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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at|http: //books .google .com/I t. \ Y \tj o'-i '^ ^ \ >- .f% 4 The ROSARY magazine CONDUCTED BY THE DOMINICAN FATHERS INDEX TO VOLUME XXVll JULY-DECEMBER, 1905 SOMERSET, OHIO • PUBLicl.L;;ARY|NDEX TO VOLUME XXVH 815S79 A!»TCR. LENOX AND TILDEN. FCUNDATlONt. 1906 ■ A PaillUU^, Ml'UllfVU' Mathematician — Blessed Jordan of Saxony, O. P William H. Cahill, B. Sc 572 A i^eader of the Blind Anna C. Minogue 504, 579 A Marble Masterpiece — The Tomb of St. Dominic Marie Donegan Walsh 113 An Altar for Rabelais John J. O'Shea 52 A Narrow Margin Milton E. Smith 520 A Quaint Old English Town Grace V. Christmas 389 A Sardinian Vendetta E. C. Vansittart 194 A Sketch from Nature Anna C. Minogue 394 A Southern Novelist William J. Fischer .V4 A Visit to Mt. Melleray May F. Quinlan 613 Cardinal Pierotti, O. P 393 Chanting of Monks in the Distance Julie Caroline O'Hara 492 Chicago's Under-World ^ Rev. J. E. Copus. S. J 236. 345. 454 Clarisse de Somerghem Mary E. Mannix 229 Confraternity of the Holy Rosary 103, 214, 324, 436. 547. 659 Current Comment 93, 204. 314. 426. 537. 651 Doctor Murat J. L. 0*C : . . . 151 Dr. Douglas Hyde and the Gaelic League 636 Falconry E. C. Chase 350 Father Bonaventura, O. P Mme. V^on Fuerstenberg 307 Father Denifle, O. P A Dominican Priest 119 Florence r Hon. Maurice H. Donahue 400 For Boys and Girls 98. 209, 319, 4^1. 542. 654 Great Catholic Composers of the German School Lorna Gill 3 Handwriting and Forgerv James I. Ennis, LL. B 196. 417 In the City of Romeo and Juliet Thomas O'Hagan, Ph. D 333 In the Heart of the Tyrol Thomas O'Hagan. Ph. D 57 In the Shadow of the Hills May F. Quinlan ^72 Its Mission Mary Richards Gray 627 Japan's Greatest Victory Alfred de Roukt. M. U 2{>8 Last Hours of the Temporal Power "Veritas" 481 "Mater Admirabilis" Alice Edna Wright 243 Memories of Connemara — a Mountain Land of Beauty and Grief Major Dudley Costello \jj Michelle's Quandary John J. O'Shea 493 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. §f| ^ Out of Bondage Mary E. Mannix 644 Parochial and Public Schools Compared in the Light of the New York Normal College June Examinations H. F. L 149 Rosa Bonheur — Her Life, Work and Per- sonality Helen O'Sullivan Dixon 277 Servia and Its Rulers Ben Hurst 295 Something About the Saints Ida Matson 241 St. Eustace Thomas M. Crotty. O. P.. S. T. L. 154 St. Francis de Sales and the Rosary S. F. J. F 413 Syria and Palestine Rev. M. A. Quirk 186 Tangled Threads William J. Fischer 87 That Boy Gerald Rev. J. E. Copus. S. J.. 44. mS, 269. 379 The Dells of Wisconsin Mary Richards Gray 223 The First English Franciscans William P. Coyne, M. A 80 The Fisherwomen of Boulogne Sur-Mer Thomas O'Hagan, Ph. D 499 The Forbidden Tree lohn A. Foote 13 The French Stage Thomas O'Hagan. Ph. D 132 The Garden Bench 89, 200, 310, 422, 534, 648 The Gratitude of Pere Louvard \ Mary E. Mannix 78 The Habitant People William J. Fischer 257 The Hare and the Tortoise M. T. Armstrong 646 The Holy City Rev. M. A. Quirk 557 The Irish Bard P. G. Smyth 590 The Irish Dominican Martyrs Rosaleen 0*Neil 366 The Irish Martyrs Rosaleen O'Neil 179 The Land of Youth Denis A. McCarthy 459 The Master Builder Georgina Pell Curtis 3Q The Roman Campagna F. W. Parsons 169 The Unexpected Guest Rhodes Campbell 289 The Vocation of Philip Georgina Pell Curtis 25. 137. 245, 355, 467. 601 The White Iris Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 338 The White Knight of the Woodland Path Edwin Carlile Litsey 639 Through the Holy Land on Horseback Rev. M. A. Quirk 445 Told on a Jaunting-Car Mollie Patterson 65 Tuesdays With Friends Maurice Francis Egan 19, 184. 263, 465. 634 Uncle Toby's Possum Hunt Charles Hanford, Jr 478 Useless Things Grace Tamagno 302 Was Hamlet the Son of an Irish King?. ., John Malone 265 Where Art and Nature Smile Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 516 With Shogun and Samurai Mary F. Nixon-Roulet 71 With the Editor 107. 216, 326. 438. 549, 661 INDEX TO VOLUME XXVII. POETRY A Prayer Lyndall Charlotte Burden $gfl A Song of Mary Theodosia Garrison Autha of the Isles Thomas Walsh Autumn Beauty Charles Hanson Towne 354' Christmas Night Sister M. Dominic, O. S. D ^4^^< Crowned Immaculate Mary F. Nixon- Roulet 199 Daybreak John B. Tabb .^ ]9 In the Slums William J. Fischer 50(1 Life Julia C Walsh 6ia' Pourquoi Je T'aime, O Marie S. L. Emery 5Q7 Regina Rosarii Mary Teresa Waggaman 3g9 The Christ-Child to Mary Charles Hanson Towne dsJiB The Comforted Theodosia Garrison 498 The Defense of Clonmel Denis A. McCarthy ai The Fathers of the Rosary Denis A. McCarthy •. 411 The Journey Lyndall Charlotte Burden 606 The Leper Robert Cox Stump Ij6* The Priest's Yule-Tide William J. Fischer 600 The Rosary Charles J. Phillips 256 The Rubaiyat of the Penitent "!'. J. L. O'G agS The Song of Mary Charles Hanson Towne a4l> The Stone-Cutter's Chaplet P. J. Coleman 53SI The Temples Thomas Walsh 199 The Wise Men Denis A. McCarthy 633 To Rainbow Town Thomas Walsh 76 To the Virgin D. J. Donahoe 578 True Poverty Honora McDonough 168 Unfaithful Edith R. Wilson 157 ^ JULY, 1905 jPUaUCLIRI-AKvl „o|B ROSARY MAGAZINE ADVERTISING SECTION H6e Life of 0\ir Lord and ^ Secviour Jesus Christ By R.ev. J. Puise\ix» HonoroLry Canon and Former Student of the Carmelite School TroLnslated from the French By R.ev. R.oderick A. McEacKen This splendid Life of the World's Redeemer follows the chronological order as far as possible in using the Abbe Fouard's beautiful work as a model. Each fuuv- graph comprises one important fact. Controversial questions are treated with- out entering into the various discussions, but the reader is referred to discourses and special works on these subjects. The author has availed himself of the results of modern Biblical research and of recent discoveries in the land sanctified by the footsteps of Our Lord. Valuable references are given to the scholarly and monumental works of such writers as Veuiilot, Fouard, Le Camus, Frette, Dtdon, Dr. Lepp and Ollivier. * * * It is a simple and plain compendium of the main facts in the great story of our Blessed Lord's life on earth. * ♦ ♦ We recommend this book for its simplicity and clearness. — The Sacred Heart Review, • • • Had I the power, I would place this book in the hands of every Catholic and Protestant layman and woman on the face of the earth, and I know that as they read the beautiful story, their hearts would warm and burn within them, as was the case with the two travellers on their way to Emmaus nineteen hundred years ago. There is no better company in this world than the companionship of Jesus. — TIte Globe Retnew, * * * Your brief and eloquent compendium of the Four Gospels, with its clear explanatory notes and descriptions of places, comet at if in answer to the question: "How shall I begin to follow out the Pope's ad- vice?" No better answer can be given than this: "Read Father Mc- Eachen's Life of Christ." — Dr, McSweeney, Professor of St. Mary's Seminary, Price Hill, Cincinnati, 0. ♦ ♦ * Of all the "Lives" we have seen this is the best adapted for general use. ♦ * ♦ It is the most useful and most to be recommended to our Catholic families. — New York Freeman's Journal. ♦ ♦ ♦ I think with the critics, that it bids fair to be ranked among the classics. * ♦ * — Bishop Challoner. Itlap and 10 Tulhpage Illustrations. 208 pages. Vellum. Price, 75c I Published and for Sale by THE ROSARY PRESS. Somerset. Ohio To every regular subscriber of the Rosary Magazine Hvho sends us ONE NEW paid-up subscription, "we ro than in- tensified declamation, and addresses itself more tu the nuisica! than to the poetical side. He otien said that he tTwil tn be painter and pOi't rather than musician. That he did not succeed is proven liv the vitalitv of his music. CATHOLIC COMPOSERS OF GERMAN SCHOOL. The truth is that in trying to correct the abuses of Italian opera Gluck erred in going to the opposite extreme — in try- ing to make music subservient to poetry. To him, however, is due the credit of taking the first supreme step in showing that the words had an impor- tant place in the music drama. As Gluck had first brought the German nation into musical prominence through his oper- atic reforms, so Haydn was to add greatly to the national lustre by his development of instrumental music. He was born of humble parentage in lower Austria in 1732. Though his early years were fraught with many hardships, they were not sufficient to quench bis musical ambition, nor to de- stroy his cheerful disposition. Upon reaching his eighteenth year, having studied piano, violin and singing, he was visited by a theatrical manager who had heard favorably of him. "Sit down at the piano," said the manager, " and ac- company with fitting music the pantomime which I shall perform for you. Imagine a storm at sea — that I have fallen into the water — that I am trying to save myself." Kurtz sprawls across a chair, imitates the actions of a swimmer in dis- tress, while the chair is drawn around the room by an attendant. At first Haydn's work was not sufficiently thrilling, until, in trying to realize the frantic efforts of the swimmer, he threw his arms over his head and brought them down with tragic force on the keys of the piano. In that he foreshadowed a school of later day pianists. Kurtz sprang up and embraced him, saying ; "You are the man tor me; you must write me an opera," And this resulted in the composi- tion of the opera, "The Devil on Two Sticks." As Gluck was the pioneer of German opera, so Haydn occupied a similar posi- tion in regard to instrumental music. The latter developed popular types of expression .into the beginnings of a true art, which became possible only through the harmonic and rhythmic organization of his predecessors ; and in using thematic development as the basis of his work, he was laying down the first prin- ciples of a novel form of art which was later to be so subtly treated by Mozart and Beethoven. Though called \\vt "^i'Ctvw q\ "^sv^ THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. Symphony," there had been works so called before Haydn's time. The regulation one had an Allegro and Adagio and a second Allegro. Haydn made the three movements richer and more independent, and added a fourth, the Minuet. He showed his genius in their free and vivacious treat- ment; in the skilful and original com- binations of the instruments. Haydn was fifty years old when Gluck died, and kapellmeister to Count Ester- hazy, a position socially analogous to that occupied by the literary man in the sixteenth century. It was while in this capacity, his rank scarcely higher than a servant's, that he composed the twelve great Solomon Symphonies, distin- guished for their simplicity, clearness of design, geniality and playfulness. In 1792, when in London, his "Sur- prise Symphony" was received with great enthusiasm. A friend having vis- ited him after its composition, Haydn played it for him on the piano. At the drum passage Haydn said, with a rogu- ish laugh, "Here the women will jump." He explained by saying that the ladies and gentlemen attended these concerts after a late dinner and often indulged in a little nap, and this subterfuge v/as a comic way of awakening them. Haydn's extraordinary creative power is seen at its greatest strength in his quartets; he stamped a character upon them which still bears his impress. The charming "Kaiser Quartet" and the '*Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser" will always live. Like his music, Haydn was of a sim- ple, kindly nature, full of humor and geniality, never haughty or imperious, his piety and religion being the basis of all these noble qualities. He always began his compositions with the inscrip- tion, "In nomine Domini," and ended them with "Laus Deo." "When com- posjtjon does not go well," be said, "I go to my chamber with rosary in hand, say a few Aves, and then the ideas quickly come." His domestic life was rendered very unhappy by a wife who had no sympathy with his work, besides being quarrel- some and heartless. In order to annoy him, she would often use his manuscript for curl papers. The last great works of his life, "The Seasons" and "the Creation," written when he was sixty-five years of age, arc remarkable as being the works of an old man. He said that he was never so pious as during the composition of the latter. "Daily I fell upon my knees and prayed God to give me strength for the happy execution of my work." In the "Creation" such melodies as "With Ver- dure Clad" and "Cooing calls the Ten- der Dove'* are perennially fresh and young. The value of discords is shown * in the introduction to "Chaos" and in the mighty climax of the finale, "The Heavens are Telling the Glory of God." "The Seasons" was inspired by Thom- son's poem of the same name, and when Haydn was asked to which work he gave the preference, he said : "In the 'Creation* the angels speak and tell of God, while in The Seasons' only peas- ants talk." Roth works are still a delight to hear when produced with taste and care. He left the impress of his genius, also, upon the sonata, from which he removed the last traces of stiffness and brought it to complete definiteness as an artistic vehicle. Among his contributions to sacred music, "The Mariazell Mass" and "The Cecilia Mass" take rank among the masterpieces of their class. Haydn's place is among the greatest of his art, and aside from the fact that music has undergone great changes from what he left it. his best works still remain interesting. \'ery fitly he is called the "Father of instrumental Mu- sic," and the endearing term of "Papa Havdn," used so m\ieVv b\ M.ox^xV, \% CATHOLIC COMPOSERS OF GERMAN SCHOOL. more than a name — ^it is condensed phil- osophy. Haydn led the way into unexplored musical regions and was chiefly con- cerned in clearing and making high- ways to this unknown country. Mozart, on his appearance, changed the wilder- ness into a garden. Haydn showed Mo- zart how to do things, and in return Mo- zart showed Haydn how to do them bet- ter. Each admired the other profoundly, and both were clearly aware of the obli- gations they bore each other. How astounding the musical accom- plishment of Mozart seems when we consider his short span of life — 1756- 1791. His prodigious fertility is equalled only by Schubert, with this difference, that the latter's Hfe, a few years shorter, was more quiet and secluded, while much of* Mozart's time was consumed in concert tours. Mozart was undoubtedly the most pre- cocious genius of which musical history has any record. At four he commenced to play the piano and simultaneously to compose little pieces, which his father wrote out for him. If ever a father per- formed his duty well in regard to a son that father was Leopold Mozart. He was kapellmeister to the Archbishop of Salzburg, discovered the superior gen- ius of his son and devoted his life to its proper development. Both his wife and he were devout Catholics and reared the young Mozart in that faith's pious practices. When eight years old Mozart and his sister were taken by their father on a concert tour through the piincipal coun- tries of Europe, where young Wolfgang played the clavier, organ, violin, also composed extemporaneously. In 1769 we find him in Rome, with letters of in- troduction to one of the Cardinals and asking the favor of being admitted to the Sistine Chapel to he^r the famous "Miserere" of Allegri. "You are aware," said the Cardinal, "that the ^Miserere' is held w such high esteem that the musi- cians of the chapel are forbidden under pain of excommunication to take any part of it away, to copy it themselves or through others." The difficulty of put- ting down the notes of music by a double choir abounding in imitation and tradi- tional effects, is scarcely conceivable. Mozart performed this supposedly im- possible feat in two visits to the chapel, the second time having his manuscript in his hat for correction and completion. The theft soon became known in Rome, but the generous Italians in their delight at discovering such marvellous ability forgot to call upon the Pope to excom- municate him. Considering that Mozart's talents had created so great a furore in his child- hood, he suffered keenly upon reaching maturity from lack of sympathy and poverty and from his failure to secure ^ powerful patron. It is true that his com- positions were much in advance of his time, and this, together with his refusal to pander to the vulgar taste of the period, can be accounted for his financial reverses. Whatever pecuniary advan- tages he gained were from the concert stage, -on account of his reputation as the greatest clavier virtuoso of his time ; however, during the last years of his life he was appointed kapellmeister to Em- peror Joseph of Austria, but the re- muneration was small. Nothing that Mozart has written seems to have been the result of human labor; everywhere we feel it as the out- pouring of a divine instinct. His sense of euphony was so perfect that it would never allow him to sacrifice purity and beauty of tone to produce dramatic effect. His works, numbering thousands, run the whole gamut of musical compo- sition ; — sacred music, sonatas, sym- phonies, chamber music and operatic, but it is chiefly by his dramatic work that he is known to posterity. ''Don Juan,'* ''The Marriage of Figaro*' and "The Ma^\c YXwle^' .\\\\\ ?\\n;5lns\\c\^'<^'^ sta ge . CM \V\s o\>ct?lUc w oxVs ,\\\\'3).