6. THE LION OF FLANDERS; or, the Battle of the Golden Spurs. By Hendrik Conscience. 7. VEVA; or, the War of the Peasants. An historical tale. By the same. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

These two tales form numbers 2 and 3 of the Amusing Library now in course of publication by Murphy & Co. They are more than amusing, they are interesting, thrilling episodes in the history of Belgium, and will no doubt be sought for eagerly by all that love the true romance. Although they only profess to be tales, their perusal will refute most strongly the oft-repeated accusation that the Catholic clergy are hostile to the liberties and rights of the people. Yet we are not to judge from this that they are exclusively Catholic in their tone. The general reader will not meet with any thing that will ruffle the most prejudiced. Indeed, no stronger proof of the Church's devotion could be advanced than the whole history of Catholic Belgium; and the generous sacrifice of life, for their country and their God, which its pastors were ever ready to offer up and to which they elevated the minds of their flocks, has no parallel in the world's annals. But the liberty they contended for, was a rational liberty, not license; a liberty that owned the supremacy of law and of God above all law, not the unbridled caprices, which to-day canonized principles and to-morrow cancelled them in the blood of all that is good and noble; a liberty, that even under kings and emperors could com mand respect and enforce obedience, not a plaything for mobs to trample under foot, when they were tired of its enjoyment. The Belgian owes a great debt of gratitude to M. Conscience for his thus unravelling the thread of his ancestors' noble enterprise, and whether that enterprise succeed as in the Lion of Flanders or fall as in Veva, rational liberty will always gain from the mere recital of the sacrifices undergone and the combats engaged in to perpetuate its possession. We hope that these are not the last, which the eventful annals of his native country will suggest to the author. Love of country and devotion to his holy faith claim of him that he should not allow his talents to remain uncultivated in a field of literature, in which not even the "Wizard of the North can surpass him.

8. TRAVELS IN ENGLAND, FRANCE, ITALY AND IRELAND: By the Rev. Geo. Foxcroft Haskins. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. Baltimore: Murphy & Co.

We are more than pleased, we are delighted with this book, not only on account of its intrinsic worth, but because it is one of a class of Catholic literature much needed in this country. We have books of travels of all sizes, and almost without number, but there is scarcely one in which the manners, customs and institutions of Catholic countries are not reviled and misrepresented. The authors, moreover, even if they were disposed, are generally incapable from the natural bias of their education to do justice to things that are Catholic. Do their best, it is the voice and touch of a stranger; the life, the soul, the sympathy of the Catholic is not there.

Of the merits of Father Haskins' work we will not speak, but leave to our readers, unmarred, the pleasure they must derive from its instructive and interesting pages; and as the proceeds of the sale of the book are to be applied towards promoting the interests of the House of the Angel Guardian, over which the benevolent and kind hearted author presides, we trust the work may meet with a sale worthy of so noble an object.

9. THE METROPOLITAN CATHOLIC ALMANAC for 1856. Baltimore: Lucas Brothers. This work for 1856 comes, as usual, well stored with statistical and other valuable information relating to the affairs of the Church. Besides the ecclesiastical summary to which we will have frequent occasion to refer, it contains an interesting biography of the Rev. Father Kohlman, whose memory is so deeply revered by the Catholics of this country, especially in the city of New York, the field of his long and zealous labors.

Editors' Table.

"ONCE more at our post, Mr. Oliver," said Father Carroll, taking up a scroll of paper that lay before him on the table, and repeating in a humming tone those lines of the poet commencing:

"This world is all a fleeting show."

