"A sword, a spade, and a thought should never be allowed to rust." -- James Stephens.
IN these days we are so accustomed to the melancholy remark that the journalist is making the library obsolete that we often overlook his really stupendous effort to create a library. Defoe was a journalist and so was Dickens; Steele, Goldsmith, Johnson, Thackeray, Kipling -- one after another the fathers of large families of healthy books have been inseparable from the newspaper. They have seen no reason why writing that is new to-day should not be just as surprising on Doomsday; they have remembered, with a chuckle, that the word "press" may mean a receptacle in which to keep things of price. This, however, is not the place to discuss journalism in general, or even that service of the Catholic Spirit which has been the aim of a devoted and constantly improving press. We have instead the much more difficult task of inspecting the testimony of a single man, who is a person of such divergent activities that summarizing them is like trying to put the adventures of a normal boy into a paragraph.
Gilbert Keith Chesterton is too very much alive for anything like an estimate of his genius; a coherent impression of his utterances would in fact have the same simplicity as a panorama of the birds of the air. But just as the birds are subject to a few general laws, so one may assert without temerity a number of facts about the writings of Chesterton. First of all, he is popular: his remarks are common property, his portrait needs so signature, and about none of these things is there an attitude of disdain for the opinions of the mob. Chesterton has talked religion to enormous audiences with the understanding that he himself is in the audience; having learned that citizenship is a mixture of action and thought, he has spoken of literature and politics in the same breath; finally, he has changed the romance into an editorial and the leading article into a fairy tale. In the second place, he is an Englishman fighting for England. This means so many things that we shall content ourselves here with stating what it does not mean: conquering heathens or Irishmen, forgetting that history was once contemporary, and believing that an intelligent man is never seen on the street. Both of these primal principles have led to the acceptance of a more important third, the championing of the Catholic Spirit with surprising vigor and freshness.
The result of such comparatively simple things is a tremendous influence which nobody will deny. Fundamentally, of course, it is not an influence which settles anything, but rather one which unsettles everything; for Chestertonian literature is a protest. It arose from the midst of a crowd which, having accepted the modern dictum that there are no natural laws, began to feel the iron laws of nature; it spoke out at a moment when the stoical agnosticism of Huxley had been weakened by the plague of decadence; it laughed aloud on the very evening when the intellectual world was on its way to a philosophic funeral. The missing link had made the London skeptic feel the weight of all the years and all the glaciers of science, and talk began to circulate about various drugs that might be applied to senile society. Those were days when, in the mystic shadows which no eye can pierce, the later War of Europe was brewing like a shuddering storm; when men decayed in the midst of the poisonous philosophies which they had planted round about them, yet dreamed that they had never been so secure or so remarkably right. The challenge of Chesterton was a recruiter's trumpet sounding the things for which men would later stand and die. Those things were right at the critical moment because they are eternally right; and it is not improbable that the future will base the fame of Chesterton primarily upon this service and this discovery.
As has been suggested, the career of the man is sufficiently well known to dispense with a detailed biographical note. Chesterton was born in Kensington in 1874 to a father who painted and wrote poetry in a minor way. The son contributed art criticisms and poems to the magazines, and in 1900 "The Wild Knight" was published. His real activity began, however, when he joined the staff of the Daily News as an editorial writer; here he remained until the fact that his opinions were exactly opposed to all those championed by the paper became too obvious for his conscience. Beyond the routine of a literary life, Chesterton has been active as a debater on social topics, as a traveler, and, during the war, as a moral force rather than as the tower of physical strength which assuredly he wished to be. His enormous figure has been caricatured and admired in every part of the world, and those people whom he had not forced to thought he has at least stirred to laughter. There is really only one strange thing in his honourable career: the fact that, while he is a Catholic in every part of his philosophy, he is actually a member of the Anglican church.
The literary output signed by the famous initials G.K.C. is so enormous that the limits of this chapter would hardly suffice for its enumeration, but a great deal of it is journalism, well-made but fashioned frankly for the moment. Conceive of Shakespeare as the author not only of the plays now attributed to him but also of various occasional pieces which a producer might require for a performance or two and which, while revealing the master's hand, would be comparatively unfinished. These might well have lines of beauty and passages worth noting, but one could arrive at a knowledge of the poet's principles and moods without referring to them. So it is with Chesterton; his representative books reveal the man sufficiently to justify an estimate that is based exclusively upon them.
