Here we have a kind of quasi-Catholic tale, written by a Protestant. As a story it has a good deal of stirring incident and dramatic power, mingled with a fine spice of humor. The writer shows no unkind or unfair disposition toward Catholics or their religion, and the priest in the story, as a man, is a noble and heroic character. His Catholicity, however, is too weak even for the most extreme left of liberal Catholics.
The Veil Withdrawn (Le Mot de L’Enigme). Translated, by permission, from the French of Mme. Craven, author of A Sister’s Story, Fleurange, etc. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1875.
In its didactic aspects we consider The Veil Withdrawn superior to its immediate predecessor, Fleurange, inasmuch as its moral purpose is more decided and apparent; and we believe Mme. Craven has been very opportune in the choice of the principal lesson which her book inculcates, as well as felicitous in the manner in which it is conveyed. There is perhaps no peril to which a frank, confiding young matron is more exposed at the present day than that constituted by the circumstances which formed the temptation of the heroine of this novel, and which she so heroically overcame. And herein we trust the non-Catholic reader will not fail to observe the safeguard which Catholic principles and the confessional throw around the innocent—warning them of the threatened danger, without detracting from the ingenuousness and simplicity which constitute a chief charm of the sex. We purposely avoid being more specific in our allusion to the plot of this story, lest we diminish the pleasure of those who have delayed its perusal until now.
Caleb Krinkle. By Charles Carleton Coffin (“Carlton”). Boston and New York: Lee & Shepard. 1875.
This “Story of American Life,” which would have been more aptly called a “Story of Yankee Life,” is really capital. Linda Fair, Dan Dishaway, and old Peter are excellently-drawn characters, and the others are good in their way. The description of the blacksmith and his daughter is like a paraphrase of Longfellow’s exquisite little poem. The author makes use both of pathos and humor, and although there are rather too many disasters and narrow escapes, yet, on the whole, the story is simple, natural, and life-like, its moral tone is elevated, and it is well worth reading.
Poems. By William Wilson. Edited by Benson J. Lossing, Poughkeepsie: Archibald Wilson. 1875.
He is a bold publisher who sends forth a poetical venture in these prosaic days, backed though it be by a partial subscription list and the favorable reception of a first edition.
We are reminded in looking over this volume, as we have often been before in examining those of the tuneful brethren, how much the world is indebted to the church, consciously or otherwise, for its most refined enjoyments. If “an undevout astronomer is mad,” how can a poet’s instincts be otherwise than Catholic? Were it not for Catholic themes, he would lack his highest inspiration, as well as appropriate imagery to illustrate his thoughts withal. Even that doughty old iconoclast, John Bunyan—every inch a poet, though his lines were not measured—found no relief for his pilgrim-hero till he had looked upon that symbol of symbols—the cross.
The author of the present collection made no permanent profession of literature, and rarely wrote except when the impulse was too strong to be resisted. His impromptu lines were always his best, the Scottish dialect, in which many of them are written, adding not a little to their racy flavor. His verse is characterized by sweetness, beauty, and strength, and he is particularly happy when descanting upon the joys of home, of love and friendship, and the charms of outward nature.
We are not aware that the author ever made a study of the claims of the church, and some passages in his poems give evidence of much of the traditional prejudice against her; but we are confident, from other indications, that his head was too logical and his heart too large to be shut up within the narrow limits of Presbyterian or other sectarian tenets. The final stanza of “The Close”—the last he ever wrote—is touching and suggestive: