organisation of labour something wrong, or even something abnormal, are completely out of harmony with the spirit of the Catholic Church." He has no difficulty in supporting this view by quotations from the writings of Leo XIII. and of the present Pope Pius X. Let us quote again :-"The right of those who have common interests to defend them by common action is not a right which any human law can give or take away." Furthermore, "Strong organisations of Labour and of Capital are the only institutions that give the remotest hope of bringing back peace to the world, and of restoring some semblance of order to our industrial system which is, at present, in anarchy" (p. 84). He dwells on the one hand upon the dangers threatening Irish unions, especially that of absorption by those of foreign countries, imbued, as these too often are, with the worst materialistic and socialistic principles, and on the other hand, upon the advantages of organising, not the skilled artisan classes only, but the unskilled labourers and the middle classes, into strong unions for the furtherance of their interests.

On the question of Strikes-including the "Sympathetic Strike and the principles of "tainted goods" and of “scab labour-his attitude is no less clear. He defines the circumstances in which such weapons of warfare may, in accordance with the principles of morality as taught by the Church, be lawful and just, sets forth the dangers involved in their use, the methods that may be used and the methods that may not be used in their employment. All who are interested in the present crisis-and what Irishman is not ?-would find food for thought in a careful reading of this lecture.

The book concludes with a lecture on The Church and Social Work," which is a call to social service. We have surveyed the field of conflict; are we to remain indifferent spectators? If not, what can we do? This the author endeavours to point out. But, first, what is social service? Is it Charity, or does it aim merely at Justice? "Justice is necessary in order that Peace and Order may reign in the world, but Justice must be completed by Charity" (p. 108). But then, again, what is charity in this connection? The author shows that it is of two kinds, the charity that cures and remedies and patches up, and the charity that prevents. Of the two the latter is, in our days, by far the more important and the more urgent, and it is this kind of charity that the author intends by the words Social Work. Now," nowhere in Europe is social

charity, as distinguished from almsgiving charity, less known or practised than in Ireland "* (p. III). Let us take this fact to heart. Finally the author gives a rapid but admirable review of the magnificent social efforts that are being put forth by Catholics to-day all over the Continent.

It remains to say a word about the author's manner and tone. For these we have nothing but praise. We might, perhaps, have given more quotations to illustrate the style. But it was hard to choose: there are no purple patches, no rhetorical flights. The style is sober, reasoned, practical, without verbiage or platitude. But it is alive; and the thought does not mark time but keeps moving on, and the reader goes with it. Moreover, there is no technicality, little that an average Irish audience could not grasp without trouble. From every point of view we can heartily recommend the book.

E. M.

* Yet the author pays the highest tribute to the "magnificent" charity of Ireland.

HAND IN HAND

WE thought we knew the beauty of the world
The sky-blue noon, the splendours of sunset,

The daffodils of dawn in light unfurled,
June's tears of joy upon the rose-leaf wet.

The secret of bird-ecstasy in Spring,

The fire of stars, the moonlight's silver thrall,
And many a sweet and lovely hidden thing,
We, separate, we thought we knew them all!

But neither knew till we went hand in hand
Great Mother Nature's heart, nor did we see
The glory of her face, nor understand.

Her voice that calls us towards Eternity.

R. M. G.

TH

DR. SIGERSON'S MASTERPIECE

By ELLEN O'CONNOR

HE quicken-berries of Morna are said to have had wonderful virtues. Some of them Dr. Sigerson must have tasted, for, at an age when most men are content to rest on their laurels, he has gleaned one of our loveliest legends from the dim grey mists of a shadowy past and wedded it to exquisite modern verse. Whether bubbling over with the happiness and joy of the Lia Fáil, or throbbing out the bitter agony of the desolate Lir, the lines move with a music hauntingly sweet, a music now like the mellow notes of the blackbird, now like the wild wail of the banshee-a music that breathes of the witching spells of lovely Kathleen Ní Houlihan.

Right back to the age when the Tuatha da Danaan ruled this green isle of ours the poet takes us to the time of the Druids and demons: Druids who wove strange spells, and demons who lurked in air and water, seeking to injure the sons of Earth. Between Tir-na-nOg and the “tree-shadowed Land there was much intercourse. Fairy women of

Beauty born eternally

Of shimmering moonshine, sunset gleam

And rose-red heart of dawn.

