In the Protestant version only the first two lines appear; the other four are taken from the second verse; the remainder of which, with the rejected four of the first verse, are thrown away altogether.
Here an examination which might be prolonged indefinitely may as well end. The reader may judge for himself whether the word “mutilation”—a grave word to use—is misapplied in this instance. Selections, of course, may be taken from a man’s works in these days, though we should say not without permission from the author or from those empowered to grant it. But that such permission should be extended to hacking a man right and left, distorting his words, spoiling his verses, studiously making him say just what he does not say, persistently making him dishonor those whom he most honors—strange indeed must be the conscience which can interpret the widest permission thus! We need not refer to the glowing love of Father Faber for the Blessed Virgin. It was no vague aspiration after some ideal being, existing or not existing in a remote state. It was a vital reality to him. The Blessed Virgin was near him always. To her he turned with the love and confidence of a child, as to no imaginary mother, at all times. Her name was ever on his lips, as her love was in his heart. It was natural, then, that all his writings, but above all his hymns, should bubble over with the love that was ever welling upwards from the very depths of his being. Yet this man, pursued apparently by hatred of the Mother of Jesus, and thinking to honor the Son by dishonoring the Mother, follows her up and hunts her from the pages of one so devoted to her, wherever it was possible to do so. Further comment on a man who can commit so dishonest an act, in the name too of religion, is unnecessary. As for the publishers who can lend themselves to such unworthy work, we leave them to their own reflections.
We have no desire to take this as
characteristic of our Protestant friends generally, particularly of the Protestant Episcopal section of them. But there is too much of such dishonest practice. The Following of Christ; the Devout Life, by St. Francis de Sales; the Memorial of a Christian Life, by Father Lewis of Granada; the Spiritual Combat, and all Father Avrillon’s works, have been tampered with in the same manner and by the same set of zealous Christians. Is it too much to detect in this the old spirit that gave us what is known as the King James version of the Bible, and that is content to let centuries of great Christian faith go by, for the purpose of claiming a fancied union with that of the earlier centuries, basing the claim on distorted extracts from the works of a few great writers?
Gertrude Mannering: A Tale of Sacrifice. By Frances Noble. London: Burns & Oates. 1875. (For sale by The Catholic Publication Society.)
One begins to grow shy of “tales of sacrifice” written by Catholic authors. They are so very like one another that the maxim Ex uno disce omnes is nowhere more applicable than to them. Given the characters and their relations one to another, and a very limited amount of experience will enable the reader to sketch out the story faithfully enough for himself without going to the trouble of reading the book. Gertrude Mannering, though bearing a strong family likeness to her sisters, and beginning in the orthodox fashion—in the convent, of course—improves upon acquaintance, and leaves the reader with the impression that the hand which fashioned her is capable of much better work. It is useless to sketch the story, which is a short one and of simple enough construction. Its defects are of the usual order, though in a less degree than ordinarily. There is too much pious “talk,” in season and out of season. When will our Catholic story-writers learn this first lesson of fiction: that a little of such talk goes a very long way? Even inquiring Protestants are not likely to be moved profoundly by the tremendous arguments of a girl of sixteen or seventeen just out of a convent, while Catholics yawn as soon as they appear, and either skip the pages that contain them or close the book.
Then, again, Gerty blushes a little too often, even for a convent girl. The color rises in her cheeks more or less deeply at almost every other page. One grows rather tired, too, of the frequent mention of “the pale, proud face” of the “haughty Stanley” and his “splendid intellect.” These, to be sure, are the ordinary attributes of lady novelists’ heroes, but, at least, the last quality might be judiciously omitted, unless excellent grounds are given for it. A “splendid intellect” is no doubt a very good thing to have, as is also a “pale, proud face” in its way; but when the “splendid intellect” only shows itself in rather commonplace observations, such as persons with no pretension at all to so rare a gift would use, the effect is not quite satisfactory.
One more objection we must make, and a serious one. The sacrifice around which the story turns is by no means to be commended and would have been better omitted. Young ladies, even young ladies whose love has been crossed, can easily find something far better to do with their lives than to offer them to God for the soul of some young gentleman whom they are particularly anxious to convert. Martyrdom for the faith is one thing; but the picture of a young lady, who cannot conscientiously marry a young infidel, offering her life to God for his conversion, is quite another thing. One is tempted to ask how much the “pale, proud face” and the “splendid intellect” of the “haughty Stanley” had to do with so tremendous a sacrifice in the present instance. Gerty might have done him, and herself, and her reader much more good by living than by dying for him, as did that practical patriot when the cause of his country seemed lost.
We have noticed this story at some length because the writer, whose name meets us for the first time, seems, as already hinted, to give promise of much better work. Lady Hunter is a well-drawn character. So, apart from the excessive tendency to blush and “talk pious,” is Gerty. The “haughty Stanley” is rather a conventional hero, which, perhaps, is only natural in days when so many young men lay claim to “splendid intellects.” The scene between Gerty and Stanley, where love and duty on the one side, and love and pride on the other, contend for mastery, is drawn with genuine power, while the end is indeed touching.
The School Question: Catholics and Education. 1 vol. 8vo, pp. 200. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.