In the last two numbers of Blackfriars we have been considering the use that St. Thomas makes of the New Testament in the Summa contra Gentiles—that is, when defending the Christian Faith against unbelievers. Since writing those articles we have read, for the first time, a lecture in which the late Dr. Wicksteed deals with the same subject. The work of which the lecture forms a part has been highly praised in Catholic, as well as in non-Catholic, reviews for its presentation of St. Thomas’s doctrine. We wish to pass no judgment on the book as a whole, but concerning this particular lecture we think that there can be no doubt that it utterly fails to do justice to St. Thomas’s thought. As the point is an important one, and Dr. Wicksteed’s account is likely to be taken as satisfactory, we propose to attempt to justify our criticism of him. In doing so we may perhaps supply some of the deficiencies in our previous treatment of the question.

From Irish and Scottish books on architecture and Irish and Scottish archaeological writings in general, one is apt to take a very erroneous impression concerning the ancient ecclesiastical buildings of these two countries. This impression is not, of course, deliberately produced by the writers responsible for the literature spoken of; but it is apt to form in the ‘average reader’s’ mind, nevertheless, and to tincture all his thoughts and comments that have to do with this subject. The matter turns on the employment of the word ‘primitive’ to describe the type of stone building associated with the planters of Christianity in Ireland and Scotland. The use of this word in connection with these structures is quite correct, but the circumstances under which it has become so ought to be explained to the lay reader, who, without any such explanation, and so far as my observation extends none gives it, is apt to draw very erroneous conclusions touching these same ‘primitive’ ecclesiastical erections.

Father Ronald Knox thinks, but is not sure, that modern humour is degenerate satire. However uncertain he may be in his theories in his practice of both humour and satire he has the certainty of a very great master. Success in satire is readily proved by the way those who are ridiculed sit up and take notice. In the case of Father Knox there are still more eloquent witnesses to success; namely, those who are accustomed to satire, yet find themselves omitted by a master as too easy or venerable a prey. Witness, indeed, the rage against this book by our venerable friend The Tablet.

Every line of Father Knox’s introductory Essay is richly suggestive. I select the only two of his remarks that provoke me to a difference of opinion.

He thinks that St. Thomas has omitted from the Summa Theologica the question of humour before the Fall; and that, for lack of space. The Summa is an encyclopedia, but not the modern sort. It classifies its subject-matter according to place in the universe, not according to place of first letter in the local alphabet. Therefore, you will not find a special paragraph beginning Humour before the Fall, with elsewhere, Fall, Humour before the. You will not; even find a special section on Humming Birds.

Of the hero of this story I know little, but as that little is known perhaps only to me, I record it. It must have been some time in 1915 that I first met him. At a dismal ‘depôt’ in the Midlands, I was sharing a leaky tent with a fellow Second Lieutenant known to his friends as ‘Jimbo.’ As we were endeavouring, by means of a Primus stove, to dry some clothes faster than the leakage of the tent wetted them, we were nowise pleased to hear that a newcomer was allotted to our tent, and to have to make room for the baggage that his batman dropped squelching in the entrance. Its owner soon followed, muttering frightful things about the climate and the Kaiser.

He would have been tall if he had not stooped. He had thick black eyebrows that almost met, and that gave nim a scowling expression belied by the genial smile of his thick lips. We soon learned that he was our senior as an officer, and that he was some kind of engineer oy profession. It was some hours later that I found he was a Catholic. Though naturally silent, he was by no means unsociable, and he dropped into his place in that tent as though he had known us for years.

All men fall under the spell of Vermeer’s pictures, although the roads leading to the temple of their adoration are many. This man bends the knee because the Delfter has taught him what colour really is; the man yonder loves them for their charming intimacy. To him Vermeer is the Elia of painters because he can introduce a man to his family and relatives without boring him and at the same time make him feel that he is the one and only friend to whom he accords the privilege. Another may be drawn by the intrinsic genre revealed in the interiors. I think I was first attracted to him on hearing that he paid his baker with his pictures instead of with coin; for there was ever a dearth of the latter in the Vermeer home.

It doesn’t really matter however why you like Vermeer : reasons are not always essential. We all understand the couplet:

‘I do not like thee Dr. Fell.
The reason why I cannot tell.’