%\i^^'^ THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. MOZART BEFORE EMPRES!: MARIA THERESA. said that he completed the palace of Ital- ian opera and that he laid the enduring foundations of the German. There is an extraordinary wealth of melody in these operas ; the music of each charac- ter surrounds it as an atmosphere; the instrumentation supplements the voice and is in keeping with the scenic effect. Rubinstein said; "Gluck has achieved great things, yes, opened new paths, but his music, in comparison with Mozart's, is as cold as stone ; besides, lie has re- moved opera from the icy pathos of mythology into real life, from the Italian into the German language, thereby giv- ing it a national path." All his music is characterized by its spontaniety, its feathery lightness, its delicate filigree efifects, its elegance, grace and melodic fecundity. In the do- main of absolute music his productivity was equally as great as in the operatic. S/x string- quartets dedicated to Haydn were written between 1782 and 1791; his four greatest string quartets, between 1 787 and 1 79 1 , and hb greatest symphonies — works that mil endure as long as music — were written in two months, in the year 1788. We found that system and unity was ttie keynote of Haydn's composition, and that a certain monotony resulted from its great precision. Mozart's instru- mental output contains a more flexible and various construction, a more ven- turesome harmony and more subtlety. His la.st composition, "The Requiem," was the result of the commission of an utter stranger, who succeeded in con- cealing his identity. During its com- position Mozart's health was continually failing, anVed them to sing it, while he took the alto pan. They Jiad proceeded as far as the "Lacrymosa" when he was seized with so violent a fit of weeping that he could go no far- ther. Jf Mozart suffered neglect from the public and was often so poor that he and his wife were sometimes found danc- ing around their rooms to keep warm, he was considered by contemporary mu- sicians as the greatest composer in the world. It is to be regretted that his operas are not now produced with the same care that is devoted to Wagner's. The singers in the latter are chosen with delicate discretion as to their suitability to fill certain roles, whilst for poor Mo- zart's, careless and indiscriminate selec- tion prevails. On the concert stage he is well-nigh forgotten; but this is an age of over-ornamentation in music, and when the reaction sets in we shall see him restored to the position to which his genius entitles him. The significance of our next subject lies in his contributions to the operatic stage. Carl Maria von Weber was born in 1786, thirty years later than Mozart. His father, fired by the success of the latter as an infant prodigy, had the am- bition to have his son create a similar furore. The families were connected by marriage, Mozart's wife, Constance, be- ing the niece of the elder Weber. The latter, however, lacked the stability of the father of Mozart, and kept his son flitting from one teacher to another, with the result that young Weber never at- tained the sound musical knowledge of Mozart. In his earlier works Weber had trod in the footsteps of Gluck and Mozart, but with the composition of "Der Frei- UOZAST SINGING HIS LAST REQUIEM. THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. schiitz" he began to iriake marked inno- vations, beginning with the overture, which he ihonght shotiid be an epitome of the opera to follow. GUick anti Mo- zart had treated it as an independent musical composition. That the effect was magical can be seen in (he "l)er Fricschuiz" overture and those in the operas that followed, all nnsiirpassed for dramatic coloring and poetical fcelins;. His chief aim was to endow his operas with a distinct color of nationality, and for this reason he used th'_' German folk- songs as their foundation. While ih^ critics spoke of "Der Frcischulz" as an unmusical uproar and that the compose,- had created a colossal nothing, its rece|)- tion by the people was tremendously en- ■ thusiastic. Its popularity al- ways remained an enigma to Spohr, while to Schubert noth- ing appeared, admirable in "Euryanthe." Both saw only sensationalism in his dramatic effects. We, who are familiar with Wagner's music- dramas, can scarcely realize how revo- lutionary Weber's theories must have sounded three-quar- ters of a century ago. The fact is that his full stature can be seen only by the light of example that Wagner throws upon him, as both "Lohengrin" and "Tannhaustr" can be traced to the influence of "Euryanthe." Weber was a man of strtmg intellect and much general cul- ture. He wrote several novels and was a regular contributtv to the journals of the day (in which he expounded his art theories), and was the pre- cursor of such literary musi- cians as Schumann, LJszt, and Wagner. His life was one long struggle with the partisans of Italian opera, and what- ever happiness came into it was from the love anerpi«JK:€r* n* with ihinfrs whicb we 5« b^ii carmc*! explain : and exist- ence seems lo l>e a ronnd of imitlcss questions. W'hy sbcrald it be so ? WX^- must the -zmt: wbo seeks religrion with- out the eyes of istiiii lose its knowledfre altogether — as I liave done?" •As you have done!'' I ejacnlated. **Are yon crazy, man ? Do yon mean to tell me that you do not belie\e in a Cre- ator?" I spoke impatiently, even resent- fully, but then the anguish in his face. as he turned towards me. made me pity him. •'Do not judge me too quickly. Jim." he said. -^For eight years I have suffered an agonv of doubt, and all of that time I have prayed for light. But it has not come to me — rather, everything seems to move me farther from the old belief— mv teachers, my experiments— all have been, unfortunately, adverse to my spir- itual happiness and peace. "But." I said, groping for an argu- ment, tor my biological knowledge was scant V, ** there was Schwann, and Gal- vani/and Mendel, the monk, and Pas- teur—and they not only believed but were devout Christians. And they are great names, too, are they not?" "Great names/' he assented, "and great figures, all of them: and their faith grew with their knowledge. It was Pasteur who said that if he could know all that is to be known, he might then at- tain the simple faith of the Xorman peas- ant. Oh. that's it ! I have no faith ; I cannot accept anything, either in science or religion, unproven : and I am too proud to submit my reason to authority. Like Ibsen, the poison of the awful ques- tion and the eternal doubt has narcotized my Si"»nl. Bu: to-nurfi: 1 ii all, Jim. anc 1 sent ior I ieh tha: yoc mx^h: imdcr^ SATunaihizc with mt m n ness." There was a siu:irc^:ir»n v ir.anncr and hi< x'afruc. ho th*ai crystallized in an \v. mind into a fear that he * suicide. And so 1 blmred 'You — yox: mean to dcsi in your madness I" "No." he said, as he ro< before me ^Hth his arms k him. not even resentful tha: understCKxi. "I mean that doubt shall end. and 1 must infidel, 'with an infidelity b. entific fact, or else an hun who ^-ill submit his mind ti thority." There was a stra his eyes as he spoke, and h towered over me. while h< gaunt hand to emphasize hi: "You must be going m: "no sane man would sj>oak phemy." But he did not h was standing now, his head ward and his back turned peering down into the firopl; parently talking to himself: "If it succeeds — if mv succeeds — I shall be great, famous — more famous than than Koch — than l\isteur— men's minds than the headstr or the ambitious Xapoleon- the high-priest of Reason !" I touched him on the ar twitched in a manner that h. nervousness. "What was I saying?" he fuscdly, and then, as the r came to him, he sank weari chair. "Forgive me," he sai fearful thoughts take possess very often now, and I cam them. It is pride— vain j)ri. crax'm^ for somelhh^v!;— \ ^V^ u'/jat— that is the cimsc' 1% i6 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. ttTAf. «:i.». It's nothing of the sort," I replied; 'it's worry and overwork that has got on your nerves. Now, Halliday, be rea- sonable; forget about this experiment, or whatever it is, and let us talk about something else." But my words seemed only to act as a spur. "Forget about it! No, I must ex- plain it to you. You must know, then, that for many years I have been work- ing at problems in biology, and, also, that like my confreres I accomplished much in speculation and hypothesis and little in experiment and fact. For if biology were a language, protoplasm would be its alphabet. We have yet to learn this alphabet ; we have yet to an- alyze and synthesize living protoplasm. Yes, we can girdle the earth, and chain the great cataracts, and harness the swift lightning itself to do our bidding — but we cannot make a single grain of this living jelly! Believe me, Jim, I speak seriously when I say that I have not wished so much to prove that life could be made, as that it could not be made. And yet, sometimes moments come when the thirst for knowledge and the fever of ambition seize me, and I think that it may fall to me to discover the great secret." He spoke in a hushed, awesome voice. "And if man can cre- ate life, it will be the apotheosis of mor- tality, and old beliefs must crumble." Now he was talking rapidly, with his old-time, easy fluency, his eyes glowing with the fire of his own arguments. I in- terrupted him. "But, as you admitted awhile ago," I urged, "your scientists in general have done nothing. I have heard of a certain Professor Loeb who claims to have fer- tilized a sea-urchin's eggs with chem- icals. But he could not make the eggs themselves; and what has his experi- ment proved ? Nothing, you will admit. And have you yourself done more than he?" "You shall see for yourself to-night, iFi^^/ I have done," he replied, "be it much or little. I have done far more than Loeb — far more, though my dis- covery was an accident. I have ap- proached the great thing — ^the chemical difference between living and dead protoplasm. If life is equivalent to this chemical difference, then life is a thing of chemical reactions — a certain some- thing which becomes energy, and leaves behind the substance we call proteid, or albumen. The next step is to be able to make protoplasm, and see whether or not it exhibits the phenomena of living substances, and this test is now in progress. It is the last word in the study of protoplasm; if it fails I shall know that there is indeed Something above the laws of nature." He drew out his watch and glanced at it. "In ten minutes you shall witness the result. I wish you to verify it." "Verify it!" I exclaimed. "Where?" "In this very house," he answered. "The adjoining room is my laboratory." He seemed almost amused at my evi- dent astonishment, and stood regarding me silently for a moment. Then from si cabinet he drew out a decanter, and pour- ing out a glass of spirit, handed it to me. "Take it for your nerves," he said; "you may need it." "And you — " I suggested. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders: "I haven't any left that are worth car- ing for." He had grown as pale as mar- ble ; I pressed him to take some of the stimulant, but he would not listen to me. "Come I" he said, grasping my arm, after a hurried glance at his watch. "There is no time to lose. Whatever is to happen must happen soon." He pushed aside a heavy curtain, un- locked a door, and the next instant we stood in a large room, with a single broad window facing the court yard, and num- erous skylights through which the moon sent a flood of pale-blue light. A faint odor of chemicals was in the air, and even with my nerves atingle from the potentiality oi the trvorcvtivt, 1 c^tv x^tcvi^tGL- THE FORBIDDEN TREE. 17 to place one half-familiar, pre- f scent. Then I heard Haili- ng: hat window, please, Jim, and nirtain. It's a little stuffy in must wait on ourselves; I \ away for the evening so that )e entirely alone." ; he requested, and taking a the December night, noticed >{ the adjoining houses white ntle of soft, new-fallen snow, come within the hours since . The bell in a neighboring ftr struck twelve, and I le strokes and listened as the inged out "Rock of Ages." iras moving around the room ; the echo of the chimes had way when he called to me : ht, now, Jim." he curtain fast, while he turned of soft, diffuse light that came us parts of the room as evenly le. He had seated himself at ar the window, not far from tood, and was gazing intently box-shaped affair, constructed nd some bright metal, which he centre of the table. It was ;nt enough appearing thing, egarded it curiously I noticed rmometer tube projected from of it, while one side showed a indicator, or dial. Above was ube fitted with an eye-piece, 4n exaggerated microscope while the balance of the ap- ^as apparently of glass and inocent enough it all seemed, watched, an expression came ly's face such as a man might o awaited judgment. He be on the verge of a collapse. tep towards him, intending to im, but he waved me away. ;k, go back !" he cried, his eyes the indicator. "It lacks only >nds of the time } Listen, now, ' be brief: I will look, focus, and adjust, and make my observations. Then it will be your duty to verify what I have seen. If we see a living, moving, contractile, irritable organism, it is life — if not, may God have mercy on me I" Beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead and he spoke disjointedly. The breeze rustled through the curtain; I could hear distinctly the ticking of my watch and his labored breathing. "Now!" he whispered, deftly drawing out a slide, pulling down the eye-piece and turning a couple of screws. His eye went to the lens, and as he adjusted the focus I watched his features, with their hints of hope and fear blended with constant mental misery. And then — may I never again witness such an ex- pression as came over his face. It was concentrated madness, and terror, and pain, and despair — the more awful that he uttered no sound — ^as if hell's fire, or God's glory had seared his brain with flame. It had passed in an instant; while one could count three, he focused, saw, lurched forward, and then sank at my feet in a huddled heap, a grin of ter- ror on his bloodless face. Then I lost my presence of mind. I know I should have summoned medical help, but I was alone, and I feared to leave him. I found some water, dashed it on his temples, and forced brandy between his set teeth. I worked with him as I had seen drowned men worked upon, and I thought I noticed signs of returning con- sciousness. After awhile I felt for his pulse; it was not perceptible, and then I found, to my dismay, that his heart- beat was not audible. I had been rub- bing his right arm with brandy; as I grasped his left arm I could hardly raise it — it had grown quite stiff and cold. I dropped the bottle from my hand, and stood stunned for the instant with an awful realization : Halliday was dead. What had he seen? Or was it that he had seen nothing at all, aud tiv^l iVv^ realization ol t\\e lTW\\\e%stve%% oV \v\% labors, superadded lo \\\s oVYv^x rnxswi^-s*. i8 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. had snapped a weak link in his chain of life ? Or was it a visitation on his pride — his poor, foolhardy, boasting pride! This last thought was appalling; I dared not pursue it farther, and my eyes rested on the strange machine, the en- gine of all this horror, with a fierce loath- ing. What he had seen mattered little to any one now; he was dead, and his awful secret should be buried with him. But this demonic thing that had played so ghastly a part in taking my friend from me should do no more mischief. These were my thoughts ; I grasped table and all, with its death-box, and strong in my passionate rage, hurled it through the window-sash and listened until 1 heard it fall in fragments, clash- ing and jangling, into the courtyard far below. And then, in the reaction, weak and trembling with relief, I leaned against a chair and laughed hysterically. I do not know how long I sat gazing into his wild, staring eyes with the stony apathy that follows sudden grief. Grad- ually the light of dawn filtered through the curtained window. A breeze began to stir, and I heard the noises of the awakening city come through the broken glass. I had been praying earnestly, with all the fervor I could command; but now with the dawn I realized that there were other duties to be performed. I took his poor, gaunt form in my arms, carried it out to his bedchamber, straightened the twisted limbs and closed the distracted eyes, until now there seemed no trace of anguish in his face. These tasks were hardly completed when I thought I heard footsteps out- side. I turned around and was startled to find Peters, his man, standing behind me, silently gazing at the figure on the bed. **'£ had another attack, I expect, sir," he said. **Yes,'* I answered, **and a very severe one." The man nodded, and seemed not surprised. ***E was a good master to me, sir, but I knew 'e couldn't last long. It was his 'art, sir, an' this was the third spell." Perhaps it was : yet, thouf^h he was my best and truest friend, I cannot help thinking, when I recall the events of that dreadful night, that poor Halliday's fate had a deeper significance than we can fathom — ^perhaps even a supernatural significance, intimately connected with his hopeless quest of "The fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our woe. *t Daybreak Thou hast not looked on Yesterdav, Nor shalt To-morrow see ; Upon thy solitary way Is none to pilot thee : — Thou comest to thine own A stranger and alone. And yet, alas, thy countenance To us familiar seems ; The wonder of thy wakening glance, The vanishing of dreams, Is like an old refrain From silence come again. — /o/m B. Tabby m '*Later Lyrks*' Tviesdays With Friends About sind Not To By MAVRICC FRANCIS EGAN HRIENDS!" said the Professor, who had come to stay over night. "Friends! At my age, somehow, you feel that friends are rather unsatisfactory." The Professor looked across the lawn, and stroked his white beard. The level ravs of the sun struck the Student in the eyes, so he moved his chair, and devoted himself to a big glass of cold tea. "I can't stand him !" the Student whis- pered to the Young Lady from Virginia, "I hate an old cynic." "All old bachelors are cynics," said the Young Lady from Virginia, sweetly. "They are young bachelors who, having been rejected by every woman they ever knew, turn bitter in old age." "You might have worded that more logically," answered the Student. "I don't see how an old bachelor can be a young bachelor." "Some men are bom old bachelors — at least, they are bom with all the worst characteristics of old bachelors," added the Young Lady from Virginia. The Student blushed. "The pink peonies have gone," said the Young Lady from Virginia, looking at the plot where lately they glowed, "but their reflection remains — " "Friends," said the Professor, "are most unsatisfactory. As you grow older, they become more and more ab- sorbed in themselves. And they drop off." "That's one of the reasons," said the Lady of the House, "why everybody who has not a vocation for the religious life ought to marry. If you, Professor, had been fortunate enough to marry, you would have been now so absorbed in your own affairs, that you would have no time to observe the preoccupation of your friends with theirs." "That sounds like selfishness," said the Professor, with something like a growl. "All married persons are selfish !" ' "No, no," said the Young Priest, "Fve remarked that married people can't be selfish — their children will not let them." "The ethical value of marriage," said the Student, with the wise look of youth, "is that it abrogates selfishness." The Professor gave him a dark frown. "Fm glad the exams, are over, or I should be plucked," whispered the Stu- dent to the Young Lady from Virginia. **He is an old beast !" "I don't pretend to go in for popu- larity," continued the Professor, look- ing at the Young Priest. "I don't listen to everybody's tale of woe. I've no time for that. If I did, I suppose I'd have troops of friends, for friends are largely friendly when you flatter them. I don't flatter anybody. If a man comes to me with his troubles, I cut him short — dead short. Fve enough troubles of my own. Nobody cares to listen to my troubles. And, if I were amiable, people would call me insincere." **Oh, that's common enough," said the Lady of the House, "but if you bother much about what people may say of you, you'll never do much good in this world. To atltael Initxv^s. v's* ^ ^\\N.