eration.

The reader of "The Truce of God," in spite of the fact that the romance
seems to be sketched only in its broadest outlines, gets a distinct
knowledge of its chief actors. They live before his eyes. De Hers and
Stramen are not mere abstractions. They have the rugged, clear-cut
character, the sudden passions, the quick and at times dangerous and
savage impulses of the men of the eleventh century. In them the
barbarian has not yet been completely tamed. But neither has he been
given full rein. Somewhere in these hearts, there lurks a sentiment of
honor, of knighthood, which the Church of Christ has ennobled, and to
which the helpless and the innocent do not appeal in vain.

The American has caught this sentiment and plays upon it skillfully. His
setting is in keeping with his story. The wandering minstrel, the
turreted castle, the festive board, the high-vaulted hall with its oaken
rafters, the chase, the wide reaches of the forests of Franconia, the
beetling ramparts of old feudal castles by the Rhine or the lovely
shores of the Lake of Constance, the vineyards on the slopes of sunny
hills, the bannered squadrons, the din of battle, the crash of helm and
spear, are brought before us with dramatic power. Historic figures
appear on the scene. Close to the principal actors in the story, we see
the gallant Rodolph of Arles, Godefroi de Bouillon, Berchtold of
Carinthia, Hohenstaufen and Welf, acting their life drama at the council
board or on the field of battle. We see a woman and an old man, Mathilda
of Tuscany and Pope St. Gregory VII, slowly but surely building on the
foundations of a half-molded civilization the ramparts of the City of
God. "The Truce of God" is true to the requirements of the historical
romance. It summons before us a forgotten past, and makes it live. We
forget in the vitality and artistic grouping of the picture, in the
nobility of the author's purpose and the lasting moral effect of the
story, the occasional stiffness of the style. It is the style of the
refined scholar, perhaps also of the bookman and the too conscious
critic. Occasionally it lacks spontaneity, directness and naturalness.
It might unbend more and forget ceremony. But it is picturesque,
forcible, clear, and bears us along with its swing and dramatic
movement.

American Catholics must not forget the excellent work done by George
Henry Miles for the cause of Catholic literature, the more so as his
name is not infrequently o