The Dead Sea scrolls are still, and for a long while yet will continue to be, a matter of major interest. And now Penguin Books have devoted a volume by J. M. Allegro to this subject. The author is Lecturer in Comparative Semitic Philology at Manchester University, took part in the editing of manuscript fragments which are assembled at the Palestine Museum of Jerusalem, and has already published some of these fragments in technical journals. Up to now it has been his broadcasts and the resultant controversies that have made him known to the general public. These alone would suffice to draw attention to this book which, further, is well-written, lively, pleasant to read. As it is published at a moderate price in a series of wide circulation, the book is straightway sure to be a success. I may say that the success is deserved by reason of some real qualities in presentation and facts. But this very success may unfortunately give credit to some conclusions which are hazardous or quite simply erroneous.

The first half of the book covers the history of the Qumrân discoveries, the work of editing, and the excavations (pp. 15-93); this part is generally excellent despite some small errors which we need not dwell on here. Mr Allegro furnishes us with new information from reliable sources on the long-drawn negotiations which enabled certain lots to be bought; yet this new information needs to be correlated with the narratives of other writers. It will be found to complement rather than contradict. The four appendices (pp. 163-184) on John the Baptist, on ancient finds related to the Qumrân documents, on Murabba’at and the other caves outside Qumrân, on the copper scroll, are all useful and only have a few inexactitudes.

It is now upwards of forty years since the Montessori Method came into being. It has in fact existed long enough to have a history; and from a brief study of that history we may glean some important truths about it.

In the first place it can be safely affirmed that the Montessori Method is not just one of those educational fads that come suddenly into prominence, and then as quickly die out. In spite of the double catastrophe of two world wars, and all the confusion and insecurity consequent upon them, the Montessori Movement is stronger today and more widely spread than ever before. In this present year Montessori Training Centres exist in Great Britain, Ireland, Holland, France, Denmark, Italy, Germany and India; and others will be opened up as soon as trained personnel is forthcoming to carry them on.

It is not, however, merely a question of geographical extension. More important still is the question of depth. During all these years—a whole generation and more—the Montessori System has never ceased to develop, probing ever deeper into the mysterious roots of the child’s developing personality, and culminating, during the past ten years, in Montessori’s Doctrine of the ‘Absorbent Mind’.

Let us forget ‘religious sociology’, a misleading mistranslation from the French, which to an English audience confuses two quite different things. The ‘Christian’ or ‘Catholic’ sociologist studies, like the sociologists of any other denomination, how behaviour—not particularly religious behaviour, but behaviour in general—is affected by the social structure. His method is factual and scientific, like that of the non-Christian. But he uses insights from the theology of social order and the Christian conception of the natural law as a guide in picking problems to investigate, and to help decide what should be done about them once the facts are revealed. ‘Religious sociology’, on the other hand, as it has come to be understood on the Continent—the right English translation is the ‘sociology of religion’—is a much narrower field, and one not specifically Christian. It studies how the practice of religion, that is religious as apart from general behaviour, is influenced by the social structure. As Fr Virton, s.J., puts it in a question quoted in this report:

Mr George Scott’s Time and Place is a semi-autobiographical analysis of the influences which he believes have contributed towards the formation of a new kind of hero in everyday life—echoes of whom are to be found in fiction—and also of the state of contemporary society in Britain. He posits an imaginary, composite hero—alluding to Mr Kingsley Amis’s Lucky Jim as an indicator—whose passions are ended before he starts on his journey; who distrusts his own intellectual pretensions and emotions even more than those of others; one who is ‘fearful above all of not being “wide” enough to forestall delusion’ and who ‘is forced back into the defence of laughter, at himself and at the world’. And if he finds within himself ‘any weakling inclination towards constructive ideas for the world, for “crusades” or any phoney nonsense of that kind, then he must secrete them in some dark cellar lest the neighbours discover them and subject him to ridicule.... He brings with him the supposed coarseness of the hobnailed navvy and the Teddy Boy’s fear of being thought soft.’

This is a convenient and, probably, to some extent, true analysis of certain kinds of people with whom most of us are familiar. Whether or not they are to be regarded as heroes in reality the next fifty or hundred years may demonstrate; and whether or not they are likely to be interesting as fictional heroes it is also a little early to forecast. So far it would seem otherwise.

The celebration of Mozart’s bicentenary has brought out one of the chief traits by which his worship differs from other cults for writers and artists of the past, namely, the degree of personal love and devotion which attend it. The centenary celebrations of Beethoven, Schubert, Haydn, Brahms, Chopin, Bach, have fallen within the memory of most of us; great as was the burden of praise cast upon these distinguished figures, none called up such a tribute of affection. Twenty years ago, Eric Blom concluded his excellent work upon the composer with a declaration of love. It is this intimate relation between the man himself and his listener that makes our apprehension of his art so peculiar. This would be all the more astonishing if it were true, as Hyatt King as written in a recent volume of essays and as indeed many others said before him, that Mozart’s music is profoundly impersonal. It would be astonishing even if one modified this by substituting ‘impenetrable’ for ‘impersonal’. The ‘Mozart friend of long standing’, to whom Paul Hamburger refers in The Mozart Companion and for whom in fact this book has been written, feels that when W.A.M.’s music fills the room it is not only the art but the very presence of the Geliebte that he enjoys. Except for Chopin, I doubt whether this can be experienced so keenly with any other composer.