\ to keep them \s an ail." 20 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. The Judge came from the lane, and crossed to the seat under the oak, bow- ing coldly to the Professor, who frowned, and pulled at the ends of his white mustache. "Cold tea, Judge ?" asked the Lady of the House. "No? I have just said that to attract friends is a gift. To keep them is an art." "Let me think of that." The Judge turned his face away from the Professor and smiled genially at the Lady of the House. "I think you are right. To keep a friend one must never forget. It's not a question of frequent letters or of constant adulation — which some peo- ple seem to expect — but the knowledge that in one or two hearts there exists perennial understanding of your virtues and your faults — no envy of the first and a kindly, if regretful, tolerance for the second." "Twaddle!" murmured the Professor to the Young Lady from Virgina. "He used to be a friend of mine; I know him." "When I have a friend. I never see his faults," exclaimed the Student, en- thusiastically. "Not until he begins to tell you of yours," returned the Professor, cracking ice viciously between his teeth." "There's a way of doing that which may even help to keep a friend," re- marked the Judge, blandly. "I have tried it myself, though, and failed. If your friend has too much vanity, you'll lose him sooner or later, no matter how gently you may tell him the truth." The Lady of the House looked un- comfortable. "To keep friends is a gift," she re- peated uneasily. "You can't keep friends who imagine that brutal bluntness is sincerity," growled the Professor. "If I were a vain man, it would have been different. -^ t/rat case, I should have acknowl- edged my vanity — or, at least, taken no offence when I was accused of it." "I fancy," said the Young Lady from Virginia, "that you two have been friends." "Were friends," corrected the Profes- sor. "You have mixed your moods and tenses, ma'am." "I have no moods," said the Young Lady from Virginia, "they are the pre- rogatives of old bachelors." The Professor tightened his lips. "Friendship," said the Lady of the House, trying to make a diversion, "must be nourished carefully. It is a gift of God in the beginning, like faith, and like faith it must be cultivated. You can't keep a friend by calmly re- ceiving friendship and making no return. There are times when friends need sym- pathy, even when they are in the wrong. If your friend is in the wrong, it is then that he is most in want of friendship. When we begin to analyze our friend's virtues or faults in the presence of others, friendship begins to unfold its wing^ for flight." The Professor rose and bowed cere- moniously. "I shall take a walk," he said. "What did you say about him ?" asked the Young Lady from Virginia, mis- chievously, "I'm sure he couldn't have held a grudge for an3rthing you said to him ?" The Judge hesitated. "Well," he said, "I did remark to an acquaintance that the Professor was growing bald — and the acquaintance, being a man, told, of course." The Student laughed, and then checked himself. "I'm afraid you've lost a friend," said the Young Lady from Virginia. The Judge stared grimly at the Pro- fessor, who was cutting down the morn- ing-glory vines with his cane, and he did not answer. THE DEFENSE OF CLONMEL By DENIS A. McCARTHY w flu EN' Oliver Cromwell — whose name is still remem- bered with horror in Ireland — besieged Clonmel, ilie garrison of fifteen hundred men, commanded \>y Hugh Dnff O'Neill, and aided by the towns- pLTijili', nsisted most bravely. At length, finding further strvigsi"^ ajjainst overwhelming odds hopeless, O'Neill de- cided lo tvacuate the town ; but before taking this step, he planned and executed a stroke which, for the time being, kalmost demoralized the enemy, and filled them with such a Twholesome respect for the prowess of the town's defenders .that, when Clonmel suy-endered, its people received favor- able terms from Cromwell. General Sir William Butler, K. C. B., writing of this event, says: "No opposition ap- peared until the leading troops entered the breach. The column anticipated an easy victory, but there was terrible slaughter and they were repulsed. An hour after nightfall O'Neill withdrew his forces, and the town was surrendered." "Ho, chosen warriors of the Lord, Gird up your loins to-day ! Yon breach within, the sons of sin Stand desp'rately at bay. Draw, draw your swords, your pieces prime. Let drum and trumpet swell ! This charge must rout the Papists out" — Cried Cromwell at Clonmel. E'en at his word the army stirred. Grim veterans all were they. Whose swords had flashed, whose cannon crashed In many a fiery fray. At Naseby field and Marston Moor Full well they'd fleshed their spears. When fast before their charge had fled The haughty Cavaliers. The eyes beneath each morion glowed With strange, fanatic light ; They deemed themselves the saints of God, His instruments of might. No doubt this firm conviction vext. But fierce, ferocious, calm, Their war-cry was a Scripture text, Their batilc-song a psalm. THE ROSARY MAG.\ZINE. CLONMEI-, Across the land their march had been A devastating flood; Where'er it twined it left behind A crimson stain of blood. Not e'en the piteous plea of age Their fury could disarm, And vain the wile of childhood's smile Their murderous mood to charm. And now, behold, against Clonmel They vainly fling their bands I Battered and bayed but undismayed The town defiant stands. Battered and bayed but undismayed THE BRIDGE, CLONMEL. THE DEFENSE OF CLONMEL. It meets each fresh attack. With soldiers few and faint but true, It hurls the foemen back. Hugh Duff O'Xeill commands the town And marks with looks that lower, CromweUian cannon batter down His forts from hour to hour. He marks the famine-stricken few That hold the crumbling wall. And knows that vain is all their pain — Clonmel at last must fall. 1^^ '^_ !___Jl^^^^^^H ' ^^^^IM^^^BB^^^ ||!^H^ ^ WESTGATE, CIJ3NMEL, AS IT LOOKS TO-DAY, Then up he speaks unto his chiefs: "Ere yet this town we leave, We'll make a stand (or fatherland. Will cause the foe to grieve. The breach that yawns so widely now Will serve our purpose well. Before we ro we'll make the foe Remember 'rare Clonmel!" Within the breach's yawning mouth, A lane of sionc he rears. He lines the walls on either side With all his musketeers. Across the end another wall With cannon furnished fit— "I have a ni'nd," (|uoth he. "they'll fiml This breach the devil's pit." The trap is made, but scarcely laid. When CromwoJl's voice rings out; Witli eager cry his troops reply. THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. In one wild charging shout. Then, like the thundering wave that roars Along the sounding beach. The rushing Roundhead army pours Its thousands through the breach ! Clonmel, Clonmel, thy fate is sealed! Thy sun is sunk in gloom 1 No strength thy puny arm may wield Can save thee from thy doom — The doom that fell on Drogheda And Wexford town as well — Slaughter and flame, defeat and shame Are thine to-day, Clonmel ! But see ! But see ! Who can these be From out the breach that run ? What panic-stricken wretches flee With broken blade and gun? Can these be Cromwell's chosen troops, Erewhile so fierce and fell. That stagger out, a broken rout. From dauntless old Clonmel? Yes, yes, thank God for cannoneers, Who mowed them down in ranks I Thank God for ready musketeers Whose volleys swept their Banks! Thank God for gallant soldiers all. Who charged and broke and slew In one brief hour the very flower Of Cromwell's canting crew! Yes, yes. Thank God for Irish hearts Unconquerable still ! Of war's red cost the Roundhead host To-day have had their fill. Honor to these who held the town, And let the future tell How Irish swords beat back the hordes Of Cromwell at Clonmel ! The Vocation of Philip By GEORGINA PELL CURTIS VII. HAUL MORGAN had arrived in London much the better for his Eastern trip. He called on his doctor, who pronounced him- self satisfied with his condition, but warned him to still exeicise care and to avoid unnecessary exposure in inclem- ent weather. Considerably cheered by the medical verdict, the young clergy- man set about his duties in an East Lon- don parish with renewed ardor. The work was absorbing and at times full of sad experiences, but this did not discourage Paul Morgan and his co- workers. He was one of four young clergymen under the control of a Su- perior. The five men belonged to the most advanced Anglican school of thought and practice, and their parish, a large one, was chiefly made up of the poorer classes. Paul Morgan's first step was to find a lodging, as home he had none. After a rather lengthy search he found what he thought would suit him in the small but quiet and attractive house of the widow of a London tradesman. Three rooms — the sitting-room looking out on the courtyard of a neighboring Catholic church — ^made up his abode. He ar- ranged with Mrs. Brownell to cater for him, and then attended to having his boxes moved and unpacked. In about ten days from the time of his landing in England he was comfortably settled and feeling thoroughly happy in a re- turn to active work. One afternoon, while making a round of parochial calls, a poor but respectaWe woman, a mem- ber of his church, told him that two weeks previous some rooms on the floor opposite hers had been taken by a mother, son and daughter, who seemed -very poor; that the mother was an in- valid and alone all day, as the son and daughter worked out, and that rfie thought a visit from the clergyman would be acceptable. Consequently, on leaving Mrs. Green Paul Morgan tapped on the door opposite, and in answer to a "Come in,*' he entered, and found him- self in a small but neatly furnished room. Iq a large armchair sat a woman of the middle class, with a gentle, almost spirit- ual face. She apologized for her ina- bility to rise; with his usual kindness and tact the clerg>'man had soon drawn her out, and she was talking to him quite freely. He ascertained that she belonged to the Church of England, but had rather fallen off in her attendance for several years before becoming an invalid, having married a "dissenter." Her son and daughter were devoted children, she said, and since the death of her husband had supported themselves and her entirely. Half unthinkingly, and without any especial intent, the clergyman inquired if they were her only children. The woman's face flushed and she hesitated. "No," she said, in a low voice, "I have one other daughter." As she seemed unwilling to say more the clerg>-man asked no questions, but shortly took his leave, promising to come again soon. It was then ten days before Ash Wednesday and Paul meant to see the woman again in a few days, but a press of work arose, detaitvvtv^ VAov \wvV^ one rainv ahernoon, Iwo^n^^s VcoTcv>Jcvfc 26 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. time of his first call, when he again turned his steps toward Mrs. Beau- mont's. At the door he encountered a • ragged urchin, who enquired : "Be you the passun?" "Well, I am a clergyman," said Paul, "but for whom do you want one ?'' "Mrs. Beaumont,'' said the boy, "she's orful bad, and Mrs. Green, she was send- ing me for you." Mounting the stairs, Paul knocked lightly on the door, which was opened by a young girl whom he concluded to be the woman's daughter. "You are the Reverend Mr. Morgan, sir?" she said. "Mv mother has been asking for you for over an hour." She led the clergyman into a closet be- yond the living-room, lighted by a small window that looked out over some sheds. It needed but a glance to show Paul Morgan that the woman was very ill. The daughter withdrew as he bent over Mrs. Beaumont's bed. "What can I do for you?" he said. "YoH want my help. Don't hesitate to ask anything of me, and if I can do it, I will." "It's my daughter, sir," said the sick woman. "I want to see her again before I die, and I thought perhaps you would carry a message for me to her." "Certainly," he answered, a little sur- prised. "Where can I find her, and what is her name?" There was a short pause, the while the woman drew in her breath sharply and moved uneasily on her bed. "My daughter, sir," she said, "is called Sister Mary Fidelis. She is a convert to the Roman Catholic Church, and a Sis- ter of Charity in their orphanage at Car- lisle Place." "Oh I" said Paul Morgan. He had feared something much worse. "I will go for her when I leave here," he added. "Meanwhile, shall I not read prayers with youT* The woman assenting, he knelt down, and opening his prayer-book read the office for the sick. It seemed to soothe the woman, who sank into a doze, so the clergyman arose from his knees and replacing his prayer-book in his vest pocket walked quietly out into the living- room, where he found Mrs. Beaumonfs youngest daughter, Elizabeth. Sitting down near her. he entered into a conver- sation as to the nature of her mother's illness, and then with the deference that always distinguished him, he said: "Your mother has asked me to go for your sister and has g^ven me her name and address. I have consented to be her messenger, but at the same time, while I am perfectly willing to go, I cannot help wondering why she did not send your brother." The young girl looked relieved. "It was my father, sir," she said. "He was very bitter about Mary's becoming a Catholic, and made mother promise she would keep us away from her; and he insisted that mother should have nothipg to do with her either. It is five years since any of us have seen her, and it has preyed so on mother's mind. It is only because she is so ill that she has broken her promise to father." "I will go to see your sister at once," said Paul, rising. Elizabeth arose also and accompanied him to the door, watching him a moment as he passed rapidly down stairs; then closing the door she returned to the bed- side of the sick woman, who still slept. Meanwhile, Paul Morgan had hailed a 'bus and was driven rapidly toward Carlisle Place. Arrived there, he rang the bell of the convent, and asking for Sister Mary Fidelis, was shown into the parlor. He had not long to wait; the door presently opened to admit an elderly wo- man in the dress of a Sister of Charity. She introduced herself as the Superior, THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 27 and told him that Sister Mary Fidelis was at Vespers at the Church of , where some Lenten lectures were being delivered by Father William Basil. If he would go there and wait she would send a message to the Sister to stop and see him after Vespers, and then go im- mediately to her mother. The young clergyman started out again and reaching the church, entered. It was quite crowded and the sermon was just about to commence. He was shown to a good seat by the ush^r and knelt down a moment just as Father Basil entered the pulpit. The sermon was the first of a course on the doctrine and teaching of the Church. Afterwards Paul Morgan recalled a voice trained in the best Dublin English, and a method of address that some one wittily said began like a lamb and ended like a lion. Commencing his sermon in a calm, well-modulated voice, the priest g^dually warmed to his subject, and was soon thundering from the pulpit, with the perspiration pouring down his face. "The man has the fervor of a Passion- ist," thought Paul, whose attention was held without any break for nearly an hour. So completely was he enthralled by the man, the sermon, and the subject of his discourse, that it was not until the last sound of the musical voice died away that his mind came back to his errand, and he glanced around in search of Sister Mary Fidelis. Perhaps that was she — a nun across the aisle, with a pure, pale profile, only she looked decidedly above the middle class from which she had sprung. His surmise was correct, however, for, after the Benediction and when most of the congregation had left the church, he looked around in the vestibule and saw three nuns waiting as if expecting some one. He advanced, and said inter- rogatively : "Sister Mary Fidelis?'' "I am she," said the young nun, step- ping forward, "and you are the English clergyman who brings me a message from my mother?" "Yes," he answered, and he then pro- ^ ceeded to tell her of her mother's illness «nd desire to see her. The young nun was apparently pro- foundly moved, though making a strong effort at composure. '*I will start at once," she said; "the Mother has sent me permission to go and care for my mother to the end." The voice in which she spoke had a low, musical cadence inexpressibly at- tractive. The clergyman noted again what a beautiful face the young nun had ; fair, like the best type of an English girl, with clear, limpid blue eyes, almost like a child's, though Sister Mary Fidelis had spent five years ministering to all kinds of suflFering and sin. The other daugh- ter, Elizabeth, of a very ordinary type, had not prepared him for so much beauty in her sister. He went out with the young nun and assisted her into a 'bus, after giving her her mother's written address. In hand- ing it to her he hesitated for a moment. "Shall I not accompany you?" he said courteously. She turned on him a wonderful smile. "Thank you," she said. "We are used to going around in this way, and no harm ever comes to us in this habit." He lifted his hat, and the 'bus drove oflF in the fog and rain. The young clergyman turned his steps homeward; but having attended one of Father Basil's lectures he was anxious to hear the whole course, and the end of it was that he so arranged matters that for the next six weeks he never failed to be present for all, or a part, of Father Basil's sermons. VHL On arriving home from Egypt the Blackwoods had spent a night in Lon- don, and then had gone at once to Dev- onshire; but tVviee dia.