A theologian is too conscientiously concerned with truth, even with physical truth, not to take a deep interest in the yearly meetings of the British Association. Especially does he interest himself in the Presidential Address, which is given with such an accepted sense of finality that it is not open to the discussion of the subsequent meetings. Part of the theologian’s almost exaggerated respect for this Presidential Address is his reverence for human reason when it flies, as Dryden says, at ‘its own quarry.’ Every theologian guides his thoughts by the profoundly humble wisdom of St. Thomas Aquinas. ‘Since Scripture can be explained in a multiplicity of senses, one should adhere to a particular explanation only in such measure as to be ready to abandon it if it be proved with certainty (certa ratione) to be false; lest Holy Scripture be exposed to the ridicule of unbelievers and an obstacle be placed to their believing’ The theologian’s failure to accept the assured findings of Science would be an infidelity not only to Science but also to Theology. Scientists who, as such, are not dealing with ethical categories can have no idea of the theologian’s concern to accept and assimilate every truth which comes to him with the ‘certa ratio’ —the certainty of a unanimous science.

To be the parish priest of St. Emilion—that home of a great vintage whose name is more ruthlessly profaned than that of almost any other in the cheaper English restaurants—is in itself a picturesque and interesting title. But the Abbé Bergey, who is in fact the cure of that famous little town, is far more picturesque and interesting than his title. There has been nothing like his incursion into French politics within modern memory ; and in France he is regarded more or less as the prototype of M. Clément Vautel’s bestseller, Mon Curé chez les riches. The resemblance is only superficial; for the Abbé Bergey is a genius of extraordinary vigour and abilities; and M. Clément Vautel’s hero was a very retiring little country priest who came back from the trenches, talking army slang and scandalising the bourgeoisie by his preference for the society of common people.

Allowing for differences of character, however, and still more for the absurd ideas of M. Clément Vautel as to how his ecclesiastical superiors would regard such a man, the Abbé Bergey’s career has been somewhat similar. As a young priest he left his parish to serve in the trenches, and like all the French priests with the army he distinguished himself by his personal bravery and his moral example. It is since his return from the war that his story becomes really exciting. He did come back very much with the ideas of the plain blunt man who had learnt a good deal in the war, who felt that the comradeship of the trenches was the biggest thing he had ever encountered, and that those who had not experienced it belonged to a different world.

‘To the Greeks and to the barbarians, to the wise and to the unwise, I am a debtor.’—Rom. I, 14.

In this declaration of St. Paul there seems no sign of humiliation, but something rather of pride. He does not mind at all that he should owe so much to the teaching of others: he seems rather to consider it an advantage to himself. He had indeed stood in the midst of the culture of his time, in the three great streams of it, and he had gained from it at every point. In his own Tarsus he had been in touch with the exquisite beauty of the balanced Greek theories of art and die ideal poise of the athlete and the prudent management of life. His Roman citizenship had given him a width of tolerance which no mere Greek could know. His Jewish faith had given him a power of insight, a delicacy of conscience, a passion for divine things, a wisdom, a flaming love of God that melted his Greek and Roman heritage into a living sense of rapture, entranced by the comeliness of Christ.

Indeed, the sudden illumination that shone upon him on the Damascus road made him all the more grateful to the earlier knowledge which had led him to this more excellent knowledge and enabled him even better to appreciate it: Greek and Barbarian, wise and simple, all had been his schoolmasters to Christ.

The book is worth the money, there is such a lot of it, but the editing is defective, the misprints are the work of the devil, because they alter or obscure the sense, and the index is almost a joke. The second edition of this book, if done with better cunning, should be more valuable than the first, seeing that there are omissions to be made good and better proofreading to be expected. On p. 10, 1. 5, ‘the news dragons’ is not a shy at Northbrook or Beavermere, but a misprint for new dragons. On p. 21 ‘Great Dostoievsky’s dance’ should be ‘Dostoiesky dance,’ dance being a verb in the subjunctive, a mood abhorred of casual or half-educated persons in every land. And on p. 115 no hand hath ere let fall ‘is obviously the error of an amanuensis which ought to have been put right in printing. Mr. Chesterton cannot be expected to correct his own proofs, they are so many, but someone is expected to be careful for him.