He was and is chiefly a poet, although the bulk of his verse is not large. Your true singer is always democratic, whether he be Dante engrossed in popular politics, or Verlaine who cannot keep away from les gens trop indulgents. What enabled Chesterton to discover the beauty of common things and to pierce the mummery of the cultivated egoist was first and last his poet's gift, and this has kept him fresh and free. Learning from such divergent masters as Whitman and Macdonald the democracy of miracles, he found them plentiful in England. The challenge, the satire, of "The Wild Knight" is a voice from the streets in a drawing-room where everybody is bored to death. Chesterton in this book was something like one of those fiercely brilliant young men who began the Revolution in France: he did not quite know what he wanted, but he was certain of what he did not want. This instinctive rebellion against smug intellectualism and smug squalor is responsive for many later poems, such as the delightful songs of Roundabout in "The Flying Inn," and the more satiric "Ballades Urbane." In these one finds the Chesterton who stands for beer and merriment, the Chesterton who is never so gay as when his enemies have hedged him round.
"The Ballad of the White Horse" is an ambitious poem that contains a great number of the best things its author has to say. Founded upon the popular traditions of King Alfred, the tale becomes symbolic of the contest which Chesterton is most interested in: the constant battle between Christendom that came from Rome and the heathens who have remained outside. The inspiration and the vigour of expression are alike remarkable. A simple ballad stanza is deftly interwoven with supple rhythms and iridescent diction, while the sweep of the narrative is sustained by a series of lyric stanzas that are strong or tender, that snatch at the heart or carry it aloft. More important even is the characterization. Alfred the Great, anxious to reconquer his kingdom from the invading Danes, goes for aid to three men -- Eldred, a Saxon, Mark, a Roman, and Golan, a Gael. The three represent their races as the Danish chieftains are made to typify theirs, and the interpretative sympathy of the author marks the poem as the one great English epic of the twentieth century. The symbolism inherent in the story will not escape the attentive reader. It reveals the character of the eternal contest between heathen and Christian with the subtle insight of perfect music, giving to each side its due but deciding the victory with magnificent fervour. "The Ballad of the White Horse" is a poem to love and even to sing, which are more important matters than putting it on a shelf and calling it great.
There are many people, however, who will continue to find Chesterton's most interesting poem in "Lepanto." This foreshortened epic, rich with lines that are lyrics in themselves, is made of haunting battle music through which runs a prayer. It might be termed the story of Mahound's defeat and the Christian victory, or it might be called a simple battle ballad. The great and the small are here found side by side, under the symbolic banner of Don Juan of Austria, whose chivalry dominates the struggle with the magic glamour of Roland. Here is a new verse-form, too -- organic rhythm employed with a mastery that no other poet has achieved. English literature has little to compare with it and the strange, elemental effect of many lines rivals the best efforts of the French symbolists. But Chesterton is a love-poet and a religious poet also, some of whose lyrics achieve the lowly loveliness, the towering abasement, of Donne and Vaughan. Always and everywhere he is the singer who gains the crest of song because he has seen the little things among which he wanders; who chants the wassail in a world that seems young because he himself is a boy.
Yet Chesterton's verse, genuine and fascinating though it be, is only a fragment of his work as a poet. He has carried the same imaginative gifts into prose and, in a series of romances that are virtually allegories, has drawn pictures in paragraphs that resemble stanzas. "The Napoleon of Notting Hill" is the earliest of them and in many ways the most beguiling. Auberon Quin, a genuine humourist, has been chosen king in 1984 by alphabetical rotation, and his first official order is to the effect that all the boroughs of London shall be surrounded with walls and guarded by mediaeval-looking provosts and their halberdiers. Adam Wayne, the Provost of Notting Hill, is enough of a fanatic to believe that his borough, and indeed his little street, are matters of sovereign importance. He refuses to permit the destruction of the street, wagers battle in its behalf, and by a series of ruses actually manages to set up the Empire of Notting Hill. Later this waxes fat and insolent and is crushed by neighbours who have emulated its example. Auberon Quin and Wayne then set forth on a tour of the world. Thus proceeds the Chestertonian story, not fiction in the ordinary sense of the word, but rather a series of thoroughly extravagant incidents which end in a riot. Nevertheless, the tale seems, for the time being, perfectly plausible, and the lesson which underlies it is startlingly simple. The author has made of the romance an extended paradox, and the reader has only to apply the theory of Adam Wayne to the French Revolution or the revolt of Ireland to discover how true it may be in the world of reality.