"That's true, Father Carroll; every word of it true. I verily believe the poet was inspired when he wrote the lines you repeated. The world is fleeting, yea, it is passing away rapidly, and its thoughtless inhabitants are running to and fro grasping after the phantom of happiness, ever believing that the next revolution of the earth on its axis will bring within their reach the long-looked for boon. And editors, poor souls; they are like the rest of deluded mankind. Here we are, and here we have been, for a twelvemonth, toiling amid the summer's heat, and in chill and cold sufficient to freeze out the little of life that remains within us. And all this, for what? To amass a fortune? to acquire fame?-a name to leave to posterity? No: not one of these sordid or selfish objects. A higher, a purer, a more philanthropic motive spurs us on and keeps us from dying out-right at the task. A pure, disinterested love for the rest of mankind; a desire to enlighten the fallen children of Adam; to make them better and wiser, and to keep them from being carried away by the delusions of this fleeting world. But, alas! how slightly do they estimate our services. How little do they . . .

"Pray, Mr. Oliver, don't always look upon the gloomy side of the picture. Life has its sunshine, as well as its dark spots."

True, Rev. Father, life has its sunshine, but it seldom penetrates the cheerless abode of an editor's sanctum."

"You are surely not serious, Mr. Oliver," replied the Rev. gentleman, rising up and taking a profound pinch of snuff. "What labor, what duty, more noble and soulinspiring than that of the Catholic editor? To pierce the bubble of folly, to tear off the mask of error, to demolish ignorance, to guide the uninstructed, to encourage the weak, to lift up the voice of honor, justice and religion in an eternal crusade for right—our banner the cross, our watchword charity.-What more exalting? What more worthy of the aspirations of a generous soul? To know that our humble labors have not been lost in the noble cause of Catholic literature; that they have tended to the development of truth, and the dissemination of sound principles of morality, is a reward, Mr. Oliver, worth more than mines of gold."

"Noble object, I admit, Father Carroll, and one worthy of every sacrifice. But think you that the Catholic Church, in this free land, has nothing to apprehend from the hostility of her enemies? Or is she destined to maintain her position, now that we have but little to expect from the influx of a foreign Catholic population ?"

"These, Mr. Oliver, are serious and important questions, and will occupy more time than I can at present bestow upon them. But that you may not think me uncivil, I will attempt a short answer to the first of your queries, reserving the second and more important to some future occasion.

If it be intended by apprehension, that the Catholic Church in this country has any thing to fear from the arming of the civil government against her, I answer unhesitatingly in the negative, she has not. Catholicity has grown so extensive, and taken so deep a root in the soil, and has become so closely warped and entwined around the domestic hearth even of our dissenting fellow-citizens, by intermarriage, by conversions, and the reciprocal obligations arising from commerce, and the interchange of social duties, that the sword could not now fall without inflicting equally as deep a wound on the party in whose hands it is wielded, as on the victims against whom it was unsheathed. Apart

from this, moreover, such a course is repugnant to the first impulse of the American character. Open and generous, with a magnanimity as boundless as the nation; with enlightened patriotism that rises above every petty feeling; the people, as a nation, cherish as sacred the landmarks of religion, heretofore established by their venerated sires, and will never suffer the national character to be tarnished by removing them, while a single fragment of the constitution remains together."

"Danger, however," replied Mr. Oliver, "threatens us from another quarter. We are born and reared in the midst of literature essentially Protestant. Many of the most popular writers, the editors of the most prominent journals and periodicals, the plays, the painting, the current literature of the day, is Protestant, or rather infidel. How can Catholicity, or even Catholic literature, grow amid such influences? How can Catholic youth, circumstanced as they are, avoid the innumerable snares that are set to beguile them?"