^^ \^\ftx ^^ 28 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. dowager Lady Blackwood decided to go to London to consult an oculist, her eyes having lately troubled her. She requested her favorite granddaughter, Natalie, to accompany her, and the young girl readily consented. There had grown up within her, since her talks with Philip Everdeen in Egypt, a strong desire to see and converse with a priest. She had said nothing to Philip about it, her EngHsh reserve making her unwilling to enter on a subject about which she was by no means sure herself. Once in London, her mind reverted to the Father Basil about whom Philip had talked so much. The end of it was that she wrote to him and received a prompt and cordial answer, appointing an interview at a convent at Hammer- smith. For the next five weeks Natalie saw the priest several times. Busy as he was with his Lenten lectures and other duties, he found time for the young girl, in whom he began to be deeply interested. On Lady Blackwood announcing the Monday in Holy Week that she was go- ing back to Devonshire, Natalie, to the old lady's amazement, quietly said that she was going to the convent to stay till after Easter. "You are mad, Natalie," said the old lady. "Where did you pick up this no- tion, child? Certainly not at the tomb of Cheops." "It wjas in my mind before I went to Egypt, grandmother," said Natalie. "It's preposterous," said Lady Black- wood, with an ang^ snort. "I shall wire for your father at once," which she did. Sir Arthur arrived in great agita- tion, having been 3ummoned by his mother with the words : "Come at once, Natalie in great danger." On finding his daughter alive and well, Sir Arthur was at first too relieved to be as much shocked by the real news as Lady Blackwood expected. Natalie was o/ ag-e, he said; and she had her own fortune from her mother, and was free to do as she pleased. The baronet after- ward had an interview alone with his daughter, when her sweetness and evi- dent distress at having to wound him almost atoned for the pain he really felt at the news. His own regret was augmented by the remarks his mother made ; the old lady was careful to assure him that she had foreseen all along that no good would , come of the Egyptian trip. It was, therefore, with mixed feelings that Natalie entered the cab with her maid and drove away. The latter was only to accompany her to the convent and then return home ; but her presence acted as a restraint on the overwrought feelings of the young girl, and helped her to regain her calmness ere she ar- rived at Hammersmith. She saw the cab with the maid drive away, and ring- ing the bell was soon ushered into one of the parlors by the portress. She had not long to wait; the door opened to give entrance to a nun whose mere pres- ence acted as a healing balm to Natalie's sorely perplexed heart. She saw before her a woman of about fifty, with a fair, beautiful face. In the expression and smile lay both strength and sweetness. By nature very proud, as only a strong, sensitive and refined soul could be, Mother Catherine had nevertheless ac- quired the most disciplined humihty. A woman of wide experience, trained by vears of self-denial and self-examination into command over herself and wise gov- ernment over her rehgious, she was only one of thousands like her — unknown to the world at large, but carrying on be- hind her convent walls a silent, active and far-reaching work in the training of young souls, as well as in comforting, enlightening and directing women of the world, and souls tossed with doubt, who sought her aid and counsel. In after years Natalie looked back to those few days at the convent as a period when she had learned a well-remembered THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 29 lesson. In common with many English men and women of her class, she thought of the Catholic religious as good and holy/tis true, but lacking any general in- formation and knowledge of the world. It was therefore a surprise, both then and at later times, to find again and again that these women, with their piety and life of strict enclosure, had a thor- ough knowledge of all worldly affairs and happenings that it was necessary to know, being therefore all the better able to understand and direct the souls that came to them for help, or to rest from the world's turmoil. Father Basil had already spoken to Mother Catherine about the young g^rl, and Natalie had written to announce her coming; so a room had been prepared for her reception, and hither the Supe- rior conducted her. "We are just going to have the office of Tenebrae," she said, after a few words of kindly welcome and sympathy. "Would you like to be present, or will you rest until I can come to you again after the office ?" "I would rather go to Tenebrae," said Natalie, who had meanwhile removed her outdoor wraps. She took the veil the Superior handed her, and shaking out its long, soft, black folds, fastened it to her shining brown hair, then quietly took up the "Office of Holy Week" that was lying on the table and followed the Mother out of the room. The sight of the book she was holding had brought a rush of overpowering recollections. Philip had shown her his copy during one of their talks in Cairo, and had explained all the different offices and ceremonies of Holy Week. Was that only a few months ago? She seemed to see again the blue Egyptian sky and the view from the corner of the Pyramid, where they had been sitting. At the door outside the chapel the Mother paused, and said in a low voice : "Your cousin. Miss Sargent, is here; will you sit with her or alone?*' "Anita here !'' thought Natalie, "what in the world has brought her?" She knew that Mr. and Mrs. Sargent were in London, and that Anita had joined them as soon as she returned from Egypt; but what could have brought her to a Catholic convent, especially in Holy Week? It was not the time or place to ask, so aloud she said : "Oh! alone, please." The idea of being brought in contact with Anita in her present frame of mind was particu- - larly repellent. She followed the Mother into the chapel, whose magnificence was not en- tirely hid by the purple coverings that had been draped over pictures, statues and stations of the cross, since Passion Sunday. Natalie knelt down in the beautiful carved stall where Mother Catherine left her and bowed her head, while her heart was lifted in fervent prayer. Then she raised her eyes and fixed them on the red light burning in front of the altar, true sign to all believ- ing hearts of the Adorable Presence in the tabernacle. Above the reredos (which had .not been covered on Passion Sunday) the wall was covered with ex- quisite frescoes worthy of the art of some great painter. In the centre stood the Christ, two fingers laid on His Heart, the other, showing the wound in the wrist, raised in blessing. On either side knelt two majestic angel figures in atti- tudes of reverent adoration. Above and around the deep gold nimbus encircling the Saviour*s head were flights of delicate little angels, some reflection, as it were, of the glory of the Divine Childhood. The wonderful eyes of the Christ, recall- ing to Natalie the most perfect work of Andrea del Sarto, seemed to look down on her with unutterable pity and love. "My child," they seemed to say, "come unto Me ! Come unto Me and I will give you rest." The door of the sacristy opened and Father BasW etvleied, ^x^c^^^^ V^ n.^^:^ 30 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. acolytes. The candles were lit on the triangular candlestick, and the solemn office began. "Sederunt in terra," said the priest. **The ancients of the daughter of Zion sit upon the ground, they have held their peace; they have sprinkled their heads with dust, they are girded with hair- cloth ; the \'irgins of Jerusalem hang dovm their heads to the ground." *-Ah!" thought Natalie, **if this were all — this service so beautiful and so an- cient. But can I believe in the suprem- acv of St. Peter? Can I turn mv back on the Church of mv fathers. Can I say that its sennce, its belief, its ministr>% is false? What vnll help me to decide?" "Jerusalem, Jerusalem," chanted the priest, "be converted to the Lord Thy God." "Help her, O Lord !" prayed Mother Catherine, "to be converted to Thee. The way is dark and thorny and beset with difficulties; but Thou, Lord God, canst lead her to the Truth. Put into mv words the wisdom that comes from Thee, so I can help to dispel her dark- ness." "To be converted/' thought Natalie, ''that means a new heart and an enlight- ened understanding. A heart free from pride and self-love. A faith humble and teachable as that of a little child." "Cui comparabo te," chanted the priest. "To what shall I compare thee, or to what shall I liken thee. O daugh- ter of Jerusalem. To what shall I equal thee, that I may comfort thee. O virgin daughter of Zion. For great as the sea is thv destruction : Who :>haU heal thee?" "Thou alone.O Lord," thought Father Basil. "Bring back to Thee Thine an- cient heritage. England. Bring kick a hundredfold what was lost to the Church at the Reformation, and make this fair y>Ar ojice more 'Our Ladv*s dowry/ " "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, be converted to the Lord Thy God." "I shall have to meet Gerald soon," thought Anita. "It is going to be a struggle between his will and mine ; but he will have to understand that I will not marry him." "Jerusalem, Jerusalem, be converted to the Lord Thy God !" Ah yes! be converted unhappy wo- man, in whose heart worldliness and selfishness are fast getting a firm foot- hold. Be converted ere it is too late, and you destroy the faith of the man you really love, if, indeed, your feeling can be called by so high and holy a name. Here, before the Blessed Sacrament, is the place for you to search and know vour own t\i\ heart. "O My chosen vineyard," said the sacred chant. "It is I that have planted thee. How art thou become so bitter that thou shouldst crucify me and dis- miss Barabbas?" "Help me, O Lord, to love Thee more and more," prayed Sister Marie» most gentle and humble of lay-sisters. "Convert me, so I may have patiedcc when Sister Rose is in such a hurry. Convert me. so I may not say any sharp words when the bov who carries water to the laundry spills some over my habit." Convert us all. O Lord of heaven and earth : draw us all, whatsoever our necossiiv, bv the cords of love to Thee, until, our earthly warfare ended, we may conic lo the holv citv above, the new Jerusalem, there to live \dth Thee in endless li^iht. "I'or in thee, i.^ Lord! have I hoped: Thou will hear me. O Lord, mv God!" "Ho set my tcet upv^n a rock and di- re\MOvl my steps." "In I he luMvi of the book it is written of mo that I should do Thy will; O my vUhI! I have vlcsirovl it. ;ind Thy law in the mulst ot tuv heart. I have de- clared I hy iwstice in a great Church." THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 31 IX. "The Father will see you after break- fast," said Sister Rose, who had come to call Natalie. "Reverend Mother says for you to go to the parlor as soon as you leave the refectory." Natalie hurried through her dressing, knelt a moment in prayer, and descended to the chapel for the Mass of Commun- ion on Maundy Thursday. A great long- ing filled her, as she saw the nuns draw near the altar-rail, to be able to kneel with them and receive the Holy Sacra- ment, and then came a swift rush of other thoughts. If she knelt there she denied absolutely and finally that the Church of England had any sacramental life. She seemed to see herself kneeling at her first communion in her uncle*s parish church; that rite had not meant to her then the true indwelling presence of Christ ; but it had been a time fraught with great solemnity. She seemed to hear once more the chanting of the beau- tiful English psalms, the singing of the sweet English hymns. Surely they all meant something ; it was not the service of a dead or schismatical Church ? Her knock at the sacristy door soon after breakfast was immediately an- swered by the priest. Father Basil greeted her cordially, and sat down with that appearance of absolute repose and of freedom from hurry that gave con- fidence to all who sought him, whether for advice or confession. A man of multitudinous affairs, he nevertheless had preeminently the quality of appear- ing free to give his whole time and atten- tion to the need of the moment. Very simply Natalie stated once more her ground; the drawing she had to the Church, and yet her utter inability to accept the idea that Rome alone repre- sented the whole universal and united Catholic Church. "That, Father," she said, "is my diffi- culty. I suppose with each individual it is to Ms man one thing, to another man something else. In my case I am not so much troubled by separate articles of faith as I am by the fact that the Church of "England appears to me part of the Catholic Church, and not, in itself, a sect. Possibly a further course of read- ing may enlighten me." "You mistake," answered Father Basil, "a conversion is, and must always be, the work of God. The deepest read- ing, the most long drawn out contro- versy, will never bring a soul to the Divine light unless God illuminate it. Nevertheless, to such as humbly seek true faith, and earnestly pray for it, the grace will surely be given. My child," he continued, as Natalie did not speak, "the great principle involved is that the whole question is supernatural. You are not to expect to decide it as you would decide the choice of a new bonnet. The grace of God impels to the Church ; but too many think and act as if mere hu- man judgment were involved." "All that I understand, Father," said Natalie, "nevertheless, I am not con- vinced that the Roman Catholic teaching is the true one. Do not many devout and noble minds in the Anglican Church pray fervently for light, and then find they are more and more firmly settled in their belief regarding the branch theory of the Church ?" Father Basil smiled. "I did not expect you to be converted so quickly," he an- swered ; "most conversions are the work of months, sometimes of years of prayer. We all know that to pull down is easier and quicker than to build up. It did not take Henry VI H long to wrest England from the unity of the Church ; but it will probably take generations yet unborn to restore that lost unity; the work, however, has begun, and in God's good time it will be completed." "To bring that about, Father," said the young g^rl, "one thing must be made clear to the mind of England, to-wit, what jurisdiction the Po^j^ VvaiS on^t \3cvft. whole ChurcVv; ^lTv^ >a^m^ >Jcv'^\. ^»- 3^ THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. tion is another — on what authority does such a teaching rest ?" "To answer that question,'* said the priest, "you must remember 'for a few moments that the English language does not figure in the settlement of this ques- tion. In fact, it is a question older than the language and literature of the Eng- lish race, and older than the English Bible. You have no doubt many times heard the text from St. Matthew, Thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my Church,' but you may not know that according to all the best and most pro- found scholars, both Catholic and Prot- estant, Our Lord was in the habit of speaking in Syro-Chaldaic, and in that language Peter and rock are one and the same word. Hence He said : *Thou art a rock, and upon this rock I will build my Church.' Once, and once only, are we told in Sacred Scripture that Christ used the words 'My Church,' and when He so used them it was in connec- tion with this special grant to Blessed Peter. And further," continued the priest, "this text has been borne out by the facts that followed it. The Catholic (Roman) Church is either what she claims to be, and has claimed from the beginning, or else she is an imposter. If you admit the claim of the visible, united Catholic Church, all is harmony. She has always been 'the City seated upon a hill that cannot be hid.' She was granted, and has carried out, the power of binding and loosing. She alone fulfills all the many texts in the Bible, such as : 'Go, teach all nations,' and *Lo! I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.' Where else do you see a Church that claims to teach be- cause she is?" "I think I follow you, Father," said Natalie, "but if all this is true, how comes it that the best and wisest minds j/2 tJie Anglican Church have not more readily seen and embraced it? Pusey could not see it, nor the saintly Keble, nor the scholarly Liddon, nor thousands of other men who have lived and died believing the Church of England to be their true mother." "My child," answered Father Basil, "your question obliges xne to say some- thing that may not sound kind, which, nevertheless, is true. Some one has called the Anglican clergy, as a body, 'choosers.' They choose a body of doc- trine which they call Christian, or Evan- gelical, or Catholic, as the case may be; and all the rest is false, or idolatrous, or non-essential. Such a spirit cannot be of the Church. If it is, then the world at this hour has no teacher. The saint- liness and good faith of so many of the Anglican clergy no Catholic denies ; but you must remember what holy and saintly men there also are outside that body. Clearly it is not clinging to the branch theory that produces saintly men among the non-conformists, since they repudiate it. No, the answer is, and only can be, that those who break from the Church still retain some Divine light. This is according to the Providence of God, Who wills that all may be saved who are not directly responsible or wil- fully blind to their lack of the full meas- ure of the Truth." "And yet," said Natalie, "many never come to the Church who seek truth care- fullv with tears." " 'Many are called, but few are chosen,' " replied the priest. "The causes are so many that their perusal would fill volumes. I think I may say, however, that once the call has been given, that where there is a disposition to see and learn what the Church has to teach, joined to true humility and prayer, that soul will surely reach the light, however great the mental difficulty, or however insurmountable the obstacles may ap- pear. A PRAYER. 33 *'Here in England," he proceeded, "we have a condition that does not exist in America, and regarding which I was struck while I was in the States, where there is no national religion. This very condition with* us is an indisputable proof to my mind of the truth of the Catholic Church. I refer to the fact that we have numerous English Catholic fam- ilies, some of high rank, who have been Catholics since the days of Henry VIII. If the Catholic Church is the 'Italian Mission' in England, how comes it that these families with the old faith are here?" This last shaft of Father Basil went home. Natalie's thoughts flew to Philip. Ah! was it not true that this religion -which was his pride and glory had been a family possession for hundreds of years; long before the days when the successors of the eighth Henry bound themselves by oath at their coronation '*to* maintain this Protestant Church of England ?" The young girl was very pale as she fixed her beautiful dark eyes on the priest. "I must have time to think and pray, Father," she said. "I thank you for this interview and beg you will please pray for me." *'Every day, my child," answered Father Basil ; "and remember I pray with sympathy and intelligence, as one who has suffered all that you suffer now." He held the door open for her to pass out, then rang the bell to let Mother Catherine know that the interview was at an end. (To be continued.) A Prayer By Lyndall Charlotte Burden Oh, give me strength, dear God, that I may toil. And bring not empty hands to Thee ; The years flow all too swiftly by; Let me but spend them serving Thee I Oh, give me light, dear God, to see the way That leads to Thy eternal throne ; My path is through a darksome vale. And I must travel all alone. And give me faith, O God, to bear the cross 'Neath which n\y trembling shoulders bow ; Help me to put my trust in Him Who bore a heavier one ere now. Teach me the lessons, O, dear God, Of patience and humility. That I may join the heavenly songs Of joy, throughout eternity I A Southern Novelist By WILLIAM J. FISCHER IEVERAL names in past years have brought the Southern States much to the fore in Ht- erary discussions. A number of novelists have woven pretty tales about the South and its charming peo- ple, and to them belongs the credit of having lifted the literature of the South out of the "mire'' into which it had fallen after an Edgar Allen Poe and a Sidney Lanier stopped singing. James Lane Allen has done much to uplift the liter- ature of his beloved South. Back of all his novels lie the peaceful scenes and pleasant homes of Kentucky. On all occasions, he has set his finger upon the staid old Kentucky character and given us characters really beautitul. Madison Cawein and Ingram Crockett, among other sweet singers, also frequently sound for us the beautiful songs that take us to those far, green meadows and hills over which the brooding spirit of poetry ever lingers like the benediction of some pure, virgin-hearted saint. But there is another writer — a woman — who seems to have painted the Kentucky character better than any of her prede- cessors. She has youth on her side, and if she continues to grow as she has in the past, before many months she will have established an enviable reputation for herself in the coveted kingdom of English letters. Anna C. Minogue, she signs herself — this prolific and splendid writer of prose. Every month we find her name in all the leading Catholic magazines and journals in the country. Here it is a short story, there a serial, occasionally a poem, and just as often paragraphs, devoted to the advancement of woman in her special sphere and other noble, philanthropic causes. The charm of her writings has gone into every Catholic household, and the mil- I/ons look up to her as a queen SLtnongst writers. To-day, she stands much be- fore the public gaze as the author of *'Cardome," that charming tale of Ken- tucky life, recently off the press and praised by all the great critics through- out the land. A Kentuckian by birth, temperament and education, Miss Minogue is one of those quiet, unassuming personalities it is a pleasure to meet in these days of strenuous living and hurried excitement. Her early education, like that of most young writers, began in the public schools of her native town. Then she drifted to a co-educational college. Later, three years of solid training in an academy conducted by the good Sisters of the Visitation, brought out all those beautiful qualities of heart and mind one sees unconsciously between all the lines of her own making. Zealously and with some pride, the devoted nuns tended and guarded the young plant entrusted to their care. To-day, what a pleasure it must be for the old teachers to see their young pupil flowering into much usefulness and bearing the treas- ured fruit they, in silent moments in the past, dreamed of and expected of her in the gray future that was to spread out its wings to her. In her college days Miss Minogue was an exceptionally fine reader. Recitation, especially, was her strong forte, and some of her good teachers feared, at one time, that she might develop a liking for the stage. But what a blessing she never appeared before the footlights! Think of the loss it would have meant to liter- ature ! It was a well-known fact, also, that the young pupil at school had a strong detestation for arithmetic. Slave as she might over problems, her retentive mind simply closed its doors against everything savoring of figures. At col- lege, too, she was the special plague of -A SOUTHERN NOVELIST. 