any quarter what may increase her power, and advance her usefulness. Does she admire sectarian zeal and enterprise? Let its fires kindle her to new energies. Does she admire the compactness, the strength, the adaptation of the Roman System? Let her study its philosophy, and profit by its example. Does she admire the gorgeous Ritual of the Greek Church? Let her to her own usual simplicity, at proper times, and under specified conditions, not forbid the addition of rich and splendid ceremonial, always, however, within legal limits, and expressing Scriptural Truth.

We will conclude our Article by suggesting one other consideration. It is not, after all, doctrinal truth, nor ecclesiastical arrangement, nor suitable ceremonial which will secure the triumph of the AMERICAN CATHOLIC CHURCH. The principle of success lies much deeper. The external is infinitely inferior to the internal. The life of the man is in his soul, not his body. So within the Church must be a Divine vitality from which all her movements spontaneously develop. Our vision must look beyond time into Eternity. Our faith must apprehend Christ. Our aim must be the salvation of the world. Our work must be the victory of the Church. What, we ask, gave animation and power to our last General Convention? What diffused the glow of fellowship in estranged breasts? What kindled living hope for the Future? We believe that the desirable, and unexpected results we witnessed were produced by the Holy Ghost in animating agencies, and arrangements which can never be overvalued. A few years since Bishops were elected, and consecrated for the work of the distant West. They were suddenly transplanted, in several instances, from the luxuries of cities to endure the inconveniences, labors, and perils always incident to a frontier life. But they were true men, and equal to their mission. In the very prairies of the West there is an inspiration of vastness which imparts magnanimity to the soul. The people are impulsive, generous, magnetic. Our new Bishops caught the spirit of their youthful vigor, and more than all, the genius of the Episcopal Office. Amid hardships, and dangers, over prairies, and along mountains, they planted the Church of God. Faith grew from Sacrifice. Prayer fostered enterprise. Exertion made spiritual muscle. The authority of Heaven invested life with an increased dignity, and after years of labor they appeared in our metropolis at Convention to diffuse a new life through the Church. Their appeals were electrical. Assembled thousands in

the Academy of Music felt the thrill of a new eloquence. That wonderful series of missionary meetings for which we well owe eternal gratitude to the Committee of Domestic Missions, and their admirable Secretary, have wrought almost a revolution in the life of the Church. Now what principally produced these effects? They are beyond the capacity of any mere natural eloquence. The heart is only thus stirred when addressed by consecrated men who have labored and suffered for the Gospel. The devotion of the Clergy is the Power of Christianity. Lives surrendered to Christ for Eternity will alone secure the universal triumph of the ONE HOLY CATHOLIC AND APOSTOLIC CHURCH.

NOTICES OF BOOKS.

THE EARTHLY PARADISE. A Poem. By WILLIAM MORRIS, Author of the "Life, and Death of Jason." From the third London Edition. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1868. 12mo., pp. 430.

Poetry is the flower, and Oratory the fruit of the noblest human genius. They explore every field of knowledge for the beautiful and the persuasive, and bring into exercise every faculty of the soul. Art, Science, Nature, are their tributaries. They would fix, for all time, in forms which please, or convince, the very essence of thought. In all their departments, to guide our taste, are certain great models, consecrated by the experience of ages. The Parthenon is not more certainly an ideal of simple majesty, or the Apollo of manly beauty, or the Venus of womanly grace, than Demosthenes of persuasive eloquence, or Homer of epic excellence. In their writings, and those of subsequent ages which have stood the test of criticism, and been elevated into standards of taste, and become embalmed with immortality in the consciousness of mankind, are discovered certain universal principles. First, they are pervaded by that native fire kindled by creative genius, and which is a heritage and not an acquisition. But, secondly, the ardor of composition has always been followed by the severity of criticism. Does Homer glow, and blaze, and burn? He also displays that poetical correctness, that accuracy of judgment, that unity of plan, that calmness of dignity which result from the laborious exercise of reason. Demosthenes not only thunders, but exhibits the perfection of Art. Our remarks apply to all the varied productions of Greek and Roman intellect. Shakespeare overflows with genius, but is deficient in culture. In the development of character he is inimitable, and in poetical beauty unsurpassed. On the other hand, how often do you find his wit contemptible, his indelicacies barbarous, his plots absurd, or monstrous ! In unity of plan, in regularity of development, in the polish of art how immeasurably is he excelled by Eschylus, and Euripides, and Sophocles! In Milton's "Paradise Lost" you have at once the creative power of a sublime genius, and the very perfection of the highest culture. In Byron, perhaps the