"It cannot be denied, Mr. Oliver, but that the worldly vortex, in the midst of which we live, is infinitely more dangerous to faith and morals, and more detrimental to the prosperity of the Church, than the most violent legal enactments. Nevertheless we have but little to fear even from this source. For three-fourths of a century the Church in this country has withstood the combined influence of anti-Catholic literature and the open assaults of her individual foes. Still she has flourished. Her increase in numbers, and in literary and religious institutions, has kept pace with the unparalleled prosperity of the country. Behold her in 1786, at the period when the federal government was moulded into form. She then counted only four small churches, now she numbers 1,910 churches, and 895 stations, making in all 2,805 places of worship, and many of these noble and magnificent structures, vieing in dimensions and in architectural beauty with the stately temples of the old world. Then only twenty-five priests were found to minister to the Catholic body, then numbering about 25,000, now nearly 1,800 zealous clergymen serve at her altar, and are even insufficient to attend the wants of the millions to which the Catholic population has now grown. Then she had not a single bishop, now the blank in the hierarchy is filled by forty prelates, seven of whom bear the distinction of archbishops. Then she had not a single school or college, now over five hundred literary, ecclesiastical and religious institutions attest her prosperity in this free land. Then not a single paper bore the title of Catholic, now she has a numerous and able corps of journals, which rise up around her like so many brazen battlements to defend her honor and promote her interest. And to complete the circle of her current literature, she has her periodicals,-her annual, her quarterly, and her humble monthly. How sublime, I repeat, is the present position of Catholicity in this country! A position that elicits the respect and admiration of the liberal-minded of our dissenting fellow-citizens. This position, too, of which Catholics may feel justly proud, has been attained amid the combined opposition of press and pulpit, and surrounded by all the seductive influences to which you allude. Let Catholics be vigilant, true to themselves and to their religion, and the shafts of their enemies will fall harmlessly at their feet; the future of the Church in this country will be as bright and prosperous as her past career has been one of unparalleled success.

Here the Rev. gentleman took his seat, with a smile of approbation beaming from the ever cheerful countenance of Mr. O'Moor, and a nod from Mr. Oliver, with simple, "You are right, Father Carroll."

"It is high time, gentlemen," continued Father C., "to turn to the duties of the evening. As usual, all talk and no work. Well, now for the despatch of business." "From the vast amount of literary matter upon our table, it will not be difficult to make selections," said Mr. Oliver, turning over several papers.

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"I should think not," rejoined Father C., hastily taking up a document that lay before him. "The Funeral Knell," he continued, reading the title. Here, Mr. O'Moor, is something that will please you-poetry. It is from the pen of our gifted friend, Mr. W., whose productions are always welcome to our table. It is a tribute to a departed friend."

Here Father C., with a clear voice and good emphasis, read the piece as follows:

THE FUNERAL KNELL.

Lines, in memory of a friend who died December 25th, 1855.

Arise and be rejoiced again, all ye who now are sad!

The time has come when every soul may triumph and be glad;
The hope of the "eternal hills" fills all the world with cheer,
While east and west, and north and south, proclaim Emanuel here.

Come thou, my harp! and let us join in chorus new and strong,
The choirs that hail this "Prince of Peace" with mingled shout and song;
Hosanna to the Highest! Hark! what tidings strike mine ear?

A friend, they say, mine own heart's friend, lies low upon his bier!

Why bring to me this mournful tale? thou messenger of ill!
Flinging o'er festal days like these such grief, and gloom, and chill,
Enough of woe is born to me from out this strange, cold shore,
O herald of the killing word! no more of this-no more.

But no-ah! no-I hear again those doleful tidings swell,
And in the winds that bear them on I hear his last farewell;
Farewell, my own! I, too, must say, farewell for ever now,
I weave a cypress-wreath to-day to bind around thy brow.
Thou hadst a fond and faithful heart, my brother, and my friend!
From which welled up a fount of love that never knew an end,
Thou didst not kneel with me indeed before one common shrine,
Yet friendship made me thine the same, and friendship made thee mine!

Oft thou didst sit at midnight's hour beside my fevered bed,
And, till the golden morning broke, upheld my fainting head;
Thou often wert the sweetest cheer that blessed me 'mid mine own,
If I were lonely then, alas! now am I doubly lone.

I know of generous deeds thou didst, which few beside me know,
Of which if but thy mourners heard, still faster tears would flow;
I may not tell them-let them pass-but no, they cannot die,
High, holy deeds like them, we feel, are patented on high.

