. This is what I have tried to do in the following pages. A vindication or defence of the Syllabus was, of course, out of the question in so small a compass; but I think that more than half the work of defence is done by a simple explanation. During the ten years just completed since its promulgation, much has occurred to show the wisdom that dictated it. The translation I have given is the one authorized by His Eminence the Cardinal Archbishop of Dublin.”
Postscript to a Letter addressed to His Grace the Duke of Norfolk, on Occasion of Mr. Gladstone’s Recent Expostulation, and in Answer to his “Vaticanism.” By John Henry Newman, D. D., of the Oratory. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1875.
In this Postscript Dr. Newman pulverizes the different statements of Mr. Gladstone’s rejoinder, one by one. The blunders of the ex-Premier are not surprising, seeing that he attempts to write about matters in which he is not well informed, but they are certainly very gross. Dr. Newman has taken him by the hand with a very gentle smile on his countenance, but he has broken his bones as in a vise.
Personal Reminiscences. By Moore and Jerdan. Edited by Richard Henry Stoddard. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Company. 1875.
This small and dainty-looking little volume is one of the “Bric-a-Brac” Series. Its two hundred and eighty-eight pages profess to give us the “personal reminiscences” of Moore and Jerdan. They give nothing more than such extracts from the original as have taken the fancy of the editor. Whether that fancy has always been wise in its choice is fairly open to question. There is much of Moore’s reminiscences omitted that might have been very profitably inserted, at least in exchange for many things which have found their way into the volume. It is Moore “bottled off,” so to say, and given out in small doses. The experiment is not very satisfactory. Moore suffered irretrievably in his biographer, Lord John Russell, of whose “eight solid volumes,” as Mr. Stoddard says, “the essence is here presented to the reader.” Lord Russell will be credited with many blunders in after time, and very grave ones some of them; but never did he make a more exasperating mistake than in undertaking the editing of Moore’s Memoirs, Journal, and Correspondence, in rivalry of Moore’s own admirable biography of Byron. Readers of Personal Reminiscences must be prepared to meet with a vast quantity of nonsense and trash. But much of this constitutes the chief value of such works. In the jottings down of daily journals no one expects to meet with profound reflections and labored thoughts. They are rather, in the hands of such men as Moore, “the abstract and brief chronicle of the time” in which they are made. Moore’s witty and graceful pen was just adapted to such work as this. Whoever or whatever was considered worth seeing in the world in which he lived and moved as one of its chief ornaments, he saw, and set down in his private journal. Bits of this Mr. Stoddard gives us in the present volume; but those who care for this kind of literature at all will prefer the whole to such parts as have pleased the editor; and the whole does possess an intrinsic value to which the present volume does not pretend. Mr. Stoddard’s preface is not encouraging. He seems to write under protest that his valuable time should be consumed in this kind of work. “I cannot put myself in the place of a man who keeps a journal in which he is the principal figure, and in which his whereabouts, and actions, and thoughts, and feelings are detailed year after year,” says Mr. Stoddard; and the obvious comment is: “Very probably; but no one has asked Mr. Stoddard to do anything so foolish.” Persons who keep “journals,” however, are not in the habit of keeping them for other people. “I cannot put myself in the place of Moore,” insists Mr. Stoddard, with unnecessary pertinacity, “who seems to have never lost interest in himself.” The comment again is very obvious: Mr. Stoddard is a very different man from Mr. Moore. The truth is, Mr. Stoddard does not like either Moore or his poetry. “The reputation which had once been his had waned.” “A new and greater race of poets than the one to which he belonged had risen.” “Lalla Rookh was still read, perhaps, but not with the same pleasure as The Princess or The Blot on the Scutcheon. Moore had ‘ceased to charm.’” Such statements as these Mr. Stoddard would seem to consider self evident facts of which no proof is needed. And he would be astonished were some one to ask him to point out the “new and greater race of poets” which has arisen since Moore’s death. Still more would he be astonished if asked to point out, not “a race of poets,” but a single member of the race whose writings are more read, whose name and fame are better known, who is “greater,” than Moore. He would be thunderstruck were he informed that for a hundred who had read Lalla Rookh not twenty had read The Princess, knew its author or of its existence, and not ten knew even of the name of the other poem mentioned. Altogether, though Mr. Stoddard’s preface is short, it is certainly not sweet, and both himself and the reader are to be congratulated at his not having extended it.
Our Lady’s Dowry; or, How England Gained and Lost that Title. A compilation by the Rev. T. E. Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer. London: Burns & Oates. 1875. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)
This book is among the most delightful and the most valuable which it has been our good-fortune to meet with. It establishes not only the fact of England having been called “throughout Europe Our Lady’s Dowry,” but her right to the glorious title.
Those who imagine what is known to-day as Catholic devotion to Our Lady a thing of comparatively modern growth, or, again, that it can only bloom luxuriantly in the sunny climes of Spain and Italy, will find both illusions dispelled in these pages. The old Anglo-Saxon love of Mary was as warm and tender as any of which human hearts are capable. And instead of finding our English ancestors behind us in this devotion, we must rather own ourselves behind them.