"

were wooed and wed by mortal men and dwelt with them for ever in the shadowy Land of the Shee. Lovely sprites roamed the midnight woods to meet their gay elfin cavaliers. Fairy princes and their ladies danced their dreamy measures to the honeyed melodies of the Green Harper, under the pearl-pale light of the moon. Great warriors fought in battle and hunted the red deer on the mountain. Feasting and merry-making filled the spacious dúns, and bards sang to their harps while the amber mead circled in the golden mether cups. For those were the days when the world was young and the fire and lust of life were strong in the hearts of men. Amongst them again we seem to live when we read the Saga of King Lir; for Lir was a prince of Danaanian fame, and one of the central figures in the saddest of all sad sorrows of story. Even now, looking across the centuries at the dream-faces of all the old Irish heroes, we can see none so lined with hopeless grief as the countenance of

lone Fionnuala's father. Most of the ancient legends tell of the passionate, despairing love of a mortal for a light-hearted sprite who met him in the gloaming and stole his heart away. Or, perhaps, like the tale of Naoise's beloved, they speak of the fatal beauty of a daughter of Adam for whose sake many a brave warrior died. Yet this prince from the North neither loved nor was loved by a fairy. The shadow of a beautiful mortal woman's jealousy fell across the light of his life. That is the centre of ill around which the whole Saga turns.

With wonderful art Dr. Sigerson unravels the sad romance. The tedious circumlocution of the prose Irish version is never for a moment present. Each incident is related with a directness and a fresh simplicity truly Homeric in their lofty grandeur.

On the Hill of all Supremacy at a great Council of the Princes the first scene is laid. The Chiefs have met to choose a sovereign from their number. Lir is one of the candidates, but is rejected in favour of Bove, the eldest of the Dagda line. Full of moody wrath, he retires from the assembly, deeply offending the rest of the nobles by his churlishness. The Ard-Righ, however, disdains to punish him, and instead waits for an opportunity of gaining his friendship.

Three nights she sickened on the fourth she died,
When darkly breathes the scythed breath of morn,
Lir's loved and queenly spouse.

Bove sees his chance.

He knows that his rival is stricken with grief, and to comfort him offers to him in marriage oneof Olioll's daughters

The fairest maids and best in Erinn's Isle.

Aev is the name of the chosen bride, and the impulsive nature of Lir goes out in grateful friendship to his sovereign; Home to his royal mansion, "through leafy Leinster," he brings his gentle queen, and for a while is happy again. The coming of little Aed and Fionnuala, with their blue eyes and hair of gold, still further adds to his content. But soon the canker of trouble eats its way anew into his rose of life. Leaving him two other rosebud babes, lovely Aev goes to her last home beyond the shimmering stars. And once more Bove comes to the rescue. "Heralds swift "he sends to his vassal,

with message to renew

In spousals meet their friendly pact of old,
And so fair Aifa stood for gentle Aev
To ward her nurslings from the gods of air.

With the home-coming of the new bride the tragedy begins, centreing round the figures of the fair queen, brave, haughty Lir, and his four winsome darlings. Nothing could be better portrayed than the conflicting emotions of these chief actors in the drama.

Aifa in herself is a very interesting study. Not wholly bad, she loves her husband intensely, and that very love becomes the punishment of her jealousy. Her wavering between the good and evil sides of her nature is very well indicated in a few well-chosen words. Lir himself is a fine character-so simple and yet so grand. As for the Ard-Righ, Bove, he is a splendid specimen of the ancient heroes:

Unstained in honour and in soul unscathed,
The chosen chieftain of high-hearted men.

He is pictured for us standing on the Stone of Destiny, "his red-brown locks" rippling over his shoulders, falling on silken broidered shirt and purple cloak, his golden torque about his neck, his

shimmering sandals laced with netted gold.

And over this great human interest hangs the subtle presence of beings of another world, of spirits who ride the storm, fierce air-demons with their Eyes Invisible.

pressing down always The thing that lives.

Rather by suggestion than by actual expression is this blending of the supernatural with the natural achieved. In this respect the poet reminds one very much of Milton. The "faint martial trumpets" that ring through the ghostly halls of Lir are echoless; the Hero-Host march mutely to the funeral rites; after the King's vigil "dun writhing Shapes " heave against the light of dawn. Like "the lady of Christ's ' too, Dr. Sigerson has a fine mastery over the melody of words. Listen to the singing of the Lia Fáil :

It was the singing of the Woods of Erinn,
It was the gladness of her laughing Rivers,

It was the far reverberating Joy

Of the Three Waves that guard the Sacred Isle.