The later romances do not depart widely from the method of the first. "The Man Who Was Thursday" is perhaps the most brilliant and difficult of them all. The last chapter, which should have explained, really jumbles up everything, and the baffled reader is likely to cry out in protest. The best thing to do with such an one is to send him speedily to "Manalive," one of the wittiest and most human books in the entire Chestertonian repertoire. Innocent Smith, though not quite so fascinating as Father Brown the innocent detective who antedates him slightly, is a very charming person. The story of his fantastic adventures in an attempt to make his wife fall in love with him repeatedly, is really a study of the transcendent adventure of matrimony and of the modern failure to understand it. This and the other romances, yes, even the detective stories, ought to be issued with a commentary and footnotes by, say, Mrs. Chesterton. As it is, the average person is ready to admit that it must have been great fun writing them, but also to wonder why he is expected to read them. On the other hand, "Magic," a short story which turned into a play, is clarity itself. Nothing could be more quotable or in many ways more obvious. The Duke is genuinely "a gentleman though an ass," the minister a critic of religion, the doctor a skeptic, and the conjuror a mystery. The illusion is perfect though, as the author explained in the Dublin Review, it really hasn't a leg to stand on. "Magic" makes the point so admirably that one cannot help wishing that other short stories had turned into plays. Chesterton the poet is, however, primarily a poet with a sword; a poet who is a debater. No man ever had a greater fondness for argument or managed it, on the whole, with such outstanding success. The point about the famous book of protests, "Heretics," is that the world is full of enemies worth fighting. That is probably the most satisfactory reason for being a philosopher, or, at least, for worrying about philosophy. One of the most characteristic modern ideas is that it really doesn't matter what a man believes; and were he to believe in nothing whatever it would generally be supposed that his happiness was complete. In his book Chesterton "pointed out" (a favorite phrase) that it does make a great deal of difference what opinions a man holds, particularly if he wishes to be happy. The leading exponents of the age are analyzed and their limitations set forth with a vividness that has made many a reader gasp. Of the method with which the argument is conducted something will be said later; it is enough to remark here that it was by this series of negations that Chesterton arrived at an affirmation.
That "Credo" is uttered vigorously in "Orthodoxy," a book that has been largely misunderstood. It is not a philosophy but a statement of preference; not a handbook of apologetics, but an apology that might have been made in a tavern where atheists interrupted the speaker constantly. The answers come in flashes and are astounding because they are overwhelmingly obvious. One of the strangest things about "Orthodoxy" is the fact that its case for dogma hinges on the acceptance of Papal Supremacy, which Chesterton has not in practice accepted. The most striking thing about it is the fervent conviction of the conclusion which is easily the most simple and sincere, as well as the most impressive and torrential, passage that its author has ever written. The later Chesterton is less vivacious and more reflective in making his plea. "The New Jerusalem," which under the guise of a trip to the Holy Land makes an historical voyage from London to Calvary and stops off for a lengthy visit with the Crusaders, is a supplement to "Orthodoxy." Together they make a very effective statement of the Christian position in history and thought.
Conviction, too, has governed the vast amount of literary criticism signed by Chesterton. His books on Browning, Watts, and the Victorian Age have taken their places among standard works of the kind, have been appraised favorably and otherwise, but have all been distinguished by resolute determination not to dissolve the art of utterance from the thought that must precede utterance. They have taken boisterous issue with the aesthete. Perhaps the most characteristic of these volumes is "Notes on Charles Dickens," virtually a series of prefaces to the novels. With the author of "Pickwick Papers" Chesterton has much in common: in fact, it often seems that when he speaks of the "mob" he has in mind a great crowd of Dickens people rather than any assemblage that might really gather in London today. Nobody has ever said so well the things which actually matter about Dickens; and one could go further and declare that these "Notes" are almost indispensable to a proper understanding of their author himself.