35 the poor professor of mathematics. But here she developed that strong liking for natural philosophy and the languages which, after all, laid the strong founda- tion for more perfect mental building later on. At the convent, the clever nuns opened up to her rich and vast unknown worlds of metaphysics, history and as- tronomy, and the apt pupil drank in permanent knowledge deeply. Other side branches to which Miss Minogue seemed to be especially devoted in her peaceful convent days were painting and drawing. In a short time she be- came very proficient in these branches and when she left school she taught classes in art. Strange to say, during all these years of preparation Miss Min- ogue never showed any signs of literary talent. It was a difficult task for her to write even an ordinary composition, and at the convent she was excused from the composition class, in order to spend her time more profitably at painting. Miss Minogue was born on a farm situated in the famous Blue-grass belt of Kentucky — the Eden of the world — and to this happy home, which nature had endowed so lavishly with beauty, she returned when commencement brought an end to her school days. And here, after some time, the young authoress at last succeeded in giving expression to and clothing the children of her fancy in writing. But it was a pleasant world she moved in — this world of happiness and contentment; books on all sides of her, filled with the priceless treasures of centuries, and out-of-doors that wild, in- teresting, all-absorbing life, which whis- pered messages to her girlish, inexperi- enced heart she had never dreamed of possessing before. And thus, with the pleasant, green earth for her footstool, her thoughts soared higher and higher until they pierced the azure — and the earth with its bright flowers and far- sweeping meadows, was joined by God's pure love to the blue sky with its sea of c/oad'Slups and mariner stars, and there, between both, stood He, the Lord of all creation, Maker of earth and sea and sky, and in her writings glowed the natural — filled with the green of earth; but the sunshine of the spiritual lay upon it like the smile of the Master, Himself. She pencilled strongly — this young dweller in the kingdom of letters; sh^ never painted a picture of earth without drawing heaven into it, and it usually was a heaven of sunshine and stars. How, then, could she help making her- self heard? She had come with a mes- sage and there were some around, thank God, to give her a hearing. Poetry flowed freely in those days, for the muses had taken her into their confidence. Her poems were readily accepted by the press and checks came to her just as regularly to give encouragement. Later, her short stories helped to pave the way to still greater success. At first, it was hard work selling the manuscripts. But what encouragement came with that sale of her first short story! One memor- able Good Friday, a letter came from The Columbian, with a check for ten dollars for an Easter tale. Mr. Kuster had accepted and paid for her first short story and her heart went bounding. Then and there she decided to leave home and all its loving associations to make her living as a writer. The future lay before her — promising, flow- ery land that it was — but she stood on the threshold, without g^ide or friend, forced to fight her own battle and do her own discovering. She had pluck and endurance and, what was more — brains. It meant hard fighting to be sure, but then she was groping through the dark- ness to reach the lofty ideal she had set for herself out there, somewhere, in the strange lands of the years to come. The following fall she left home and came on to Cincinnati. She soon made friends^-deserving people always do. One man, especially, Yvv^d N^iy Aos^ \a her affections in those A^l^s. ^e va^^ ^ friend to her in every sense ^xA Xo-^vj ^ 36 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. in her success, she looks up to him with a heart full of gratitude. It was the Hon. William Dillon, then editor of the New World of Chicago — profound scholar and able journalist — whose charming personality entered so largely into Miss Minogue's young life. Upon reaching Cincinnati, luck seems to have favored Miss Minogue. She submitted a storv to the Cincinnati Post which was accepted immediately and proved to be but a precursor of others. To help matters along, a strong friend- ship soon sprang up between the young writer and the literarv editor of the Post. Later, followed an appointment as re- porter on one of the large, daily papers, but the paper was bought up after awhile and all Miss Minogue's brightest hopes were dashed to pieces. Then followed two long years in which the writer felt the pain of rocky roads atid bitter dis- appointments. They were long, tire- some davs that come into everv deserv- ing writer's life ; dark, sunless days in which the journey over the rocky road seems doubly hard ; long, long nights in which success and fame creep very near for an instant and hover above closed, dreamy eyes and touch the sleeper with the hem of their jeweled garments : then, swish ! the opening and closing of wings, and they are gone — but not forever. In time, however. Miss Minogue se- cured a regular position on one of the large Cincinnati papers, and forthwith she insisted upon her parents and sister renting the old farm and coming to spend their days with her. The farm was sold and the familv moved to Latonia, a beautiful suburb of Covington, about four miles from Cincinnati. And here, in her ideal cottage in Dinmore Park — a lovely section of Latonia — Miss Min- ogue resides at present, and the click of her busy type-writer can be heard from early morn until late at night furnishing copy for the press, for in these days of magnzine puhlishmg, her strong work is continually in demand. Tlie home life of the authoress is all that can be desired — full of quiet peace and charm. Those who know her best say that she is gentle, modest and unas- suming. A brilliant conversationalist, a good listener, and a student and close observer of all existing affairs in the world's battlefield, she is the most de- lightful person one could ever wish to meet. **She has a warm, generous heart," writes one, "always seeking for the good in others and ever ready to draw the veil of charity over their faults/' And here, within the roar of the big city, Miss Mino"gue makes friends with the birds in her garden, communes with nature in her silent hours and writes for us the chapters of her stories, so full of virile power and genuine, rare beauty. One critic, in writing of Miss Minogue and her work, pays her the following glowing tribute: "She understands the workings of the human heart, its joys and sorrows, its aspirations, its strength and its weaknesses; she knows its in- fluences on the trend of life, and she weaves her plots with the heart-strings of her characters." A loving mother and one devoted sister — who gives her life daily to the profession of nursing the sick — help to add many a ray of sunlight to the shadowy life of the graceful novelist. And, then, there is Teddy — ^that remark- able dog, which is very dear to Miss Minogue's heart. This sketch would not be complete without mention of Teddy. Mrs. Browning had her Flush and Miss Minogue has her Teddy, and they are inseparable friends. Teddy spends nearly all his hours in his mis- tress' study. He will lie curled up for the entire day at her feet when she is writing, and all the coaxing and attrac- tions out-of-doors will never make him forsake his post. Miss Minogue is very fond of animals — especially dogs and horses. When only a mere tot on the farm, her father taught her how to ride and to-day, like Vvet Tvwt%^-^\%\ftt^ she A SOUTHERN NOVELIST. 37 enjoys nothing more than a good, well- bred horse and a swift run through the country. "Give me a Kentucky horse," I heard her say, "and you can have all the automobiles that ever were or ever will be made/' All her life. Miss Minogue has taken a lively interest in all things humanitarian. Being very fond of animals, it is only natural that she should be a member of a society formed for their protection. She was one of the first promoters of the Latonia branch of the Humane So- ciety, and its first vice president. She also takes a deep interest in the natural parks of her town and is especially con- cerned about the welfare of the feathered songsters, which abound in great num- bers in these pleasant breathing-places; and, on more than one occasion, she has made herself heard, to which the small boys and the "grown-ups" can testify. Then, too, she is an ardent advocate of equal rights for women. She takes pleasure in helping to uplift the condition of the gentler sex. Many a time she has put herself on record. "Everything that looks toward the advancement of woman is dear to me," she said enthusi- astically. "We are approaching the dawn of a remarkable era and the first thing it will accomplish is the liberation of woman. When woman is no longer a slave, then, and then only, may we look for those other needed changes and re- forms for which the soul of man is weary waiting. Then, and then only, will the fetters be removed from labor and all women be, what God intended them to be, free and equal." "And what do you think of clubs for women, Miss Minogue?" I asked, some- what abruptly. "I think every woman should belong to one or more," she replied gently. "Too long has woman stayed at home and rusted. It is her duty to herself and to her family to keep her mind bright and active, and this will never be accom-^ plashed bjr dusHng and baking and shew- ing. Let her go out and mix with others ; then she will come back to her home with a sense of vigor and, I may add, a deeper appreciation of her home." Another noble body to which the novelist's heart is wedded is the society known as the United Daughters of the Confederacy — an organization of South- ern women who make life beautiful for deserving souls, whose object is the care and protection of needy, old Southern veterans. Now a few words in regard to Miss Minogue's literary work. As stated be- fore, her name figures prominently in The Rosary, Donahoe's, Men and Wo- men, The Catholic World, etc., and in numerous weekly journals. In The Rosary she conducts the "Garden Bench" talks, which are always so inter- esting and attractive. She has a whole page to herself in Men and Women each month. Recently two of her serials appeared simultaneously — "Unentered Ports" in The Rosary and "The Riddle of the Gods" in Men and Women. But she is the author of other novels besides. All have appeared, at one time or an- other, in the best magazines and weeklies in the country. All are full of the song and joy of Kentucky. She only writes of the people she knows. They move daily through her heart's little room, and here Love makes for her many an in- timate acquaintance which she later writes up in one of her charming novels. "The Balanced Scale," an interesting and artistic tale, well told, first appeared in The Telegraph. At that time. Dr. Thos. P. Hart, Ph. D., said many nice things of this ambitious piece of work. Next followed "Cardome" in the Chi- cago New World. Collier, of New York, recently published it in book form. At present this is Miss Minogue's only pub- lished work. But a second novel will follow shortly. "A Son of Adam," which ran serially two years sigo \tv >Jcv\% xaaL^- azine will soon be brougVvt ovi\. m \i\^ '^^'^^ 40 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. to insert his letter among the apostolic documents, almost as if he feared that some doubt in the future as to his loyalty might arise. Without being a great theologian, Wykeham was an excellent adminis- trator, a man of great simplicity of char- acter, and full of personal holiness. One of his biographers says that "in order to attain the grace of the sacra- ment, as well as the sacrament itself, he set himself to renew his old man, and clothed himself with the new man, which after God is created. And remembering what heights he had climbed, what as a layman he had neglected, he did his best to redeem the time. Wherefore, as if changed to another man, he set before himself this rule of life : to be on equal terms with his servants, humble to priests, kind to the people, compassion- ate to the wretched, bountiful to the needy. Considering that he was made the father of many nations he thought that the truest step toward renewal must begin with himself, and that if he first learnt to rule himself, he would really be able to rule others in the right way. So he subdued his body, and brought it under servitude to God, and so taught it to be the handmaid of the spirit." * * * It was in 1324 that William of Wyke- ham was born at Wickham, South Hants, a village that now numbers over one thousand inhabitants. England had been converted by monks, and it was to the monastic system that, in the begin- ning of her history, she was indebted for most of her great men. Hence we find Wykeham being sent to the Priory of St. Swithin to be educated, an institute founded in the ninth century, and known as the great grammar school. The father of the future master builder was a yeo- man, while his mother was of noble de- scent, but history does not say how she came to marry a man so much beneath her in rank. Wickham lies midway between Fare- l23m on the south and Bishops Waltham on the north, about three and one-half miles in either direction. It is situated in a thin bed of sand clay, which makes is very picturesque, as the peculiar soil causes the growth of an abundance of beautiful oakwood. A mile to the north stretch the chalk downs of Hampshire, while toward the south is the lonelv ridge of chalk running through Ports- down, shutting out the view of Ports- mouth harbor and the sea. Wickham itself is on a small stream of water called the Aire, near which is Southwick Priory, founded by Henry I for Augus- tinian Canons at Portchester ; but owing to the encroachments of the sea the priory had been removed to Southwick in the reign of Henry II. In 1322 a certain Edmund Sutton left part of his property of Sutton Scotney for the use of Southwick Priory. The building stood near the cathedral, a little to the south of the Minister gate, and within its walls had been educated manv distinguished men. Amid such scenes Wykeham grew to man's estate. He is said to have attended Mass in the cathedral regularly, kneel- ing near a column in the south nave where stood an image of the Blessed Vir- gin. The Mass at which he assisted was always said by Brother Richard Pckis, and became generally known as Pekis- mass. His studies consisted of gram- mar, geometry, French, arithmetic and dialectic, considered in those days a complete education. It is not known if he ever went to Oxford ; but it seems very doubtful. His chief knowledge lay in practical matters rather than in philosophy. W^hilc still quite young, Wykeham be- came secretary to Sir John Scures at Winchester Cathedral. Sir John was Sheriff of Hampshire, Constable of Windsor, and had other castles in the county under his charge. It must have been through being thus brought into touch with it that Wykeham's thoughts were directed toward building. Archi- THE MASTER BUILDER. 