The same dear old story that our mothers and the preachers have taught us all our lives, that God is close to us, guarding our lives and the world. It is just what a bishop should teach in poetry or prose as the Eternal gives him power. I fancy that this book—God and the Soul—shows us the bishop at his poetic best; yet, for all the undoubted beauties of diction, and no mean art in the way of poetic construction, something is lacking which we demand of perfect poetry. In fact, I consider the Bishop of Peoria at his best when preaching straight from the shoulder in plain and lucid prose the eternal truths of redemption and the perfect culture of the human soul. Such books as these cannot help doing great good. They inspire Protestants with respect for the Catholic religion and its teachers, and all that is done in that line is a genuine service rendered unto God. All readers of The Globe Review know that we like Maurice Francis Egan in any shape, poetry or prose. There never has been but one discordant note on that head in this magazine, and that, as some of the imperfections of the last issue, crept in while the editor was too sick to exert his usual control; but editors seldom apologize or explain. It is beneath our dignity, as the archbishops say. We did not at first take kindly to Belinda, and after reading a few pages had to put it aside for a more patient and genial mood. Of course, Maurice Egan can tell a good story for boys or girls, but spite of this fact, we notice that the great gift which God has given him, the greatest gift that it is possible to bestow on a human soul, is less and less frequently used in recent than in former years. No man living in this land to-day can write or has written such wonderfully beautiful poems as Egan has written. I make no exception. I know them all and the best they can do, and it is my conviction that a man so dowered with the infinite gift has no right or business wasting his energies on the mere writing of stories. I think it was Emerson's Aunt Mary who early suggested to the wayward Waldo that the Muse could only be depended on if courted and used and loved with all the soul of the poet. She made the mistake that many others have made, of supposing that Emerson was a poet—which he was not; but her position was the logical and the true one as regards the Muse, and applies to a man of such exquisite gifts as God has bestowed on Egan. Belinda is a good and, in some respects, a jolly girl. The mystery of her comparatively unknown baptism comes out in efficacious service at the proper time and saves her from serious wrong. The uncle—an old relic of the Civil War—is a little overdone, but at the point where love and interest and, at the same time, hatred of injustice touch him to motion, he proves to be not as old as he seems, and he acts rather lively at the last and needed moment. It seems to me that Dr. Egan will have to spin another yarn about Belinda and tell us what became of her after she finished her education. She is almost smart enough to christen a steamship, and get her name in the newspapers. It seems that Dr. Egan is a little too severe on the New York aunt, who is a renegade Catholic or a Protestant. That sort of brutal selfishness is not confined to the female representatives of any creed, but of course, a setting was needed for the story, which is a pretty good showing of the truth that the Lord helps those who help themselves, even in the Catholic Church. But as the net cash increases, the divinity of the soul sometimes slowly dies. Let us tare down our barns and build greater barns, and pile up the grain. "Thou fool—this night thy soul may be required of thee." ****** I am not sure but Mr. Martindale, the sinner in this series, has made the most interesting book of all. It" is remarkable that a man so devoted to business can find the time each year to hunt as regularly as this author hunts. The quick and vivid sight of the author and his accurate memory, plus his easy style as a writer, are still more remarkable features of this volume of "Sport Indeed." I have loaned the book to ladies, who were charmed with it. There are in it so many touches of nature that tend to make the whole world kin. The quotations from Mr. William Shakespeare are numerous and accurate. The author is evidently as fond of good literature as he is faithful to business and fond of sport. Judging from some of the descriptions in this volume, much of Mr. Martindale's sport was labor—hard and dogged labor. Deer and moose are not caught napping; as-a rule, the successful sportsman earns his prizes a dozen times over; but the arduous labor in hunting, the strenuous strain on all the nerves and muscles, the tumbles, accidents, mishaps and blunders are all a part of the game, and they all help to take a man out of the rut of commercial life and give him, at first, great weariness; second, a good appetite and new energy for escapades to come. I am inclined to think that men are born sportsmen as they are born poets', though, beyond question, a good deal depends on the training as to handling the gun or the pen. Mr. Martindale seems an adept in both lines. We wish the book success, not that we sympathize with shooting for sport—but