At the end of the last century there were two homes of tragedy which, to the young of those days, seemed to be built upon imperishable and not altogether antagonistic principles; they were the Lyceum (of Henry Irving, actor) and the Adelphi (of Andrew Melville, playwright). The former patronised by the middle, high-brow, and upper classes, while in the latter oranges were still sucked in the gallery and spitoons provided in the corridors. In the one we saw actors, usually in fancy dress, exploiting their own talents; in the other we met unreal but conventionalized characters in ordinary clothes—the villain who never quite killed the hero, and the heroine who always escaped from the net of evil woven for her fall. This Adelphi realism was different in kind from that of the Lyceum, and still further removed from the emotional’ type of more recent years. It was bound by convention, even to the necessity of a hooknosed swarthy villain and a fair-haired, muscularly Saxon hero.

In the Adelphi an audience was never at a loss as to the course of events and took a much fuller part in the proceedings than one which is kept guessing. There was an intimacy between stage and gallery now unthinkable. The modern hero is not cheered as he liberates the heroine— though the play is often interrupted by applause personal to the actor; the modem villain is not hissed; on the contrary, he will receive the same acknowledgment for personal success as the hero. I cannot now imagine an adult audience so engrossed in the play that, when the villain is denying his promise to marry the girl, an indignant voice from the ‘gods,’ as I once heard it, could shout, ‘I’eard yer, yet bounder !’ without sounding unreal and superfluous.

It has been Mr. Dawson’s sound contention, time and again, in his various writings, that a civilization, a sociology, not founded on religion is bound to fail. His concern is ‘for the recovery of a vital contact between the spiritual life of the individual and the social and economic orgnization of modem culture.’ This concern is bom of a conviction that a culture, and hence a sociology, must have its roots firmly planted and established in theology and philosophy, otherwise the life-giving sap of religion will cease to flow. Then will the members lose their circulation, the tree will wither, and the social structure will disintegrate and decay. ‘If our civilization is to recover its vitality, or even to survive, it must cease to neglect its spiritual roots and must realize that religion is not a matter of personal sentiment which has nothing to do with the objective realities of society, but is, on the contrary, the very heart of social life and the root of every living culture. The desecularization of modem civilization is no easy matter; at first sight it may seem a hopeless task.’ But the Church has second sight; and the Church has her Liturgy.

The task before us, then, is the desecularization of modem civilization; and the means are ready to hand. Our Holy Father has given the lead: ‘Mindful, then, of our condition, that we are essentially limited and absolutely dependent on the Supreme Being, before everything else let us have recourse to prayer.’ Society, and every individual member of society, is called to a renewal of baptismal vows, and to yield its members to serve justice, unto sanctification.

Seventy years ago a traveller, making an overland journey from Lisbon to Peking, would have traversed throughout the whole of his route the territories of states whose constitutions, however much they might differ, were all monarchical in form: Portugal, Spain, France, the German states, Russia and China. To-day all these countries are republics, as is Poland, the one additional state whose territory would now be crossed on such a journey.

Has the revolt against monarchy such characters as would point to its effecting a permanent change or will the fallen thrones be re-erected? In Asia republicanism is an exotic growth, but in Europe the system under which Athens and Rome grew to maturity is not so. On the eve of the American Revolution, but an insignificant fraction of mankind was living under republican institutions. These survived only in the old maritime Republics of Venice and Genoa, the Swiss cantons and the little republic of Ragusa in Eastern Europe. To these we may add the autonomous Hanse towns. The Netherlands were technically a republic, though in practice a constitutional monarchy, since the Stadtholdership was hereditary in the House of Orange, which intermarried with the reigning families of Europe. Sixteen years after the American Declaration of Independence the French monarchy fell. Animated by the crusading zeal which characterized the Soviets in the first years of their existence, the French republicans desired to impose their system of government on Europe. At one time it looked as though they might do so. Within a few years French arms had created the satellite Batavian, Helvetian, Cisalpine, Roman and Parthenopean Republics. But after a life of twelve years the First French Republic was destroyed by its Chief Magistrate and monarchy under a new dynasty was restored in France.