41 tecture in those days was carried on by oral tradition instead of through writing, and had been thus handed down through successive generations, and ultimately it was what made Wykeham famous. When he was twenty-two he entered the service of Bishop Edingdon, and one year later, in 1347, he was seen by King Edward III on his return from his wars with France. The King, a patron of literature and art, the friend of Frois- sart and Chaucer, was also a builder, and had magnificent architectural designs on foot. He seems to have recognized in Wykeham a kindred spirit, and being in search of architects everywhere, he was not long in asking Wykeham to enter his employ, and they were fortunate henceforth in working together. Ed- ward made him his chaplain, guardian of several of his manors, and clerk of the - royal works at Henley and Yethampstead. Windsor had been the King's birth- place, a castle chosen by William the Conqueror as a royal residence, and later rebuilt by Henry I ; it was deemed worthy in Edward's time of further em- bellishment. Wykeham was appointed warden of the Castles of Leeds, Dover and Hadlee, and surveyor of Windsor, and no sooner had he been so appointed when the King created the Order of the Garter, and commenced building the Round Table, or large circular keep, for the Order at Windsor. This was the first ^eat work of the master builder, and after that he rose rapidly to fame. In 1359 he began building the great quad- rangle to the east of the keep at Wind- sor, a work which occupied ten years. For political reasons Edward III was not at this time as loyal a son of the Church as he might have been. The Papal Court was at Avignon in its seventy years' captivity, and the King objected to the papal dues being paid into France on account of his war with that nation. Besides quarrels abroad, Edward had dissensions at home. He had appointed Wykeham to Pulham Church, in the Bishopric of Ely, which did not please Thomas Lisle, Bishop of Ely, who had lost his cure because of dis- pleasing the King. He appealed to Pope Innocent VI, who upheld his claim, and Wykeham, who had had Pulham given to him unasked, voluntarily re- signed it ; and Edward, thinking better of his own insubordination, sent proc- tors to Avignon to make his peace with the Sovereign Pontiff. The year previous, Wykeham had been made Dean of St. Martin's le Grand, in London. He found it nearly a ruin, and at once commenced the work of restora- tion at his own expense. The chapel, cloisters and chapter-house were all re- built by him, and decorated with stone carvings and rich ornamental woodwork. Wykeham had received the tonsure early in life, but had never been or- dained, though the desire seems to have been in his heart for years. Anxious to put an end to jealousies and contro- versies, he finally decided to take Holy Orders. Bishop Edingdon ordained him an acolyte in December 1361, the cere- mony taking place in the chapel of the Bishop*s palace, and on March 12th and June I2th, 1362, he was ordained suc- cessively deacon and priest. Meanwhile Innocent VI had died, and Urban V, who had been a Benedictine Abbot, was Pope. This Pontiff, a rigid moralist and reformer, reminded Edward III that King John had promised that England should henceforth pay the Papal See the sum of one thousand marks a year, and that no payments had been made for thirty-three years. These were troubled times for all con- cerned, and were made more so by the rise of Wickliffe, who asserted that Eng- land was under no obligation to pay any tribute to the Pope. That Edward did not break with Urban was probably due to Wykeham, who, above and beyond . his national feeling as an Englishman, was a Catholic in deed and in truth. The eccles\asl\ca\ \^V4^ o\ \\\^ >Cvk^^ 42 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. , allowed one benefice with cure of souls, and any number of benefices without, hence Wykeham held livings in Pulham, Norfolk, Lichfield, London, Wells, Southwell, Lincoln, York and North- ampton ; but in his time the custom had become abused, and many of the clergy held what was called "pluralities," that is, they received money for duties they could not perform except by deputy. To correct this abuse. Urban V issued a bull on May 5th, 1365, forbidding any more pluralities to be given to the clergy. Wykeham held two benefices with cure of souls, the Archdeaconry of Lincoln, and Meuheniot, near Liskeard, in Corn- wall. In obedience to the papal decree he resigned this latter benefice. It may be asked why he ever held it, and the answer is that in viewing such matters he was not ahead of his age. Collect- ively, the practice was wrong, but indi- vidually the men who made use of it were not to blame. Wykeham had used the money he received to promote the public good, and as soon as the matter was presented to him in its true light, he yielded obedience. Edward must have recognized his rare honesty and purity of motive, for he appointed him succes- sively Keeper of the Priory Seal, Sec- retary of State, and finally in 1367 he gave him his crowning honor by making him Lord Chancellor of England. The same year Edward sent the Duke of Avignon to petition Urban V to sanc- tion Wykeham's being made Bishop of Winchester. He was consecrated Octo- ber loth, 1367, Urban, while en route for Rome, sending from Viterbo his con- sent and confirmation of the act. Wyke- ham was enthroned nine months later, on July 9th, 1368, the delay having been caused by repairs going on in the cathedral. That he made an ideal father of his flock has already been touched on ; a medieval Bishop had far more to do with the affairs and personal concerns of his people than now ; they were his chil- dren and subjects, and looked- to him for counsel. A quaint instance of this is a record in Wykeham's register of a deed forbidding barbers or hair-dressers to shave, wash or cut hair on Sunday. During the thirty-seven years of his episcopate the Bishop was deeply inter- ested in the Hospital of St. Cross, situ- ated about a mile from the city, and founded in 11 36 by Henry de Blois, Bishop of Winchester, to provide board and lodging for thirteen poor men, and daily dinner for one hundred others. Imitating this custom, Wykeham gave a dinner every day to twenty-four very old men, during the whole term of his episcopate. This beautiful building, which is still very well preserved, was enlarged and mostly rebuilt by Cardinal Beaufort in the fifteenth century. A man in such a high position could scarcely fail to have enemies, and John of Gaunt, the King's brother, was bit- terly opposed to him. During Wyke- ham's first Chancellorship the wars with France were renewed and lost by the English. The blame was laid on the ministry, but the Black Prince was too powerful a friend to Wykeham for John of Gaunt to dare take any step against him. In 1376 the Black Prince died, and John of Gaunt hastened to take revenge. The Bishop was accused of misconduct- ing public affairs, and was condemned to pay an enormous fine, besides being de- prived of his temporalities, and being excluded from Parliament. The Bishops of England rose as one man to take Wykeham's part, and popular feeling was so strong that two years after the accession of Richard II, in 1377, Wyke- ham was pardoned and reconciled to John of Gaunt. During this period of trial Wykeham showed great patience and forbearance^ and throughout the reign of Richard II, although he was obliged at times to dis- agree with that sovereign, he showed such wisdom and discretion, and his loyalty was by this time so well known^ that he was made Chancellor for the THE MASTER BUILDER. 43 second time in 1389. It was during this term that he made the beginnings of constitutional government. Wykeham iilways ascribed the ending of the Lan- caster rebellion against King Richard to the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, and he ordered all Christian people through- out the kingdom to say a Pater and fiye repetitions of the Angelic Salutation every day at Matins, in thanksgiving. He was indeed in all things a Bishop, instant in season and out of season. To- gether with his care for souls he carried on his great work of Uuilding. It was during the reign of Edward III that he bought some land enclosed in the north- eastern comer of the city walls of Ox- ford, and here he founded what is now New College. In 1387 Pope Urban VI granted him a license to build Winches- ter College, a project especially dear to Wykeham's heart. He finished this building in 1395, and it was opened with a warden, ten fellows, three chaplains, seventy scholars and sixteen choiristers. The beautiful chapel, hall, cloister and other buildings are still in excellent preservation, though gone is the real Catholic life that was once its glory. Wykeham's idea was that this college should be a seminary for boys destined for the priesthood; poor boys were in- structed at Winchester in preparation for being sent to Oxford. In the present day the college has become a great pub- lic school. Wykeham built Queensborough Castle in Kent; but his crowning glory was undoubtedly the restoration of Winches- ter Cathedral. In 1404 he finished building the chantry to the Blessed Vir- gin on the same spot where he used to kneel as a boy to hear the Pekismass. The brethren and prior of St. Swithin's, grateful for his work in restor- ing their church, made a promise "that on account of the great expense he had undertaken in putting the nave of their cathedral in repair, they would grant him forever three daily Masses, to be said by three members of the Order: first a Mass 'De Sancta Maria' at early dawn, and two others later in the morn- ing, one a 'Missa de Sanctis,' and the third of the season. The officiants to receive a penny apiece per day. Also that the boys of the priory school should every night say prayers in the chantry, first for the souls of his parents, and after\vard for himself, for which service they were to receive six and eight pence a year." Wykeham died on the 27th of Septem- ber, 1404. His steward, Aylward, wrote after his death that "when he was prevented by the weakness of old age from attend- ing the office of the Mass, he still used to receive the Holy Elements in private every Sunday, and on double feasts, with remarkable devotion and tears of pen- itence, recalling, perhaps, that which is often chanted in church : "O Holy Banquet! in thee Christ is taken; the memory of His sufferings is repeated, the mind is filled with grace, and an earnest given us of future glory. For of Christ, the heavenly Bread, Who hath placed Himself in the shape of bread as a wonderful sacrament, and not of any material bread, is that passage truly to be understood, that *he that eat- eth that Bread shall live forever.' " Aylward also tells us that Wykeham used to shed abundant tears at Mass, especially when the intercession for the quick and the dead was being read, call- ing himself unworthy to officiate at so great a sacrament. What a picture this is of a noble Chris- tian ecclesiastic, and what far-reaching influence he exercised on the educational and religious life of England. How many have owed to him the beginning and end of a learning that leads to God I It was only through constant prayer, joined to an ardent, lively faith, that William of Wykeham preserved in his high office that rarest of all virtues — ^the humility ol a deepV^-VoxxcIc^^^ <:at>&ws^^'^ That Boy Gerald By REV. J. E. COPVS. S. J. (cuthbkiit) Aotbor ol "Harry RojmU." ^'SiUat Cnttalwrt/' •'ShmdmwM Lifted," Btc XIII. WHAT GERALD THOUGHT. DGE ALBURY took up the sheets of manuscripts and pre- pared to finish the story which ^ Gerald had found so interesting. That young man lay back in his easy chair, intent on not missing a word. The Judge continued : "The beautiful and fashionable wife of Dr. Tolmin never learned of the crisis through which he had passed. She regarded it as an unaccountable whim of the doctor when he insisted that his mother should come and live with them. She put up with this 'notion/ if not very good-humoredly, at least silently. Yield- ing to her in all other points, her hus- band was adamant in this one. "It may easily be believed there was little sympathy between these two wo- men, whose characters and tastes were so opposed. The widow was content with the love and devotion of her son, and, being a sensible body, there soon arose a tacit compromise, so that when the fashionable five-o'clock teas, or the now celebrated Saturday night recep- tions occurred, the mother remained in the seclusion of her rooms. "Dr. Tolmin was true to himself and to his vow. He was now a practical Catholic. On grand 'company nights' he always made it a point, once or twice during the evening, to steal away from his guests and spend a few minutes in his mother's room. She did not exact laare than this irom h\m, and was happy in his attentions. On Sundays, too, however late the party overnight, he always managed to take his mother to an early Mass, or, if she preferred it, to the late parochial Mass. "The Widow Tolmin was now happy with her son. The love-light came back into her old eyes and she lost many wrinkles from her face. Her one regret was that her daughter-in-law was losing her faith, or sacrificing it to social position. "In the meantime the mother hoped on, and prayed. One morning the mis- tress of the house did not appear at the late breakfast. She sent word to her hus- band that she felt unusually tired and would sleep. The physician returned in the evening for dinner and found his wife still in bed. This was so unusual a pro- ceeeding with her that he became greatly alarmed and ran to her room. There was an ominous flush on her cheeks. Nature had, at length, given way under the strain Society had put upon it. The patient was in a high fever. "Then it was that the true beauty of the character of Austin's mother showed itself. She would allow no one to nurse her son's wife but herself, appearing positively jealous of good nurse Langly's proffered services. Spring and summer had come and gone, and the physician's wife had not yet ventured out of doors. One day, when the patient had been car- ried down to the sitting-room, and had been propped up by pillows in an easy chair, she dozed from sheer weakness. The Widow Tolmin sat near her, quietly THAT BOY GERALD. 45 telling her beads. She became so ab- sorbed in her devotions that she was not aware that the other had awaked from her sleep, and was intently watching her. After some time the sick person spoke. " 'Mother, are you praying for me ?' "The doctor's wife now frequently called the old lady by that name, to her great consolation. " 'I am, dear, for indeed you need prayers.' "Nothing more was said for a consid- erable time. " 'Mother.' " *Well, dear.' " 'Do you think me very bad, very wicked ?' " 'No. Why should I judge you ? You have been neglectful, but cannot that soon be repaired?' " 'But I have doubts about the faith.' 'No, you have not, my dear.* But I have.' 1 am sure you have not, Annette. Your doubts, as you call them, are no doubts at all.' 'How do you mean ?' The widow drew up her chair close to the invalid. " 'Now listen, daughter. You know you have neglected your religion for a long time. You believe as well as I do, but you don't practice. There's the difference. Take my word for it that one good confession will dispel more so- called doubts than a hundred controver- sies. That's what you want — confession. With a conscience at ease vou will find all your doubts — if you have any — melt away like mist before the morning sun. Straighten out your accounts with God, dear, and you will have no doubts to clear up.' "The old lady was eloquent, yet withal judicious. She had said enough, she knew, and, as a wise woman, she knew when to stop. It (' it f it f ti nom\^ ^om ^aiX Xiv^ 46 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. action — I mean in the first part of the story ?" "I don't know how to call it, pa — but I feel it here," and Gerald put his fist to his breast. "It hurts, and I would like to hurt him for it." "What do you think, Gerald," said his father, gradually leading up to the point he wished to emphasize, "what do you think caused Dr. Tolmin to act so un- kindly towards his aged mother?" "I don*t know, sir, but I expect he never knew anything about knights." "You mean that there was an absence of chivalry. Not exactly. I do not think that was the cause of his actions which gave so much pain." Gerald remained silent, at a loss for another suggestion. "Can you not guess the motive which governed him?" "No sir. I don't know. I know the knight in my story-book would not act in that way." "I will tell you, Gerald. Now listen attentively, for I want you to remember. It was not through want of real love for his mother, but it was human respect which caused him to inflict so much pain. Do you know what human respect is?" The boy shook his head negatively. "Human respect is a sort of fear or dread of what others might say, which causes one to neglect the proper per- formance of duty, or other praiseworthy actions." "I know, pa, now. When the bell for silence in ranks rings, I am afraid to stop talking for fear other boys will laugh at me." "Exactly, and is it not your duty to stop talking at the signal?" "Sure, pa," "That was Dr. Tolmin's fault. He jvas afraid of what his guests might say «" ti' or think, if they learned that this shab- bily dressed old woman was his mother, and he acted the coward." 'How did he ?" asked the boy. Is not every one who inflicts unneces- sary pain a coward?" "Sure, pa," said Gerald, excitedly, "just like a big fellow who punches a little fellow 'cause he can't resist, and he has the power to hurt him." "The cases are parallel, only in the case of a moral coward, who inflicts moral rather than physical pain, il is much worse." "I don't like that Dr. Tolmin. I just think he is a real mean man." "Do you?" "Yes, I do, pa. I would like to have been there." "Now just listen to me for a moment Pay close attention. Are you listen- ing ;>" (fKr. !♦> I» (■\^ • ft les, sir. "Gerald Albury, you and Dr. Tolmin are just the same!' "Me— I— I— pa!' Gerald fairly sprang from his chair, and actually shouted in his surprise at being charged with the same faults he had so emphatically condemned only a minute before. He was very much ex- cited, and never so astonished in his life. "Judging from the vehemence of your denunciation of Dr. Tolmin, and your excitement at my charge, Gerald, I sup- pose you now want me to show you that there is very little difference between you and him — a difference in degree only and not in kind. "I have taken the trouble to read to you to-night a rather long story instead of scolding and punishing you. You have been actuated with precisely the same motives as the physician of the story. He was afraid of what his guests would say, and so was guilty of great THAT BOY GERALD. 47 unkindness. Ever since Mr. Laffington told you you would not be allowed to sing — ^and that was nearly two weeks ago— you have been afraid of what your mother or I, or your brothers and sis- ters would say. Is not that so ?" Gerald was too sharp not to see the similarity of his own case to that of Dr. Tolmin. He did not speak, but shame- facedly hung his head. "You blame the physician," continued Judge Albury, "for causing his mother so much distress and sickness, and you do rightly. Now, have you not done the same thing in letting us all think you were going to sing. I must confess that I, myself, was extremely vexed at the disappointment, and I left my court- room under great inconvenience too. But my vexation bears no comparison with your mother's, and sister's, too. Your acting through human respect has cost them both, this afternoon, some of the most mortifying moments of their lives. Many a time, during the per- formance, your sister was on the point of tears, and more than once I thought your mother was going to break down. All the compliments that friends and acquaintances paid her on being the mother of the boy who was going to make a sensation by his singing, were so many subsequent annoyances. Your yielding to human respect, Gerald, has caused your mother and Blanche and myself to experience one of the bitterest afternoons of our lives. Are you not equally guilty with Dr. Tolmin." Young Albury did not answer. He seemed unable immediatelv to realize the full purport of his father's words. His father saw that he was gathering in the sense, as it were, and did not hurry him for an answer. He watched him closely and saw that the boy was begin- ning to understand. In a minute or two there rushed upon him a realization of all the pain and annoyance his action had caused the different members of the family. No one had ever known the eldest son of the house of Albury to exhibit lacka- daisical symptoms. He was full of pranks and high resolves, of escapades and of generous impulses of reparation, of thoughtless disobedience, and, often, of thoughtful sorrow. He had often been "lectured" by his father, and mother, and Martha; he had, as we know, not infrequently suffered the severe penalty of his misdeeds, but neither his father nor his mother ever saw him act in the way he conducted himself when he fully realized his fault. David was not more surprised whea Nathan pointed the finger of denuncia- tion at him and cried: "Thou art the man," than was Gerald Albury when he realized the truth of his father's words: "You and Dr. Tolmin are just the same." Gerald had sprung to his feet in his excitement. He now seemed over- powered. His face turned quite white. "Oh ! oh ! papa I I—" He could not go on. He turned and hid his face in the damask window curtain. After a few moments he turned with outstretched hands to his father. "Papa! papa! I am so sorry — ^so sorry !" His father drew him to him. "I took all this trouble to teach you a lesson. You will not forget it, Gerald ?