What has been the central purpose of this giant literary enterprise? Many people have replied that the Chestertonian attack on beliefs so tranquilly entertained by modern illuminati is simply reactionary and perverse. On the other hand, hundreds of young men not too reactionary or perverse are sure that it is actuated by a firm and high resolve. To begin with, Chesterton's success may be attributed largely to his amazing discovery of the ordinary. While the intellectuals were talking over their books of progress, efficiency, the Inner Light, and the higher this or that, the "man in the street" was talking about life. He remembered the forgotten and invaluable truth that two and two are four; he was gay with the obvious and joyful things, like wine and prayer, while his cultivated neighbour was sitting with great seriousness in a melancholy library. It was Chesterton's luck as a poet to meet this common man; like Socrates he went down the road asking questions which the professors had declared unanswerable and discovered that everybody could answer them. The earth turned out to be a palace of awful beauty wherein a man should go down on his knees before a glade of grass. It was a gay business, too, that had its root in laughter; for mirth, as well as awe, is an announcement of the discovery of the unexpected, and the distance between the two is proverbially slight. Thus a man laughs when a girl loses her garter but is dumb when, like Hardy's Tess, she loses her head. Chesterton, afire with the reality of this forgotten world, puzzled the educated alike with his jollity and his worship: many of them shook their heads and asked him to be serious and others smilingly called him a fool. It was another case of class-conciousness.
What all these people really saw in the author of "Heretics" and "Orthodoxy" was something hard to see, something that for lack of a better word is called mystical. Every sort of theosophic nonsense has been associated with the term, but for Chesterton it means understanding by analogy, something like reading the advertisements of God. It is the reasonableness which unseats reason, the common sense which transcends the sensible. The mystic, believing in God, sees the world as a garden bright with flowers that are tokens of His love, but he need not forget that it is the world. Chesterton finds that the universe is democratic, and mankind "the million masks of God." The elusiveness of every natural thing emphasizes the will, almost the willfulness, of The Master and the man. Philosophy becomes a gay sacramentalism, making joyous obeisance to wonder and to war.
Impelled by this insight into the forgotten mystery of things, Chesterton has been a life-long defender of the Faith. He fights for liberty by relying steadfastly on dogma, just as a patriot might struggle for his country from ancient battlements of stone. Because the democratic society, the many-sided life, and the full religion demanded by the manifold temperament of man have been the ideals of the Church, and because civilization was saved and sanctified and brought to its best bloom by her efforts, he upholds the Church and her history, particularly the magnificent history of the Middle Ages. A common error avows that being a mediaevalist implies of necessity a retrogression, whereas it is simply a straightforward assertion of confidence in human progress. If society as it was formed by Greece and Rome had any goal, manifestly it was the thirteenth century in which all the elements of antique culture were made socially effective. The alternative is to believe that the worth-while history of man began with Martin Luther and not with the Saviour, that Christianity was founded for the sake of higher criticism and wireless telegraphy; it is to assert that society is now sane and that the ages have yearned for the culture of Henry Ford and Hugo Stinnes. It has seemed impossible to the religious and democratic mind of Chesterton that the modern course is right, primarily because nobody really believes that it is right; but here again he is too much of a fighter to be intimately concerned with the details of the reestablishment of Christendom. His social program is as hazy as a revolutionary patriot's idea of the constitution of his liberated country. Chesterton feels that Socialism is wrong because it is a negation of freedom and therefore of a fact; that German philosophy is wrong because it denies the reality of Rome; and that Irishmen are right because they affirm the existence of Ireland. He has blazed the trail with laughter and battle, but is content that the land of promise shall remain the land of dreams.
It is interesting at this point to consider the relation of Chesterton to other defenders of the Catholic Spirit. One cannot resist the impression that he is deeply indebted to Newman, despite the gulf which lies between the style of "Orthodoxy" and that of the "Apologia." Both are concerned primarily with the skeptics, whose principles they can state with remarkable clearness, and both wage war with evidences that are personal and complex but none the less realistic. Newman's almost instinctive attraction to Catholic life and history is, when one makes the necessary allowance for differences of vocation, very similar to the religion of Chesterton. The two are alike once more in ceaseless effort and versatility of form. Naturally there are divergencies; Newman, ascetic and meditative, craved celibacy and contemplation, stood even in his writings at some distance from the crowd. Chesterton, akin to the robust, democratic spirt of Dickens, has believed in love and song, has cherished the lusty bravadoes of the mob. It may not stretch the distinction too far to say that while Newman venerated the Christian Fathers, Chesterton has been fascinated by the fathers of Christians.
