It is not superfluous to praise the divine gifts much and often. Certain weapons, the sledge and its derivatives, among which the wheel with its derivatives, are given man together with his environment, a true revelation by the Beneficent. At a chosen moment, as a civilization unfolds, man is allowed to economize his powers, to increase and multiply those things which, rightly used, lead him through rational to the uncreated Beauty. The moment is that of mechanical invention.

This new thing—I call it new with necessary reservations—is so familiar that only the observant detect it. To the many, turning on the tap or the electric light, travelling by the railway, are underivedly natural processes; the postage stamp hardly differs from a leaf.

Yet, blind and deaf men, think of a bridge, a beautiful concrete bridge, and the white ribbon crossing it in long and splendid curves, marvellously engineered; and the exquisite vehicles speeding upon it, so fair and swift, so strong in their sweetness, that they have to brake down at villages. 10 MPH brings tears to the eyes. What seems to be a word ‘yomph’ means ten miles an hour. There is exultation in the word if it is remembered what blows rained on the buttocks of the war prisoner marching to Shusan the Palace before the driver got two miles an hour out of him. You read at the foot of hills : ‘Loosen the hame rein,’ ‘Give him his head.’ I have never read, ‘For God’s sake carry her bundle or her baby.’

The ‘Faith that seeketh understanding’ is so laudably active at the present time that we offer our readers the following positive and summary statement on one of the most vital and discussed problems of our day.

‘Quia et Christus passus est pro nobis relinquens nobis exemplum ut sequamini vestigia Ejus . . . Eratis enim sicut oves errantes, sed conversi estis nunc ad pastorem et episcopum animarum vestrarum’ (I Pet. ii, 21, 25).

Because Christ also died for us leaving you an example that you should follow His steps ... For you were as sheep going astray; but you are now converted to the Shepherd and Bishop of your souls.

‘Credo in unum Deum. Patrem Omnipotentem . . . Et in unum Dominum Jesus Christum. Filium Dei Unigenitum . . . Qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit de coelis . . .

. . . Et homo factus est . . .

. . . Crucifixus etiam pro nobis sub Pontio Pilato, passus et sepultus est’ (Symb. Nic.).

‘Since under the former Testament—for such is the witness of the Apostle Paul—by reason of the weakness of the Levitical priesthood there was not perfection, the Father of Mercies so ordained that another Priest should arise, our Lord Jesus Christ, who should be able to consummate and lead to perfection them that are to be sanctified’ (Cone. Trid., Sess. xxii: de Sacrificio Missae : c. 1).

The inscription can still be made out. It is carved in stone over the porch of what was once the old grammar school, but is now the hall and institute of the local Labour Party. Orate pro anima Clementis Abbās. So all are bidden who pass this way in Evesham town, whether they belong to the Labour Party or have quite other political convictions, to remember the soul of the last Abbot of Evesham—Clement Lichfield.

He it was who built the Bell Tower, a campanile apart and independent, that the bells of the great abbey might have a house worthy of their message. And of all that vast monastery, that holy house of St. Egwin, its first abbot and bishop of Worcester, nothing remains save the Bell Tower and some crumbling stone foundations. Hardly was the Bell Tower finished when the crash came. To Henry VIII in the year 1539 the riches of Evesham were a temptation not to be missed. Usurped authority must needs buy support, and these abbey lands at Evesham, as elsewhere, judiciously bestowed could win many to approve the royal supremacy. Not only the good land, but the wealth and splendour of the abbey shrines and the very stones must be taken and distributed. The monks, too, must be dispersed, for Archbishop Cranmer discerned that while monasticism survived great would be the difficulty of introducing the new religion, of pouring the new wine of Luther and Zwingli into the old bottles of the Catholic Church in England.

The epoch known as the Renaissance is the most complex in all history. Various forces were at work moulding the national, economic, intellectual and moral life of the people. Religion was not the least important of these factors. After the fall of the Roman Empire, the Church was the sole means of civilization for the nations. From the time of Charles the Great, Church and State had worked hand in hand, with but little friction. Under the sway of Gregory VII and Innocent III, the temporal power of the papacy was secured. Philip the Fair and the exile in Avignon weakened papal rule. Pope after pope tried to protect and increase the so-called Donation of Constantine and the estates of Matilda of Tuscany which formed the bulk of the Patrimony of St. Peter.

During the fifteenth century there was a change among the people in their attitude toward the Church. The economic growth of cities, the increase of commerce resulting from inventions and discoveries, the strengthening of central governments and the rise of national kingships, lessened subserviency to papal authority. But above all, the intellectual Renaissance developed an independence of thought which in many cases led to a change of dogma.

‘Let us go to the Pictures.’ They all say it, young I and old, rich and poor, wise and foolish. That is why the cinema is the third greatest industry in America, and almost an institution in family and individual life.

Probably no industry before it had such a rapid rise to fame and fortune. The animated pictures of twenty-five years ago, ousting the ‘stills’ of the magic lantern, came as a shock to the old and a delight to the young. Pictures that not only moved but were moving in themselves revealed the hitherto unsuspected powers of the camera. No longer would it be necessary to coax oneself into an attitude of expectant imbecility before it; no longer need baby be placated and pleased by the despairing photographer. A moving picture of family life in all its animated phases could be made by turning a handle, without fuss or warning.

The outstanding feature of the animated pictures in their infancy was, naturally enough, that they were intensely animated. They were more animated than pictures. In those days the animation was the thing. One expected it and got it. The picture was merely the necessary medium for showing how very animated the characters could be. Originally there were no ‘stars,’ merly men and women, and no picture was made to ‘feature’ any particular individual. The screen was pleasantly free from constellations of any kind. But the animation was there in its most primitive human form, with almost incredible rough-and-tumble, and those delightful pursuits of villain or hero, in which the entire cast would assume enormous proportions and fling themselves off the screen into, as it seemed, the middle of the pit.

It was finished. As far as his narrow workshop would allow, the artist stepped back, brush still in hand, to look at his work.

It was full sunset, and the crimson rays stole through the open window, filling the untidy room with a warm glow. Opposite the window the brilliantly-coloured, sharp-cut statue stood out in bold relief against the glowing light. The artist gazed at it with critical pride. It was his great work, the tour de force of his many struggling years. Not that he wanted public recognition for his masterpiece; but he was glad that in his own eyes he had justified himself as a cutter of wood and stone. These things, dead to most men, he had learnt to touch with reverence and treat with patience. They had their moods almost like human beings; moods that commanded respect and consideration. Undue liberties were not to be taken with them. Humility had gradually taught him how to approach them, and in return they had yielded obediently to his touch.

When the commission had come to him from St. Faith’s to carve a statue in wood of the seated Madonna and Child, he knew this was to be the supreme test of his art. He thanked God for the privilege of such a holy subject, and chose the piece of birchwood with loving care. His thoughts turned to the Mother and Son. She was to be a Queen on her throne, with the Little King standing on her knees.