most gifted poet who has ever existed, how frequently are you grieved at the absence of that finish which has made the unpretending elegy of Gray absolutely immortal! Only in Sir Walter Scott do we overlook minor blemishes of style, and the many faults resulting from hasty composition, in the almost invariable excellence of his plot, and his exhaustless affluence in the delineations of character.

In judging especially poetical compositions, therefore, we look for the originality of genius, and the culture of Art. There must be the glow of life within a form of beauty. And in each particular department we must simply seek its own particular excellence. If these rules are applied to the "Earthly Paradise' we may, perhaps, approach an estimate of its literary merit. The great aim of Mr. Morris is to tell a story. Here he possesses the first requisite - an almost exhaustless invention. He fills up the outlines of Grecian Mythology, or of Northern Tradition, until they become living pictures. You feel there is behind the Poem you peruse a boundless wealth of creative power. Besides, he imparts to everything he touches an admirable simplicity. His story is always naturally told. The interest is so spontaneous that you forget the improbability. From this remark we must, however, except the last Poem of the collection "Ogier the Dane' which exhibits a crudeness and absurdity surprising you at the close of a volume where you expect rather a climax of interest than of disappointment. In fecundity of invention, and excellence of narration Mr. Morris has scarcely a superior. Here he may even enter the lists with the immortal Chaucer. Yet while he has thus attained his principal design, there is not throughout the entire volume a single description, or image, or line which lingers in your memory, or obtains a place in your heart, and which you desire to retain as some dear, cherished, consecrated treasure. Perhaps the very genius of his story required a certain negligence of versification, and simplicity of narration, commanding the writer to linger in the more unpretending regions of the pleasing, and forbidding to aspire even to the elegant, much less to the grand, or to the sublime. We can scarcely doubt that the Poems of Mr. Morris, seeking but an humble place in literature, will yet have a permanent value, and be read when more pretentious, and brilliant productions will have been forgotten. We have perused them with an unflagging interest, and are pleased to speak of them in terms of commendation. Perhaps there are sometimes indelicacies more congenial to Greek Mythology than to Christian Purity.

THE SPANISH GYPSY. A Poem. By GEORGE ELIOT, Author of " Adam Bede," "The Mill on the Floss," etc. Boston Ticknor & Fields. 1868. 12mo., pp. 287.

The plot of this Poem possesses great dramatic interest. Fedalma, the daughter of a Gypsy Chief, snatched away from her tribe by a band of marauders, when a mere child, was brought up under the best Spanish nurture, unconscious of her origin, and yet haunted by vague lingering memories. She developed into a woman of matchless beauty, the native wildness of her blood even lending an indescribable charm to the accomplishments of her education. She becomes united in heart to Don Sylva, a young, impulsive, noble Spanish Duke. On the eve before their expected marriage he even invests her with the brilliant hereditary jewels of his house, so that her beauty brightens in a