There is a danger of war in Europe to-day; in spite of peace pacts, conferences and other attempts to establish security one nation does not trust another, and war may arise at any moment. On the other hand, it may never arise, and upright men of all nations are endeavouring to prevent it by every means within their power. In all this Catholics are vitally concerned, for we form a large section of the European community, and are directly concerned about the welfare of that community. We must not be blind to obvious facts, we must know what is expected of us if war should actually break out; at the same time, we must show a practical desire for peace in Europe, and assist in any way possible to secure it. But our actions must be guided by sound principles, clearly understood and appreciated. Without such clear intellectual judgment we may be carried away by sentiment either to glorify war in militarist fashion, or to condemn war absolutely as something of its nature evil, like murder or adultery. Either view might lead to the worst disasters; neither is a view which a Catholic may hold. Popes and Bishops have repeatedly insisted on the evils of war, but they nave never categorically asserted that war is always and inevitably sinful. Rather they have pointed out that war may sometimes be just. Living in the midst of a world crying out for peace we may find this attitude of the Bishops rather disconcerting, and the reasons for it are not always clear. On these reasons, on the principles behind the teaching of Pope and Bishops, the present writer has attempted to shed a little light.

The publication of the collected spiritual letters of the late Abbot Chapman reveals a side of his life and work less well known to the outside world. With the exception of one rather long series, these letters are mainly concerned with those stages of the spiritual life which St. John of the Cross has called the Dark Night of the Soul. In their preoccupation with this time of dryness and painful anxiety when no comfort is found either in God or in creatures, they present a rather gloomy view of Christianity. Dom Chapman had formed the opinion that many reach the mystical state without being aware of it, and that for lack of suitable instruction they make no progress. He tried to help, although always refusing to become a “professional director,” and disclaiming special knowledge. The letters contain much that is helpful, expressed with originality and vigour.

He first began to take a serious interest in the subject of mysticism when recalled to Maredsous by Abbot Marmion in 1912—indeed his own state of soul seemed “obviously mystical"—and the first of the letters date from that period. Very soon he had worked out for himself a provisional theory, which he explained at length in a letter of April, 1913 (P-25°)« and in January, 1928, he published in the Downside Review an article “What is Mysticism?” as a theological defence of his ideas. To explain the scattered references in the letters, that article has been reprinted to form the second appendix to the present work. It is exclusively an interpretation of St. Thomas, but it is so novel an interpretation that, put forward with the authority of a great reputation, it requires careful examination. Dom Chapman sets aside the accepted Thomistic doctrine based on the theology of the Gifts of the Holy Ghost ("a harmless doctrine, but unfruitful"—p. 71) and starts again from the beginning.

Venerable Robert Nutter, O.P.: Martyred at Lancaster, July 26, 1600, “a man of a strong body but of a stronger soul, who rather despised than conquered death, and went before his companion (Mr. Thwing) to the gallows with as much cheerfulness and joy, as if he had been going to a feast, to the astonishment of the spectators.” (Dr. Champney.)

In the year 1579, two brothers arrived at the Douai College (Rheims) to pursue their studies for the priesthood. Their names were Robert and John Nutter, of Burnley in Lancashire. After having been ordained priests, they both left France in the year 1582, in order to devote the remainder of their lives to the salvation of their fellow-countrymen in ‘England. John Nutter was shipwrecked off the coast of Suffolk and, being discovered, arrested on suspicion of being a priest. He was imprisoned for two years in the Marshalsea and finally suffered martyrdom at Tyburn on February 12, 1584. The other brother, Robert, appears to have landed on the Hampshire coasts for, on the report of a spy named Dodwell, he frequented the houses of the Hampshire gentry.