because its breezy and fluent pages will be apt to give pleasure to any person inclined to read them. William Henry Thorne. ABSENCE. Days may seem a little long without thee, Of absence—deep and fathomless, while sea And earth and air, the birds of day that flee Of earthly singers, ever comes to me; And I know that thy fine spirit broodeth Henry T. Williams. New York, February 19, 1902. AN UP-TO-DATE UNIVERSITY. The Great University of Notre Dame, the representative Catholic college of the West, like all other large institutions, issues a yearly catalogue. Mine for the scholastic terms of 1901-1902 came to hand this morning, and is such a curious publication, so full of lies and unique misstatements, that it deserves, I think, my special attention. Aside from a wonderful frontispiece, supposed to give an idea of the academic buildings, but really showing many whose existence is in the very remote future. [note.—I hear from his cousin that desperate efforts are being made to pull President Schwab's newly fledged millionaire leg for the money for these.] The true interest begins at the imposing list of "professors and instructors." The Rev. Andrew Morrissey, C.S.C., heads the list, being credited with "Evidences of Religion." [note.—Perhaps you have never seen the very reverent gentleman, a low squad Irishman, with a face suggestive of the rear elevation of a spanked baby; he was elected president of the university on his ability to smoke two-for-five cigars and drink whisky with the old brothers; but that is another story, as Kipling says.] During my stay at Notre Dame he never taught this class, or any other that I know of, and the only evidence of religion which he has ever considered is that one kind, plus a religious order, has mercifully saved him from occupying his logical position as a section hand. The Rev. James French, C.S.C. [note.—How useful the "C.S.C." is to hide the deficiency of a college training, which none of those order men possess! It is a gift of the Holy Spirit, at ordination, this faculty to teach, you know] has "Latin and English." He does teach a class of fifth Latin but his English instruction is confined to a characteristically Irish review of the articles intended for the "scholastic." How Irish and, therefore, superficial, you will know from the fact that in a very learned and profound dissertation by a young seminarian, Joseph Kelleher, on the life and character of Thomas Cranmer, which appeared in the issue of January 26th, the poor old archbishop was kept alive and made to actively assist in all the non-Catholic agitations of Queen Elizabeth's reign, only to perish miserably under the next sovereign, at the extreme old age of at least one hundred and sixteen. The Rev. the Prefect of Discipline Martin J. Regan, C.S.C., has charge of "Christian Doctrine." He is a very large and pompous man, this Martin J. Regan, Prefect of Discipline in the University of Notre Dame, so I will divide my discourse concerning him into two parts, so as to give him the fuller justice. First, I will endeavor to show how Christian his teaching is, and then I will enlarge upon the profoundness of his doctrine. First as to his Christianity. There is a lake near Notre Dame, to which the soiled doves from the neighboring town of South Bend fly out every fine evening in spring, and the young Catholic Christian gentlemen go out in droves to acquire ornithological sensations. A young cleric thought, one evening, that he had made an appalling discovery, and went to report to the reverend the prefect and instructor of Christian doctrine. What did he do? Inforce the rule about purity that looks so well in print under the nicely headed regulations of discipline, "that all cases of immorality call for expulsion, with no return?" Oh no! He simply shut his eyes good and tight, and went on teaching Christian doctrine. In his own words, his answer was: "Yes, I know it. But what can we do?" Think of it! A capable prefect of discipline utterly unable to control his boys. What bad boys there must be at the great Catholic University of Notre Dame du Lac. I have some more stoic facts along this line, which I will produce to the proper persons, but this is quite sufficient to show the drift. Now for his doctrine. Listen to this charming little idyl: He had been teaching a small boy for six months about the sacraments, but on the arrival of a new member to the faculty, the overworked prefect divided his class, giving half to the new man, who at once held an examination to see how matters stood. He was astonished at the results he received. To the question, "What are the three parts of the Mass?" this particular youth replied, "Youcrust, Holy Orders and Matrimony!" I will say nothing now about the false and mechanical methods of instruction which must have been pursued during those six months to culminate in such an answer, for I want to direct your undivided attention to the attitude of the Reverend the Prefect. Martin J. was furious and removed the lad from where he might suffer the humiliation of another correction into his own class, where, as he said, the boy might sit in peace until June. For it did not matter if he never learned anything. According to the Notre |