With that curious kind of provincialism it sometimes displays in such matters—though less now than formerly—the British newspaper press seems to have passed over in silence the recent reception into the Catholic Church of one of the most distinguished of living Dutch writers, Frederik van Eeden. His submission took place on February 19th last at the Benedictine Abbey of Oosterhout, and was accepted by the Primate of the Netherlands, the Most Reverend H. van Wetering. The event naturally called forth a great deal of comment in the Dutch Press; continental newspapers generally also reported it, and American papers have not been lacking in notes on the conversion and its probable influence. So far, however, there has been in English no appreciation of the writing which preceded the conversion, and the moment seems to be opportune for an attempt to give a general sketch of Frederik van Eeden’s work and philosophy, the more so as, by one work at least, to be described shortly, he is probably the contemporary Dutch writer best known to the English public after the novelist, Louis Couperus, and as his relations with England and English literature are unusually close.

The story of the city is that of England, for indeed it had its beginning before England was a name. Its history follows familiar lines. To a Roman frontier post succeeded a Saxon cathedral, a Benedictine abbey, and a Norman castle. Round this pile of buildings on the bank of a placid river gathered a busy community of traders and craftsmen. Walls and gates protected their growing wealth. Royal charters gave local self-government and a long succession of privileges. Fairs and markets attracted the produce of the fertile lands along the river valley, and the merchants of Europe carried far and wide the fame of the city looms. The records of a score of flourishing guilds and the numerous charitable foundations which survive to this day prove the wealth and dignity of this place in mediaeval days.

The religious changes of the sixteenth century had some effect upon the material prosperity of the city. The cloth trade dwindled and finally vanished. During the Civil Wars all classes suffered severely, but the destruction of the walls and of many of the timber houses allowed expansion and rebuilding. Wealth and prosperity returned, largely owing to new industries, to favourable situation on two important trunk roads, and to the position of the city as a provincial metropolis of a wide agricultural area.

That the ways of God are not men’s ways is very clear all through the life of the Père de Foucauld. It is singularly fortunate that this Saint of modern days should have M. Rene Bazin as his biographer. The skill in portraiture that he wields as a novelist, his sure and sympathetic touch are all needed to make a material world realise the deep and far-reaching import of Charles de Foucauld’s vocation.

Its chief characteristic was patient, faithful, waiting on the will of God. He knew from the first moment of his conversion that he had a destiny to accomplish. His own will was utterly subjected to this destiny, this purpose of God, and his sanctity grew in patient, steady labour in utter loneliness in the wide Sahara for its accomplishment. He has paved the way for a new impulse in the French nation for the conversion of the portion of Islam over which they rule.

The celebration of Jeanne d’Arc’s festival as that of the great patron saint of modern France has been more remarkable than ever this year. It was only last year that the French Government decided for the first time to take part officially in the celebrations ; and those who now proudly claim the credit of having restored France’s national Saint to her due place of honour had for many years to contest even their right to display her banners in the streets. The huge procession that filed last month through all the principal thoroughfares of Paris, from the Place St. Augustin, past the Madeleine and all round the Place de la Concorde, to lay innumerable wreaths of flowers at the foot of the gilt equestrian statue which stands at the corner of the Tuileries, was even more enthusiastic and imposing in its dimensions than were the demonstrations of last year. The Fete Jeanne d’Arc has become perhaps the greatest national festival of France. Its procession is one of the most symbolic events of the year. But how much does the demonstration signify? Is it really the spontaneous homage of a modern and highly sophisticated city, not only to a great national saint, but to a mediaeval tradition which seems strangely remote from modern Paris? Or are the enemies of the Action Francaise justified, if only to some extent, in regarding it as a purely party demonstration by the extreme nationalists, exploiting for their own ends a national tradition which the leaders of the Action Francaise have undoubtedly revived? Does it in fact afford some reliable indication of how far the religious revival in France is genuine and how far political?

It is odd how shy people are of seeking a real change when they take a holiday. The city man, who plays golf in the suburbs every week-end throughout the rest of the year, can think of no better change than to play the same game by the sea-side in his August vacation. The middle-class villager usually departs for another village; the doctor takes a locum; the town-dweller from North or South makes a straight line for some London-by-the-sea; the nurse stays with another nurse; and people in general choose a country, near or far, that is only a glorified repetition of the countryside with which they are familiar. Conscious at last of the lack of imagination hitherto displayed in my own holidays, I determined to go to a Yorkshire coal-field, not that I might spend my time underground, for I had already visited the tube railways in London, but to see the countryside in which the smaller coal-fields lie and to make acquaintance with their inhabitants.

There is something impertinent and objectionable in the action of one who sits down to write of Ireland on the strength of a week’s visit. The Irish people are becoming used to trippers from England and elsewhere who come in order to collect impressions and hand out ready-made solutions to problems that have baffled the Irish themselves for ages. These impressions of mine then are set down in a mood of diffidence, with full apologies to the hospitable people who treated me with so much patient kindness and with a confident assurance that they will know how to measure the worth of my words and to winnow the grain of wisdom from a mass of folly.

Making my way from the train to the boat in a somewhat dazed condition after an all-night journey, it came as a surprise to see people turning out their portmanteaux under the irreverent gaze of a Customs official. I did not realize the reason for this until a Customs officer asked me if I had any arms and ammunition. ‘Two arms, but no ammunition,’ was a truthful reply; but 5 a.m. is an unseasonable time for feeble jokes, and I was obliged to display the contents of my bag, and enjoyed the mild wonder of the official while he examined my Dominican habit and a conspicuously large pair of rosary beads. These were considered innocuous, and I was allowed to go on my way—not exactly rejoicing, for this little drama had reminded me that I was going to a disturbed area in Ireland.