In those days a price was set upon the head of every seminary priest arriving upon these shores. Discovery meant death to the priest. Those who harboured the priests were liable to be charged as “abettors of treason.” A high place of honour should therefore be accorded to those gentry in Hampshire who received Father Robert Nutter in their homes.

In an admirable artide on the Spanish situation by the Dominican Father H. Munoz these words occur: ‘What Spain needed was an intelligent organizer who could coordinate all the disjointed elements into a united front against the destructive forces of irreligion and anarchy.’ On reading this it is impossible not to reflect that this is an echo of what many English Catholics have been saying about their own country for a long time.

The present position of Catholics in England is not so very far removed from that of Catholics in Spain just before the revolution. Indifference and lack of organization sold the pass and allowed the forces of an anti-religious Socialism to seize power. And not till the Catholics of Spain found their diurches pillaged, convents burned, schools secularized, religious orders expelled and a sheaf of anti-Catholic laws on the statute book did they wake up to the realities of the situation and organize themselves into a force which now promises to be the salvation of Spain.

In England, a generation of ever-increasing indifference in matters of faith and morals has enabled the anti-God propaganda of Moscow to make tremendous progress. The traditional Conservative and Protestant party, product of the Reformation, exists in a fog. In matters of faith and morals they simply do not know where they stand, having neither standards nor guidance. And from not knowing to not caring is but a short step.

Liberalism no longer counts. The more extreme Liberals have gone over to Labour. A few have thrown in their lot with the Conservatives. The rest plough a lonely furrow in the wilderness.

The influence of psychological factors in the genesis of both mental and physical ill-health is to-day a generally accepted fact, although opinions differ widely concerning the nature and medical significance of these factors. The general notion that the mind is of more importance in health than was admitted by the materialism of the previous century, it must be admitted, is in a great measure due to the work of Dr. Sigmund Freud in the special field of the psycho-neuroses.

With this change of outlook there has come a demand for the psychological instruction of medical students and practitioners, for as Dr. E. B. Strauss remarks “it is undoubtedly a fact that the average student of medicine leaves his medical school with scanty understanding of the mental side of his future patients.”

The question therefore arises as to the form such instruction should take, and its place in the curriculum of medical studies. These two questions are closely connected. Considering the line taken by Dr. Kretschmer in this'text-book, some preliminary training in the elementary details of clinical psychiatry is required, and this is suggested by the author himself. Were it however feasible, some preliminary grounding in general psychology might with advantage precede special medical studies, concurrently, let us say, with biology.

We usually confine our reading to books upon subjects in which we are interested, but this is a mistake. It is often more repaying to read a good book on a new subject about which one does not care two straws than a poor one on a subject in which our interests are already engaged. One may come to care about the new one. If the proverb L’appetit vient en mangeant is true of the pleasures of the table, it is still more true of the pleasures of reading. We can become interested in almost anything once we begin to know something about it. Teak and hard-wood trees, Roman pottery, the Man in the Iron Mask, the history of the fork, the habits of earwigs, the trade routes of the Phoenicians, are subjects which, though they seem to appeal to different tastes, may end by interesting the same person, once he or she has taken the preliminary plunge. We do not profit half enough by the flexibility of our interests; if we did, we should not so often find ourselves complaining in a library crammed with books that we can find nothing to read.

Should sailors in books talk like sailors or like parrots? (I exclude, of course, parrots that have lived with sailors.) The question may appear frivolous: it comprises, I believe, one of the central problems of criticism. It is not necessary that an author should make his characters talk as they would talk in real life: it is entirely necessary that he should make us believe they are talking as they would talk in real life. Consider the difference in technique, in this matter, between Meredith and Hardy.