A thousand hearts, fond hearts, they say, bewailed thine early fall,
A thousand, too, would fain I hear be bearers of thy pall;

This truth is still to me at best a mournful joy indeed,

And only makes my aching breast with keener anguish bleed.

Thou didst not kneel with me in truth before one common shrine,
Yet friendship made me thine the same, and friendship made thee mine;
Farewell, my friend, mine own heart's friend! farewell for ever now,
I weave this cypress-wreath, far off, for thy cold, marble brow.

"Well, Mr. O'Moor, your opinion?"

M. A. W.

"The piece is not without merit; but I have heard better poetry in my time. The length of the lines is fatiguing. But the soul-touching theme, which the poet has selected, forbids all scrutiny into the merits of the verse. What more sublime than to commune with those we cherished on earth, and invoke the muse of song in memory of departed worth!"

66

Pray, O'Moor, what are those two bulky volumes there on the corner of the table?" "These," holding them up; "these, Rev. sir, are Prescott's Philip II. Have you read it?"

"I did, and with much care too; I have, moreover, made out a few notes by way of commentary, under the caption, ' Is Mr. Prescott an Historian?' For my own part I entertain a doubt on the subject. My notes are too lengthy for present reading; I must reserve them for the next number."

"Mr. Oliver," enquired Father C., "what neat volume is that you have kept so closely all the evening under your arm?"

"The Escaped Nun,' was the prompt reply; "and I have kept a firm hold of her ladyship, least she might escape from us before we had paid our compliments." "The far-famed Miss Bunkley?"

"Yes sir; this is the true, genuine book itself: not a line of that spurious article, which those naughty publishers in Gotham sought to palm upon the public. If such books, however, find favor and meet with encouragement from the American people, I fear they will not long retain their reputation for liberality and intelligence. I have prepared a few remarks on the book which I will read with permission."

"Don't trouble yourself, Mr. Oliver. The book is unworthy of serious notice; let it alone, and it will die of itself."

"Have you no more poetry, Mr. Oliver?" enquired O'Moor, changing the conversation.

"Run out, I believe," replied Mr. Oliver.

"What, run out of poetry! you don't say so? Mr. Oliver."

'Well, I don't know. Examine that goodly pile of papers, which I have laid there near the stove, for the purpose of lighting the fire. You may find something among them to suit your taste."

"I see," said O'Moor, with a smile, “your readers are fastidious, and you have such respect for their tastes that you have come to the conclusion not to shock them with second-rate poetry. That's well: but would not a selection do?"

"Not at all. People can select for themselves, you know; and many do not like a rehash."

"Pardon me, Mr. Oliver; people can not always select for themselves; and again they have not always the time nor the opportunity. But what did you say about a rehash?" continued O'Moor, growing animated. "Sweet Poetry, a rehash! Can the language of the soul ever become tedious? Can enchanting music ever pall upon the ear? Or can the eye ever look upon the diamond without new pleasure? Poetry a rehash! How can you be so profane, Mr. Oliver?" continuing, in the meanwhile, his search among the pile of papers.

"Here's a bit worth reading," holding it up.

"Its title, Mr. O'Moor?"

“O, dear me! but you are mighty original this evening;" again thrusting his hand to the bottom of the pile.

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Oh, here it is, just the piece that suits the season, and original enough too," exclaimed O'Moor, advancing towards the table holding the paper in both hands.

"What have you there, Mr. O'Moor?"

"Nothing less than a Valentine."

"Mr. O'Moor," said Father C., "surely you are not serious when you say that such an affair is suited for our goodly magazine."

"You do not understand it, I see. It is not a valentine; it is only so called from being written on St. Valentine's day. It was sent by a venerable old gentleman, by way of condolence, to a brother, similarly circumstanced in life with himself, and contains nothing improper I assure you. Did you read it?”

"I confess I did not."

"Neither did I," said Mr. Oliver, interrupting the conversation. "Seeing its title. I deemed it some trash unworthy of our notice, and threw it among the rubbish." "This is really too bad," said O'Moor; "here is an exquisite effusion, and it came