Another sort of relationship is discernible between Coventry Patmore and the author of "Manalive" and "The Man Who Was Thursday." In these books Chesterton is perhaps nearest to being a mystical poet concerned with understanding the tumultuous pursuit of God's love, which is the consuming theme of "The Unknown Eros" and particularly of the kindlier lyrics like "Toys" and the "Departure." Neither would it be extremely difficult to trace a parallel between "What's Wrong with the World" and "Religio Poetae," although the fierce democracy of the one is at war with the intense egoism of the other. To select an instance in point, there is the hostility of both to prohibition. Patmore detested such meddlesome popular legislation because it infringes on the liberty of the superior man; Chesterton, because it is an attack, by another kind of superior man, on the liberty of the populace. For both it is not so much the drink that matters as the freedom; not so much the reality as the symbol. Here is only another instance of the remarkable unity of principle which the Catholic spirit may achieve among men of diverse temperaments: Patmore was high and narrow, Chesterton is low and broad; together they occupy satisfactorily the three dimensions of belief.
No one, however, has influenced Chesterton so profoundly as his bosom friend, Hilaire Belloc. The opinions of this combative historian will be considered in the next chapter; it need only be suggested here that in numerous ways Chesterton has found them good. If his philosophy is wider in "The New Jerusalem" than in "The Defendant," it is because the social views of Belloc have also developed. The abilities of the two men are so remarkably complementary that the term, "Chesterbelloc," facetiously employed by Bernard Shaw, really stands for organic unity, for impulsive intuition linked with cold empiricism. The matter may be put briefly by saying that Belloc proceeds by straight lines, like Roman roads, while Chesterton goes to the same place by rainbows. For one, life is law; for the other, something like lawlessness. Their interdependence will be seen more closely when we examine the work of Belloc.
These comparisons have been made for the benefit of those who make the facile assertion that Chesterton is not original in ideas. Nobody is, and the only claim to superiority is superior company; what the accusation really means is that his literary method is not honest, although it is the delight of the present generation. This judgment seems quite unfounded. Chesterton's perennial ability to see an obvious thing which everybody has overlooked is extraordinary because it is sincere. No verbal trickery could fashion rows of lamp-like sentences that really illuminate (and here is the vital matter) not only one side of a question but both. The older literature had mastered this secret, which is the sum and substance of Shakespeare's genius. Cordelia, for instance, is a victim but also a victor; Shylock is a villain but also a man; interwoven with the sanity of Hamlet is a thread of unreason which leads him to his death. Now Shakespeare, who was a humanist and concerned with the world as a stage, is reflective and inexorable; his reading of life was the accepted version, there was no need of proving it to the pit. Modern literature, however, is combative, is chiefly interested in establishing a philosophy, and Chesterton has no other purpose. If he is dealing, say, with defeat and wondering why men are often so deeply impressed by it, he runs across a maxim which declares that if a thing is worth doing it must be done well. The answer to his inquiry flashes upon him: "If a thing is worth doing it is worth doing badly." This is the source of the famous paradox, which may become simply a mannerism but with Chesterton is usually a manner -- a way of arriving at truth by looking over the shoulder of logic. Again, in "The New Jerusalem" there is a discussion of the relation between St. George and the Dragon, between faith in moral principle and fear of the Demon. Chesterton sees that while science has pretty well stripped the Saint's history of legendary glamour, it has, by psychical research, given a new realism to the Dragon; and he is moved to question the general adequacy of complacent logic. The answer is again given in a flash: "We never find our religion so right as when we find we are wrong about it." How well that reveals both sides of the problem! The people who accuse Chesterton of being a mere master of the paradox are really implying that he is an author of the inferior caste of Shakespeare; a philosopher of the second-rate quality of Newman.
But the paradox is only one characteristic of the Chestertonian style. This is what might be termed an early Gothic prose, bedecked with imagery that is both lifelike and grotesque, and rhythmical in a way that startles and yet pleases the ear. No modern prose writer, it may be affirmed, has understood so well the power of figurative language. If the making of metaphors be indeed a birthright like the ear attuned to immortal music, then Chesterton has been blessed abundantly; the whole course of our literature cannot show writing that is more closely akin to illuminated manuscript. Despite the transient themes and the modern ring of the laughter, it is difficult to see what contemporary prose is destined to live if it is not Chesterton's. Boys dipping today, for the first time, into "Heretics" or "Orthodoxy" find them as fresh as we did when they were first published. And it seems not at all unlikely that the young people of the future will do the same, without bothering very much about whether Mr. McCabe or even Mr. Dickinson is a real or a fictitious personage.