*' "Never! never! never! papa. And I won*t mind what people say any more. I am going — to do— what — what is right, papa. I'm awfully sorry I hurt mamma this afternoon. I didn't think — much, papa." "That is just the trouble with most of us who wound others. We would not deliberately do so, but we do not think enough of the consequences of our acts/' "Will you — ^lotgwe — tcv^, ^^^^.l"" 48 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. "Yes, my boy, I forgive you freely." "And now Fll go and ask mamma to forgive me, too. Poor mamma. I'm awfully sorry I hurt her this afternoon, ril never — never do it again.*' "That's a good resolution. I think your mother has retired for the night. You can see her in the morning and make your peace with her then." "And Blanche, too?" "Yes; she suffered very much. Make it all right with her in the morning." "I will, pa. Oh! I say, pa! I know something! I'm going to do some- thing!" Gerald's vivacity had returned, and the bundle of quicksilver was once more all animation. "Well, what are you going to do?" asked the somewhat amused father. "That's telling, pa. I can't tell you now, pa, but, my ! It will be great ! Say, pa, do you know Darce — Blatchford Darce?" "I do not think I have the honor of his acquaintance." "Never mind, papa. Oh! glory! I am not going to tell you now. Good- night, papa. I'm going to be awful good now. You forgive me, papa?" Judge Albury ag^n assured him of his forgiveness and sent him to bed in the happiest frame of mind. XIV. PLANS AND SECRETS. When Gerald Gregory Albury, after saying his night prayers, jumped into his little bed that night, it was a very long time before he could get to sleep, owing to the story his father had read to him auid his extraordinary experience after- wards. Whatever else he had determined upon, he was, as he had promised his JktAer, groing to be awfully good now. His busy Tittle head was fairly whirling with plans and projects to carry this resolution into effect. He began to enumerate his shortcomings. Those which we have mentioned in these pages, of course, came uppermost m his mind. There were many others, also, of minor importance, but which, in the light of his repentance and good resolutions, took on a magnitude which they had never before assumed. Drinking one-quarter of the breakfast milk from the bottle which the milkman usually placed in a corner of the veranda early in the morning, did not seem such an enormity when enjoying it as it did now in the retrospect. Picking a hole in a paper bag of sugar and extracting, literally, stolen sweets did not seem so wrong when it was being done, as now ; nor did the helping himself to various little things in the comer grocery store when sent there by Martha or his mother. Perhaps it was a fortunate thing for Gerald that he made these resolutions thus early in his Hfe. By these little pilferings thieves are made. Many a boy, beginning in just as small a way — who would have been indignant had he been called a thief — has allowed the prac- tice to grow, which has finally landed him in a felon's cell. The horror of being placed in the same category as the character of the story, whom he had so strongly de- nounced when his better feelings were aroused, together with the conclusive proofs given by his father that his con- duct during the last two weeks was actuated by similar motives, had really startled the young boy. Thoughtless and frequently reckless of consequences as he was, which must be attributed in large measure to his youthfulness, yet he had an inherent nobility of character and a generosity of disposition which made him, in his THAT BOY GERALD. 49 heart of hearts, and when he gave himself time to think, despise anything mean or small. It was with absolute sincerity, therefore, that he announced to his father that henceforth he was going to be so good a boy as to make his good- ness assume the character of awfulness — of course, in his sense of that word. During the last few minutes with his father that evening Gerald had what he thought was a very practical thought. He wanted to make some kind of repara- tion for his fault, and in the enthusiasm of his first inspiration he barely succeeded in not divulging his secret to his father. He was aware, that in order to succeed in the plan he had formed, it would be necessary to let either his father or his mother into the secret. This was pre- cisely what he did not desire, and this was precisely what was puzzling him and driving sleep from his eyes. Let come what would in relation to his wonderful plan, he was fully de- termined that he would not tell his mother beforehand. Nor was Blanche to be a participator in his secret. Willie ? It did not so much matter about him. He probably would not take much interest in it, but he determined to take no risks, and so Master William was left out of his calculations. "Martha !" he thought, "that's the thing! She can help me without any- body else knowing about it until every- thing is all over. But then — " That plan was upset, for he saw that Martha could not move in the affair without permission from her master or mistress. At length, tired out by the train of thought, which was an unusually long and heavy one for a boy who generally managed to do his thinking by fits and starts, and more often made the excuse that he did not think at all, Gerald at length fell asleep and was soon in that Dreamland of childhood which is always a pleasant place, and where everything happens as one desires. (t-^ tr The first thing that Gerald did in the morning was to make his apologies to his mother. He did not meet his sister Blanche until all had assembled at the breakfast table. "Oh ! Blanche," said the new Prepara- torian, as he helped himself to a gener- ous supply of sugar for his oatmeal, "pa said last night that I had been guilty of respect and that it caused you — caused you — ^what was it, pa?" 'Vexation and disappointment." 'Vexation and disappointment, and I apologize." Gerald thought he had done famously, and so he had, for his motive was sound. Blanche did not say a word. "Why do you not accept the apology, Blanche, and tell Gerald you forgive him ?" said her mother. "I accept the apology, and everything is all right now," said Blanche, as if she were repeating a lesson, "but why did you not tell us beforehand? I felt like crying in the hall." "But you didn't though. It was all through my respect, and Vm sorry now.'* "Through your what, Gerald?" asked his father. "Respect, sir. That's what you told me last night." "Indeed I did no such thing, my boy," said the Judge, laughing heartily. "Do you not remember I used two words?" "Yes, sir, but I can't think what the other one was." "Human respect, not respect, my boy. The two things are very different." 'Yes, sir." 'Now tell Blanche." "Well, sis, I did human respect." "You did human respect! What do you mean? You must be very stupid this morning. You should say that yon had human respect, or acted from human respect," answered his sister rather un- graciously. She had not fully recovered from her disappointment of the previous day, and was in decided ill-humor. "Oh! weW, \l you >noxv\ X-sC^l^ Ki^fc <<' tf 50 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. apology, I can't help it," said Gerald; which, somehow, looked as if that awful goodness was yet a long way off. "There! there! children; do not quarrel. Gerald has done what he thought was right, and tried to undo the wrong. You should take his advances, Blanche, in the way and in the spirit they were offered." Notwithstanding this reproof from her mother, Miss Blanche remained silent, for even academy young ladies are some- times— Reverend Mothers and Sisters of academies say very seldom — sometimes, guilty of deliberately destroying the beauty curve of the lips by pouting. The breakfast, from that time, passed in silence. On Monday Mr. Laffington scolded Gerald quite severely. He saw, how- ever, that the boy was very sorry. When Gerald had told him all that his father had done on Saturday evening, he said : "Do you think, Albury, that if I took you for the next monthly concert you would attend the practices regularly ?" "Oh ! sir, Fm terr'ble sorry I missed the first concert. I did not think you were so strict, sir. Yes, Til come every time, sure." "I think you will, after this," said Mr. Laffington. "Very well. At three o'clock this afternoon we will begin prac- tice. Tell Darce to come." "Thank you, sir." "You ought to apologize to Darce, Albury. You were the occasion of a great disappointment to him. Your fail- ure to come to practice deprived him of the pleasure of appearing in public." "I will, sir.'.' Gerald thought there were a wonderful amount of apologies to be made, arising from one fault. He was too young to realize what a series of evil consequences sometimes arise from one wrong deed. He easily "made up" with Blatchford Darce. These two were great friends. J^ar/ng- tie day, Gerald, whose secret was becoming a positive burden to him, decided to take Darce into his confi- dence. He was urged to do this, be- cause this very boy was necessary to the carrying out of the scheme he had in view. The confidences Gerald had to impart took a long time. He and Blatchford had their heads together nearly all the time of the recesses. Nor were these sufficient for the vitally important mat- ter. As often as possible during the class hours, when they could possibly get together, there were important com- munications to be made. This had oc- curred so many times during that Mon- day that it had attracted the attention of the teacher of the class, who at the very last quarter of the last hour, said : "Albury and Darce will both see inc after class. Both of you have been talk- ing and misbehaving nearly all day." "Oh! Mr. Somers," said Gerald, in dismay, "I didn't mean to. I had some- thing important to tell Batch, sir. I didn't mean to be bad, sir — for sure." "That's all very well. See me after class." Albury suddenly remembered his ap- pointment with the exacting Mr. Laf- fington at three. Was anything ever so unfortunate! What would the music teacher think ! The teacher saw that the boy was more than usually upset. "You can explain to me after class, Albury," he said, in a softened tone, "go now to the board and work out this ex- ample in compound fractions." This was Gerald's delight. There was not a boy in the class who could cover himself with chalk sooner — face, hands, and clothes — and there were few who could work the examples better or quicker either. When the classes were dismissed, Gerald, very humbly, told Mr. Somers why he had spoken several times to Darce, and then in a burst of confidence divulged the plan which had so com- pletely absorbed his attention all day. THAT BOY GERALD. SI In his most winning manner — and young Albury could be winning when it suited his purpose — he begged off from the penance in order not to disappoint Mr. Laflfington a second time. Even stern, hard-hearted schoolmasters are some- times caught by bright, dark-lashed, pleading eyes, and quivering lips and a beseeching face. Weakness? It was a weakness that made for strength in this case, for the teacher had no more trouble with Master Gerald Gregory Albury for three whole weeks — and everybody will admit that is a very long time. That evening Mr. Laffington was in great good humor. That meant that the musical practice had gone well. Albury and Darce sang "The Larboard Watch" as few boys ever sang it. Our friend then went through "Chamouni," and Darce also attempted a solo. When these were finished Gerald surprised the enthusiastic music teacher by asking to be trained in "Please Give Me a Penny, Sir," a song which was a great favorite some years ago. 'What do you want it for, Albury?" 1 want to get it up, sir, for a secret. ' "Oh! indeed!" "Yes, sir. I've got a plan, but it's a secret." "Ah ! the faintest glimmer of under- standing begins to break thr9ugh my obtuseness. You intend — " Gerald put his finger to his lips in token of desired silence. "It's a secret." That is all he would say. "Oh! all right. I shall certainly train you. I bow in humble submission to your mandate." "Yes, sir," replied Gerald, mystified by the big words the music teacher fre- quently used in order to tease little boys when he was in good humor. At other times he spoke plainly enough, as Ger- ald already knew, to his cost. "Mr. Laffington," said Albury at the end of the practice. t€^ if "Most gracious sir?" "I don't think I can be here to prac- tice to-morrow afternoon, sir." "Why not?" "Because, sir, I have to sec some- body." "Oh! indeed! I beg of you not to permit me to interfere with your social pleasures. Do you dine with the gov- ernor, or are you to meet royalty ?" Geralcf remained mute. "It is of no consequence, however. There will be no practice to-morrow, so you are at liberty to meet all your en- gagements and attend all the functions you choose." "Thank you, sir." "You will, however, be on hand by three, sharp, on Wednesday?" "Yes, sir, I'll be here, sure, unless — " "Unless what?" "Unless I won't be let by Mr. Somers. He very nearly kept me this afternoon." "He did! Well, my boy," said Mr. Laffington, seriously, "you will please understand that if you are kept away from practice on account of penances given for misconduct, you will, or rather I shall consider that a deliberate break- ing of your engagement with me. Do vou understand?" "Sure." Mr. Laffington smiled at the use of that dearly loved word of the small boy. "Would it offend your susceptibili- ties," he said, as he let his fingers run up and down the keyboard of the piano, "if you would be so condescending as to say 'surely' instead of 'sure.* The lat- ter is an offense to the delicacy of my auricular organs." Gerald remained unintelligently silent. "Say 'surely' or 'certainly,' Albury; not 'sure ;' will you ?" "Sure," replied the boy, entirely un- conscious of any humor in his reply. He was very much surprised when Mr. Laffington burst out into a hearty laugh. (To be con\\n\\e^>j An Altar for Rabelais By JOHN J. O'SHEA flrTlT is fitting when literary taste H^U has touched the nadir that I^BV ^^^ coryphees of degradation should erect altars for their chiefs and tutelary deities. The "God- dess of Reason," naked and unashamed, was not planted on the high place of Jehovah Himself without an expectation of results on the part of the worshippers. We have the logical result now, in the proposal to make a hero of Rabelais, the real "man with thre muck rake." It is a proposition offered in all seriousness. A London devotee of letters, so called, Mr. Charles W. Whibley, proposes the literary canonization of the author of the foulest book that had l»een offered to the world before Zola arose. As this is an age that is astonished at nothing out- rageous to decency, the proposal may be taken seriously. If there were another Rabelais among us, he would be an ex- ception, probably. To take nothing seri- ously was the doctrine of life laid down by the original. Hence his successor would be false to his master did he not greet the proposition with a guffaw and a foul aphorism. Meudon is a pretty adjunct of Paris. Its heights are crowned with pretty villas, embowered in graceful trees and shrubbery, and bordered with dainty gardens. But below the heights, beside the river, there are dingy factories with foul smells and grimy workers. There are tanneries among these unsavory fabrics. These tanneries furnished, more than a century back, the culminating chapter to the book begun two centuries and a half before by the strange being who was cure oi Meudon in his later years. The skins of aristocrats were thrown into the pits, to be dyed and manufactured into personal wear for the gentry who had learned the lessons of Rabelais, the scoffer, and the ^rim satir- ists, Rousseau and Voltaire, who hewed down their coarseness and gave them an application, in fine literary and philo- sophical form, to the cravings of an esurient age. One of our own most popular authors — Mr. James Lane Allen — has stirred up discussion by a bitter fling at the de- terioration in taste which marks the present era. The thing for the best American writers to do, he complained, is to cater to the demand for what he calls "soap-bubble fiction." This was hardly the proper description of what suits the popular taste. Tlie Providence Journal puts the case more correctly when commenting on this utterance : "The people who read fiction of the kind indicated — cheap, flimsy, false, un- true to every principle of art and nature — do not want well-written books; thev prefer the bad ones. They like the lit- erary garbage heap; it is both more highly colored and more strongly scented than the food served on a dining table. Is it reasonable to think that they will realize the difference between gar- bage in its natural condition and garbage which has been dressed into the sem- blance of a meal by a French chef?" One of the best written books of the vear in this country — namely, "The Garden of Allah'* — proves this fact most clearly. It is a splendid literary per- formance as regards style and feeling, yet in a couple of chapters there is a AN ALTAR FOR RABELAIS. S3 grossness of detail in scenes of passion and temptation that makes the reader recoil. Why these black patches on the white marble of a noble conception? Oearly because there must be some- thing to make the book "go/' Art is not wanted for its own sake, but to serve as an auxiliary to jaded sensuality. Zola took some time to find this out. He was never successful until he ap- pealed to that sense in the Frenchman that Rabelais discovered as an acorn and cultivated until it became the spread- ing oak. What was the motive which impelled the renegade priest to write his reeking book? It could hardly have been a desire to gain money, for in his day there could not have been much demand for any class of literature, in comparison with that of our own omnivorous time, and the cost of producing books must have been very great as compared with i^hat it is now. A desire for revenge may have been his principal reason. Mr. Whibley imputes such a desire to his biographers. He tells the world why it is that Rabelais has been depicted, like Vice, as "a monster of hideous mien:" "It was but natural that the monks, whom he scarified in his book, should have employed their ingenuity in de- traction; and since they were troubled by no scruples of truth or conscience, they found little difficulty in creating a bogey. 'Who drives fat oxen must himself be fat' — such was their argu- ment, and therefore they boldly declared that the author was no more than the liv- ing image of his work. It was not for them to understand a masterpiece which offended the dignity of their order ; they did not trouble to search out the honor- able life and employments of their vic- tim; they were content to sow their slanders broadcast over the world, in the vain hope that the tares of their foul fancy might grow up and choke the har- vest of intelligence. * * * Rabelais, the drunken buffoon, the bawdy trick- ster, the impious impostor, the truculent enemy of God and man, was already in- vented, and gossip was free to do the rest.'