Growing side by side with the world-wide movement of Catholic Action there is the ever-spreading liturgical revival. They are but two aspects of the one fact—the mutual co-operation of the faithful among themselves and with their pastors; and they differ in that Catholic Action, of its very nature, includes the liturgical movement. Catholic Action includes corporate activity both ad intra and ad extra: the sanctification of individuals and the defence and advance of Christianity in a semi-pagan world.

To push on the external manifestation of Catholic Action without paying due attention to the preliminary of personal sanctity is to make bricks without straw: Nisi Dominus aedificaverit domum, in vanum laboraverunt qui aedificant earn. Furthermore, the interior life must be looked to, to provide inspiration and strength as the cause progresses. There is one outstanding practice of the faithful which gives them a perennial ‘unity without uniformity,’ namely the fundamental act of public external worship of God, as expressed in the sacrifice of the Mass. For, as Fr. Pepler puts it: ‘when we speak of the liturgy, we mean primarily the Mass; and the Mass becomes the essential link of Christian unity.’ ‘Attendance at this ceremony has been imposed as an obligation of membership, so that theoretically the whole Catholic world is present at least once a week. This is the main symbol of the catholicity of the Church.’

The Pope has urged time and again that Catholic Action is an apostolate. It procures not only the personal sanctification of him who participates in it (although this is the foundation), but that also of others.

Social science has already secured wide interest, and the forms in which this interest has manifested itself are as varied as they are numerous. In this article we shall concentrate on one central idea: the need of co-ordination of the vast amount of literature on social problems. The need of some such co-ordination is urgent. Ever since the publication of the Papal Encyclicals on Social Order, pamphlets and books have become so numerous that the student of social science might be alarmed at the number of works he must peruse in order to acquire a comprehensive knowledge of the literature of his subject.

It is very much to be regretted that no work exists that can be considered an exhaustive and scientific treatise on social science. The lack of such a treatise makes serious study of this subject too complex a task. Pamphlets and short treatises on particular problems are useful, but they can never be satisfactory from a scientific point of view; they are of necessity sketchy, and therefore inadequate. There is, moreover, a great danger that quantities of unrelated material will beget confusion of thought and smother enthusiasm. Consequently any attempt to give to the study of social science a scientific basis by stating and co-ordinating its principles is to be welcomed, and the more so when it is made by authors who are gifted with clarity of thought and who despite specialization keep in mind the larger view of a complete social science.

The Précis de Sociologie is the fruit of close collaboration. The essays, as thorough and substantiated as we may expect in a Précis, are confined to Sociology: the family, economic life, political life, religion, art and science.

Peter, a clergyman’s son, the only child of a late marriage, was born in ‘92. To his father's superlatively unstable career and change from place to place, he attributed not only his own tendency to gyrovagrancy—but the passion for nature, for the elemental, for width of vision, for adventure in human contingency that for him was character and fate. For the parsonages in which his childhood was spent looked in rapid turn on the watery business of the Mersey, the chimney stacks of Birmingham, the ivied fragments and vistaed landscape of Hazelcrom, on Yorkshire moors, and the expanse of tidal flood at Southampton. The Reverend Walter Michaelham, a rebel spirit clad picturesquely in Pauline pate and beard, with haggard, restless eyes, might in other circumstances have been an anarchist. But the temperamental egotism, irritibility, energy and heroic generosity that might (half a century later) have been enlisted by Socialism and Revolution found vent in a rebellious Evangelicanism. At Oxford as a young man, he was a fierce opponent of the Oxford movement, then for most a living memory. Evangelical reaction was gaining strength and the prospect of discrediting Tractarianism captured his imagination. Pusey a ghost from sad years appeared infrequently in the pulpit, amongst the rising generation, at least, a diminishing influence, a robed stooping figure, going to and fro the Cathedral, and little more. Wilberforce was in a weak way. Jowett professed Greek, Arnold poetry. With the latter many of the rising generation professed affinity. And there were those of exploratory and dialectic turn of mind to whom the legacy of Whately was a stronger appeal than the teaching of Keble or Pusey.