blaze of diamonds. Among these treasures is a necklace awaking mysterious recollections. Soon after, when alone in the silence of her chamber, disturbed by shadows from the past, her father stands suddenly before her, claims her as his daughter, explains the secret of the necklace, and establishes his paternity by indisputable proofs. Now her breast is shaken with a tempest. The barrier of race suddenly rises like an impassable mountain between her, and her brilliant future. Every hope of her young life is crushed. To become the wife of Don Sylva, either with the acknowledged stain, or the concealed consciousness, of her Gypsy birth, will certainly blast her, and probably ruin him, while, on the other hand, to follow her father, is to exchange the wealth, and title, and luxury of a Duchess for the poverty, and ignominy of an outcast. After an agonizing conflict she decides to abandon Don Sylva, and link her destinies with her wild, but gifted, and fascinating father. The former, hurried to despair, pursues her to the Gypsy camp, and renounces for her rank, fortune, honor, country, religion. Zarca, in the meantime, seizes the castle of Don Sylva, kills his friend, and murders his uncle, but, in a sudden fit of vengeance, is slain by the maddened Duke, between whom and Fedalma now lies the bleeding body of her father, as an insurmountable obstacle to their union. Submitting to their sad destiny, she, in compliance with Zarca's life-long wish, becoming Queen of her tribe, passes into Africa, and he, by services to his country, and the Church, seeks to wipe out the stain of his apostacy.

Here are all the elements of an intensely interesting plot. In the Novel, Miss Evans would have invested them with the strange fascinations of Romola. In the Poem, you have a conviction she is out of her sphere. Verse is with her not an impulse but a choice. It was adopted, after deliberation, as the medium of her story. Hence we have what is even worse than Poetic ProseProsaic Poetry. The style is generally verbose, the descriptions are not natural, and the book everywhere appears, like a stream, full, indeed, and vigorous, but rather rushing with a forced vehemence between artificial banks, than flowing freely amid the fields, now with the spontaneous violence of the torrent, and now, winding, through flowers, and grass, with the gentleness of the brook.

Yet is this volume everywhere impressed with an extraordinary genius. The mind of Miss Evans is original, intense, striking, powerful. If an artificial Poetess she is a natural Novelist, and notwithstanding its defects, we have perused her book with very great interest. After these general remarks it may be well to cite in illustration, particular passages.

The opening description of the first book contains no picture, which an artist's skill could transfer to the canvas, but is marred by thoughts purely subjective, not appealing to humanity, but, arising from the individuality of the author.

We have

"The mid sea that moans with memories."

Then there is the Ocean, usually styled old, and hoary, —

"Whose vast tides

Pant dumbly passionate with dreams of youth."

Indeed, everywhere, the simplicity of description is injured by expressions, and reflections, drawn from mental attributes.

To illustrate the verboseness of Miss Evans we will give two passages, one

from the Spanish Gypsy, and the other from a different author, expressing the same idea.

"Lay the young eagle in what nest you will

The cry, and swoop of eagles overhead
Vibrate prophetic in its kindred frame.

And make it spread its wings, and poise itself
For the eagle's flight."

Certainly the essence of this thought is condensed into the two following lines.

"Degrade the eaglet to the raven's nest,

His fellow's cry will call him to the clouds."

Perhaps, the following final extract, will, as well as any other part of the Poem, exhibit its blemishes, and its excellencies.

"If I cannot plant resolve on hope

I will stand firm on certainty of woe.

I choose the ill that is most like to end

With my poor being. Hopes have precarious life
But faithfulness can feed on suffering,
And knows no disappointment. Trust in me!
If it were needed, this poor trembling hand
Should grasp the torch - strive not to let it fall

Though it were burning down close to my flesh.
Father, I will be true!"

We may add that it is matter of amazement that a writer so gifted as Miss Evans could have produced songs so utterly wanting in every element of lyrical composition. The majestic swan may swim monarch of the lake, but must not attempt the melodies of the thrush, or the nightingale.

NOTES, CRITICAL, EXPLANATORY, AND PRACTICAL, ON THE BOOK OF PSALMS. BY ALBERT BARNES, Author of "Notes on the New Testament," "Lectures on the Evidences of Christianity," etc. In Three Volumes. Vol. I. New York: Harper & Brothers, Publishers. 1868. 12mo., pp. 374.

To unfold the meaning of ancient Poetry involves mental characteristics