If there is anyone more annoying than the man who,
with Pangloss, finds that everything is for the best, it is the person who carries a perpetual chip on his shoulder," who is the victim of a chronic grouch." The Rev. Father Rope, author of Forgotten England (Heath Cranton, 4s. (Id.), is that sort of peison. He describes landscape delightfully. He has an eye, for architecture and an ear for verse. He ought to be a pleasant companion for " walks in English byways " or " by the waters of Wye." But his eighteen essays, which would otherwise be so agreeable, are marred by his constant girding at everything Protestant and modern. If you don't believe what he believes, you are " smugly insane." Anyone who builds a factory is a " ghoul of progress " and causes " industrial torment." He cannot even like the village " pub." He thinks longingly of " the country auberge or osteria of Catholic lands." Now this is the mere pedantry of faith. We have our faults like all the rest. But to tell us we have lost our souls, our love of beauty, our joy of life, because we do not accept Papal supremacy and have our trousers made on hand-looms is evidence of deficient humour. Also it would be interesting to learn how a priest who worships God as creator and director of the world can reconcile that with bitter and abusive dissatisfaction at the way the world goes.
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