Chesterton is, moreover, a writer sufficiently in demand to be an imperfect, at times even a glaringly imperfect, writer. The point here is not so much that his epigrams are frequently overworked, that he misses being effective by becoming affected. Nor are we concerned immediately with the lack of clarity which muffles so many of his stories and essays in a kind of tangled dusk. He has never tried to be that master of construction who is the ideal of French stylists and their disciples. Almost every one of his books is a scrapbook, and his unity of composition is best in his natural medium, verse. No one can quarrel justly with the construction of "The Ballad of the White Horse" or "Lepanto."
His most noteworthy fault goes deeper: it is a very natural overworking of the symbol. When a man believes that such and such an institution is a sacrament, every detail about it will acquire the character of a mystic ceremonial. If one is convinced that marriage and the home which it builds are more wonderful, more sacred, and more important than an empire, and if one sees that woman is the awful goddess of that shrine, one cannot help viewing with alarm even the slightest compromise between the spirit of these things and the world. Therefore Chesterton opposed woman suffrage and seemed to many, even among his admirers, stupidly conservative. It must be admitted that such opposition was close to mere antipathy; but he meant that the whole trend of such movements is wrong, that suffrage was only a rung in the ladder which would bring down Juliet from her bower and Peggotty from her kitchen into a business which in itself is unworthy and which will have to be carried on in a better way than by passing round bushels of crisp ballots. Chesterton was here opposing divorce, eugenics, race-suicide, state control of children, the dozen capital sins of domestic life which are the result of a false ideal of government and the abandonment of Christian morality. Nevertheless one feels strongly that the connection between suffrage and these things is not so obvious or necessary as he would have us believe, and there are other instances in Chesterton's journalism of the same stubbornness of opinion.
Other widespread criticisms seem to be based on a failure to take the man for what he professes to be. When "A Short History of England" appeared, it was gravely handled by some critics in a spirit which would have been altogether proper for a review of a monograph by Lord Acton. They queried very gravely whether the author had seen a learned dissertation by So and So, a certain bundle of manuscripts in the British Museum, and the theories of a Heidleberg savant on the genuineness of an early date. Such criticism may display the writer's historical learning, but it proves him ignorant of history and Chesterton. This book, like everything else that its crusading author ever wrote, is a summary of the reasons why a man should find the national life worth talking about. Abstruse familiarity with the exactness of a text is useful; but it will never induce anybody to sing "England, My England," and surely that also is important.
Chesterton would say that it is most important. His service, when one looks at it broadly, has not been to add to the erudition of the wise, but rather to subtract from it. With commendable gusto he has removed heaps of learned rubbish that had blocked the windows of the world, and has been one of the first to rediscover the immemorial scenes, like starlight on the seas, for which men have been glad to live and to die. Surely there has been enough of pessimism in modern life and men are sated with despair. The merriment of the English, older than the walls of Rome or the crests of Norman kings, has stood in real danger of succumbing to the last and most ignoble of influences, the pride of foreign savants. Chesterton has restored, or at least helped to restore, the laughing humility of the common citizen, which is not servitude nor yet pride, but the virtue of freedom for which Christendom was founded, the virtue of the symbol of Resurrection. In him, though the world was going astray with the blind philosophy of the Germans and the too perceptive art of the French, the Englishman came back with the best thing he ever possessed. He came back with a laugh.
BOOK NOTE
In addition to the published work of Chesterton, see the files of the London Daily News, the New Witness, and the Dublin Review. Noteworthy criticisms include the following: "G.K. Chesterton," by Julius West; "Chesterton: a Biography," Anonymous; and "G.K. Chesterton," by J. de Tonquedec (French). See also, "Victorian Prophets," by Slosson; "On Contemporary Literature," by S.P. Sherman; "Uncensored Celebrities," by Raymond; "The End of a Chapter," by Shane Leslie; "Chesterbelloc," by Theodore Maynard (Catholic World, 1919); and a Review of "Orthodoxy" in the North American, vol. 189.