A London Liberal journal, commenting last May on a speech by Mussolini, remarked that ‘II Duce’ had evidently never heard of II Risorgimento, Cavour, Mazzini and Garibaldi. A very sweeping assertion, this, and typical of the irresponsibility of some of our journalistic mentors. So persistently have the names of Cavour and the rest been dinned into the ears of all Italians, that you would more easily find one who has never tasted maccaroni than one who has never heard of them. Benito Mussolini is the least likely of all Italians to yield a surprise in either respect. The rise of Mussolini and Fascism is due precisely to the surfeit of Risorgimento, Cavour, Mazzini and Garibaldi which Italians have endured for fifty years, and which at the last brought Italy perilously near to ruin.

The proverbial insularity of Englishmen is never so apparent as when Italy is in question. To the average Englishman the name of Italy suggests Italian opera, coils of spaghetti, organ grinders, and ice-cream sellers : that is all. But even so, it is an improvement on the prejudices of sixty years ago, of which Justin McCarthy writes : ‘It is much to be feared that the popular enthusiasm for the unity and independence of Italy which (then) flamed out in England was only enthusiasm against the Pope. Something, no doubt, was due to the brilliancy of Garibaldi’s exploits in 1860, and to the romantic halo which at that time, and for long after, surrounded Garibaldi himself; but no Englishman who thinks coolly over the subject will venture to deny that nine out of every ten enthusiasts for Italian liberty at that time were in favour of Italy because Italy was supposed to be in rebellion against the Pope.’

A few months ago ninety thousand sporting men, before settling down to the serious business of football at the London Stadium, sang the well-known hymn ‘Abide with me,’ or ‘Mane nobiscum quoniam advesperascii’ A Catholic who had heard it told me it was Great.’ He meant that he had no other means of describing the powerful effect of the hymn thus sung by this huge, haphazard choir. I asked about the general demeanour during this act of Christian devotion. My friend informed me that the hymn was sung with apparent reverence, with conviction, and with unmistakable satisfaction by every man in that vast assembly.

The episode is significant. The world has discovered a fact which the Church has known from her cradle: that where two or three units, hundreds or thousands are gathered together, they want to sing. Hitherto almost the only outlet for this urgent instinct has been congregational singing in the churches; but as men have, in the main, given up church-going altogether, the instinct runs to waste. The thought occurred to somebody that it might be organised to suit a useful social purpose. The result is community singing. But, although the catalogues have all been ransacked over and over again (for community songs must be old songs), the organisers find a difficulty in providing acceptable fare. The crowds are hard to please; they will not swallow every bait. At a pinch, for want of better, traditional Southerners will sing the federal John Brown's Body, invoke again for the thousandth time the ghost of Annie Laurie, and grow happier while ‘Poor Mary is a-weeping’ ; but the kind of song that forces men to sing, and women too, even though its words are only vaguely comprehensible, is Shenandoah; for the successful community song must have its special characteristics.

We may begin by speaking of two books recently published. The first consists of essays on various doctrinal subjects by fourteen members of the Anglican Church. One or two of the essays—for instance, Professor A. E. Taylor’s on ‘The Vindication of Religion’—reach a high level. Others have little claim to be called either Catholic or critical. The only essay, however, that concerns us here is one entitled ‘The Incarnation,’ by the Rev. J. K. Mozley. The second of the two books is a plain, useful exposition of the doctrine of the Incarnation by Dr. J. P. Arendzen.

Mr. Mozley’s essay contains statements which a Catholic could hardly accept, but as an attempt at showing the reasonableness of the definition of Chalcedon concerning the two natures in Christ it seems to us to deserve praise. As Mr. Mozley and Dr. Arendzen both remind us, that definition is nowadays held in contempt by many who would call themselves Christian theologians. The former describes the state of things mildly when he says (p. 190): ‘In the doctrine of Christ’s Person the disparagement of the formula of the Two Natures has become in some circles almost a convention.’ This attitude, of course, is not new. Just twenty years ago Holtzmann could finish a well-known book of his on Jesus Christ with the assertion that’ no Protestant theologian of note any longer professes the doctrine of the Creeds on the two natures.’