* Now, the very best test that can be applied to this explanation is the fact that with all his admiration for the wronged genius Mr. Whibley does not dare to reproduce any examples of his master's style for public inspection. He could hardly select a chapter that he should not have to "Bowdlerize," or expurgate, to the destruction of the whole sense, so cleverly arc the dirt and the mortar mixed in the building. Outrage so gross would not be tol- erated in modern society. It is only on the walls of prisons and foul resorts that such thoughts and language as Rabelais invented for the gratification of his own evil imaginings ever -find a place — and then only furtively. No; it was Rabelais himself who wrote the doom that consigned him to a niche all to himself — a nichd full of noi- some slime and the worms that feed on carrion. Glance -at his face ; does it not speak of a licentious mind and a Ther- sites tongue? Mr. Whibley considers that Rabelais and Erasmus must be regarded as the twin stars of the Reformation. This is rather hard upon the reputation of Mar- tin Luther as a literary man. In his method of expression he bore a good deal of resemblance to the creator of "Gargantua and Pantagruel." He was equally coarse and sensual, though not so rich in filthy fancy or volume or vo- cabulary. But Erasmus was decent, as decency went in those days. While his "Colloquies are bigoted, thei;* language is not vulgar." He has no valid claim to be bracketed with Rabelais. Mr. Whibley accepts the stereotyped charge that Rabelais was persecuted by "the rascal . monks" because he was caught studying Greek I TVv\^ xxAMrvaJkOvi^ 54 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. plea is wholly in keeping with the larger charge that the Church has always set its face against learning. It is permis- sible to surmise that he early developed his talent for scurrilous vilipend, and was caught scribbling his foul imagin- ings while sojourning with the monks, and for this was ignominiously expelled, and for no other reason. Francois Rabelais was born in Chinon, Touraine, some time about the year 1490. The date of his birth is unsettled, but not more so than the date of his death, since the biographers can only say that he departed from the scene of his frivolities about the year 1553. A similar uncertainty prevails about long stretches of his career. Although it is known for certain that he was given, toward the close of his life, the curacy of Meudon by his friend, Cardinal du Bellay, it is not definitely known whether he fulfilled the duties of the post or remained a figurehead. He was certainly a genius, but an erratic one; a character as many-sided and romantic as ever occupied the pages of Scott or Bulwer Lytton. We do not know of what station were his parents; Henri Berenger says he was born either in an apothecary's shop or a publican's inn, amid the shouting and singing of swill- ing roysterers. Berenger also says that he began his education at the convent of "Seville." This must be a mistake, since in Seville there are many convents. Other biographers say it was at the con- vent of Seuille he began, and finished at the monastery of La Baumette, near Angers, and that he finished his novi- tiate at the convent of Fontenay-la- Comte, where he was ordained a priest in the year 1519 and lived for four years after. The monks of these latter con- vents are described by the biographers as mendicant monks, and as ignorant, sensual, and superstitious. They de- tested the intellectual life, it is also said, and when they discovered that Rabelais was studying Greek they were inflamed to the utmost ; so that, in order to save himself from being- denounced as a here- tic and burned at the stake, he was fain to flee from such company. This is one side of the story; some time or other accident may enable the world to hear the other. Rabelais had friends who were influential at Rome, so that by the favor of the Pope he was allowed to en- ter the Benedictine Order, and soon be- came regular canon of the abbey of Maillezais. This post he only held for a little time ; probably he was not found fitted for it. He quitted the regular life and became a secular priest in the house- hold of the Bishop of Maillezais for a little while. The fact hat Rabelais re- tained his various positions only for a short time would serve to throw a sin- ister light on his real character even if he never had left his horrible book to furnish direct evidence of the fact that he was utterly unfitted for the priestly vocation. It was not, then, for his fond- ness for Greek learning that he had to flee from the convent of Fontenay, but for something far different. This infer- ence is irresistible from a perusal of the obscene masterpiece, "Gargantua and Pantagruel." Rabelais now turned his attention to the healing art. He received a medical degree at the university of Montpellier in the year 1530, and obtained an ap- pointment as physician in the Lyons hos- pital in 1532, which he held only for two years. He accompanied the Bishop of Paris to Rome when that prelate was sent as ambassador extraordinary by King Francis I. This Bishop (who sub- sequently was raised to the cardinalate), Rabelais' biographers say, "always pro- tected him from the rage of his enemies" — a very doubtful expression, since it was not until this period of his career that he began to publish his obscene slanders on the class from whom he had received his education. AN ALTAR FOR RABELAIS. 55 »elais alternated like a pendulum en the Church and medicine. He I course in anatomy m Montpellier, fter this was finished he is found in the Church as canon of the of St. Maur. Then cut he started as a traveller — ^just like Oliver mith. He was evidently a born man — like Villon, the vagabond poet and highwayman. He had tain leave from the King, Francis publish the third volume of his —a fact which seems to prove that "St two had given offense of a seri- haracter. When the King died ais was in a condition of terror, e new monarch, Henry H, was no of his licentious farragoes. But iend, Cardinal Du Bellay, stood n good stead again, and so did tial Chatillon, to whom he dedi- the fourth volume when he had ;d permission to publish it from ing. It was about this time (1550) le got the living of Meudon. It : known that he ever discharged priestly function in connection vith ; for his soul's sake we should not, while continuing to pour out •idinous lava. He resigned the liv- short time before he died. He hosts of enemies by his terrible ;, but he always hid behind the of the great, on whom he fawned, threatened with serious conse- es by the victims of his dreadful pgate. )elais' work is a series of allegories ng events that ranged over a score irs or more. Their references are scure that no writer has ever been o do more than give a guess at the ing of the riddles. Like Swift, writing "Gulliver," he had his per- es and their actions very clearly mind, and the fact that his book reedily sought by great people, as lear, proves that the great world of ly knew well the personages whom he was lampooning and enjoyed the tor- tures to which he subjected them. Now the world has hardly a clue to those who then strutted their hour on the stage. Their defamer, only, lives, to enjoy a questionable fame while the ob- jects of his shafts rest in the calm of eternal oblivion, where Rabelais can trouble no longer. Were it possible to separate the wheat from the chaff in Rabelais the work he left must be valued for its literary power. Many isolated passages display a rich imagination set in a frame of world- wide learning. But the heterogeneous way in which gems and rubbish, flowers and weeds, radiant angels and foulest reptiles of the Pit, are flung together reminds one of the handiwork of a Mer- lin or a Michael Scott under the influ- ence of cheap champagne or five cent whisky from New York's Bowery. In this respect his literary production is absolutely unique. There was no mid- dle way in the mind of the author. He had no sense of literary balance. There- fore there is a great contrast between his performance and that of the work of his best imitator in the English field of lit- erature, Lawrence Sterne — ^another de- generate cleric. Sterne could appreciate the virtues of womanly purity and manly honor. There is hardly a trace of any such sense of discrimination in the writ- ings of Rabelais. The "Sentimental Journey" is full of exquisite bits of sym- pathy with the best side of humanity. A writer of distinction has referred to "Gargantua and Pantagruel" as an "in- imitable romance." The term does not fit well. It is no more a romance than "Gulliver's Travels" or the "Pilgrim's Progress." It is a series of allegorical satires on religion, law,- medicine, peda- gogy, dress, social customs, politics, and all the important affairs of the writer's time. Its plain purpose is irreverence and the promotion of infidelity, although the author pretended \t vj^ oivVj \.Ck xcsa!«L^ 56 THE ROSARY JiAGAZINE. men laugh, as he believed there was altogether too much sadness in life. No doubt it has made men laugh — ^but it has made judicious ones grieve. The work of the iconoclasts did not make men laugh, but it made the demons laugh. Rabelais was an iconoclast as dreadful in his hilarity as any of the fol- lowers of Knox in their fanatical wrath. He not only pulled down the pillars of religion, but he trampled the image of human decency in the gutter of his diseased creation. He sought to ele- vate the baser instincts and passions to the highest place in the human composi- tion, and to substitute mere filth for wit. No doubt there is much wit intermingled with the compost ; but filth is the dom- inant note all through his "inimitable romance." He revels in filth; and the bewildering vocabulary of dirt and "double entendre" — culled from the vul- gar folk-lore and proverbial "argot" of all nations — with which he amazes and confounds the reader displays the dilir gence with which he prepared himself for this important feature of his work. Neither the author of "Tom Jones" nor of "Tristram Shandy," could be compared with Rabelais for an instant: they are pigmies, he a colossus. In Swift's "Tale of a Tub" there is some approach to his perfection in pornog^phy, but it is a feeble, stunted effort, by comparison. Buffoonery in Rabelais* case was ele- vated to the plane of a fine art. In those chapters in which the author gives his ideals of the religious life in communities we get the real meaning of this extraordinary work. The "Monks of Thelema," as he styles them, live by no rule but the law : "Do what you like ; never admit a restraint on your inclinations, since it is restraint that makes men and women transgress laws to gain what is forbidden." Their whole life was to be employed, not ac- cording to rules, statutes, or laws, but according to their own freewill and judg- ment; they rising when they liked, drinking, eating, working, going to bed, just whenever they desired. Their rule contained just one clause — ^"Do what you will." — (Gargantua, book I, chap. 57). And yet Rabelais makes all these monks and nuns (without vows or rule) play the most childish game of imitation, like our juvenile one called "follow the leader.'* One lady sets the fashion in dress, in reading, in amusement for one day ; all the others rigorously follow suit. One cavalier or "monk" does the same for the masculine part of the community; and there is no more freedom of initiation or individualism in action than there is under the old respectable order of things. The rule of the beehive is the rule of the Monks of Thelema. , Rabelais' Friar John is an embodiment of every form of satyr-like vice and glut- tony. He was created for the purpose of having such a monstrosity accepted as a type, and so bringing the whole body of religious into contempt. The figure of a dead Pope is introduced for a similar sinister purpose, and the lan- guage of some of the passages which are devoted to this object is open and shock- ing blasphemy. This is the reason why Rabelais is so greatly admired by writers of the "pro- gressive" school. His book finished the work that Luther's lesser genius failed to do. Luther intended to pull down only part of the great Catholic fabric ; Rabe- lais' aim was to sweep it wholly away and leave nothing but infidelity in its place. Montaigne, who came after him, took up the same task more scientifically ; and it was continued bv Descartes. When Voltaire succeeded, and after him Rousseau, there was no more level- ling to be done. The way was prepared for the march of the mob and the Feast of Pikes and the Noyages on the rivers. The tanneries of Meudon then, as has been said, put the finishing strokes to Rabelais' work. It was handsomely bound, in a shape to command the at- tention of posterity, in human skin. VXIVERSITY STREET, SHOWING INNSBRUCK UNIVERSITY ON THE RIGHT. In the Heart of the Tyrol By THOMAS O'HAGAN. Ph. D. BEW comers of Europe are dow- ered with more interest for the tourist and literary pilg^m than that portion of Austria knowki as the Tyrol. Its backBfround is full of history, its life starred with heroic deeds. We always think of the Tyrol and Vorarlberg together, and politically speaking they arc united under the same governor, or Statthalter, though each has a Landtag of its own. The area in square miles (rf both is 11,324; the population 924.518- The principal part of the Tyrol is in- habited by a German-speaking people, but in the extreme south, Italian is spoken and the country is called Italian Tyrol. As regards the early inhabitants of the country very little accurate information can as yet be given. By the Greeks and Romans, the inhabitants of Tyrol, to- gether with those of Eastern Switzer'and, were designated Rhaeteans. Horace sings of "The Alpine Rhaeti, long un- matched in fight." So that the most ancient name by 'vhich we know Tyrol is Rhaetia. The Romans having learned of the importance of the country as a thorough- fare between Italy and Germany set themselves seriously to the task of con- quering Rhaetia. Their first attack was directed against Tridentum, the present Trent, which was taken E. C. 36. After the Roman occupation came the Gothic in 493. The Goths were followed in 568 by the Lombards, whose Italian kingdom lasted more than two hundred years. In the eighth century the whole ot Khaetia was merged in the great Empire of Charlemagne. There was still no "Tirol," and the country was at that time usually called "The Mountain Land" (das Land \m Ot\i\ii|,<£^. 58 How, then, did the name Tyrol first come into use ? It is derived from Castle Tyrol, near Meran, and we find that the Counts of Tyrol, one of the numerous families owning estates and titles in this "Mountain Land," are first noticed in archives of the year 1140 as occupying Castle Tyrol (Terriolis); and we further find that one by one the possessions of other noblemen melted away before these irresistible knights of Terriolis until, in 1240, Count Albert of Tyrol was in n position to style himself Prince Count (ge furstctcr Graf) of Tyrol, wliidi now comprehended much more than his own ancestral estate. This principality re- mained a fief of the German Empire until the time of Maximilian I, when it was incorporated among; the possessions of the crown. The last of Count .Albert's successors as ruler of Tyrol was Marj.'aretha Maul- tasche (pocki't-moullied Marfjarct 1, about whom so many slrangc stories THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. are told. In the year 1363 she took the important step of granting the Tyrol to Duke Rudolph I\' of Austria, of the House of Hapsburg. Henceforth the history and fortunes of the Tyrol are bound up in the life of Austria. The Emperor Charles V, successor to Maximilian I, found his dominions so vast that he resigned his Austrian terri- tory of the Tyrol to his brotlier, who afterwards became Emperor Ferdinand I. it was the latter who foimded the Franciscan church in Innsbruck, with its world-renowned tomb in memory of his grandfather, Maximilian I. This work broug^ht the best artists to Innsbruck and stimulated native art to such an extent that the pl.ice became a noted art centre. In 1677 Ixopolil I, Emperor of Aus- tria, founded the University of Inns- hruik. which was named in honor of him. Innsbruck University is especially strong in the di'parlmcnt.'! of theology and med- ;*■ 'V , - IN THE HEART OF THE TYROL. icine. It is here that Prof Hurler, one of the greatest of Jesuit theologians, oc- cupies a chair, and Prof. Ludwig Pastor, the great historian of the Popes of the Renaissance, conies every spring sem- estre to lecture. Before his translation to Rome, at the desire of our late Holy Father, Pope Leo XIII, Prof. Pastor was permanently associated with the work of Innsbruck University. During the first years of its existence, Innsbruck University was noted for its strong moral life and sound Catholic spirit. Of the four facnlties, one-half then were Jesuits and a few, Franciscans It will be remembered that Lnther called the German universities of his time "great gates of hell !" and an old German proverb tells us: Wer von Gieszen konimt oline Weib Von Jena mit gcsiiiidcti Leib Von Helmsladt olinc Wun^Un Von Leipzig olmc Schniivlcii Von Marburg luiftt'fiillcn Hat nicht g'stiirlicrt nut alkii. In 1765 the Empress yinr'ni came to Innsbruck tn Cfivhrnic riage of her son Leopold, Grand Duke of Tuscany (afterwards the Emperor Leopold II), and Maria Ludovica, daugh- ter of Charles HI, King of Spain. The citizens erected on this occasion a tem- porary arch of triumph, which so pleased the I'.mpress that some years afterwards .she caused it to be reconstructed in stone and marble as it now stands, on the boundary line betweeen Innsbruck and Wilien. Tile .Archduke's wedding opened a long succession of entertain- ments, and Innsbruck was holding high holiday when all was brought to a sad ending by the sudden death of the Em- peror Francis I (the husband of Maria Theresa) on his return from the Italian opera to the palace. But the heroic period in the history of the Tyrol and its people is that which marks its struggle with Napoleon the First and his ally, Bavaria, and the cen- tral figure in this heroic struggle is un- ■ luesiioiiably Andreas Ilofer. It is ku'.iwn in Tyrok-an history as the Patrioik War 'i\ i?j:«>. tW^e, cmvV«^ -w:! THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. Andreas Ilofer united in his character the two great national traits of the Ty- rol : fideUty to God and to his sovereign. He was horn in the Passcyer valley in 1765. His ianiily kcjit the inn of Sandy- land, near the Passeyer stream; hence his frequently heing called in history the "Sandy landlord." He was living at this inn, following the calling of. his fathers, when by the treaty of Pressburg the Tyrol was wrested from Austria and ceded to Bavaria, the ally of N'apolcon. At this terrible news. Andreas made a vow never again to shave his beard. Duriiig the wars, his long beard falling on his breast gave himwith the Italians the name of General Garbone. The picture of Hofer seen at Innsbruck represents him as a type of that race from Passeyer reputed the handsomest and nii.ist vigorous in the Tyrol. An ath- letir, wfll-knil iramc, broad shoulders, a ninnd, highly colored eonntenance, black eyes, large, brilliant and pcnetrat- donbling the patriiitisiii and br the Tyrolean people: ■•F.;inl... Tyrokr Kayl.-, As [ ,l;irt irnin luv ruol T1k> Or(! rr.l V WlHTtiuro ^irt 111. .11 -.. 1 hav .Iriink ..1 llu^ i]',^^\ 1.1 [h,- KuM-jUi] M,uv: Hn.-v il,<- ricli HiiK' (!ii-b r.| EaKlc. Tyr<-.1,T Ka);!,-. Whiri-liTf an ilioii — The lit,-l.lc,„.| aciM.< r...- D:irk Ilr.ws ^hc .k^ailU- t-'. Tl»T>iorL- am 1 ^., n-J '1 Kafilc. TjToIor F.afjlc. Wlicrt-liire .art ihoii so I-'rrtin ihc .\lpjiic simliKlit From the wicii: oi tlif \ From ttic blood .if iiivad. Tl,e TyroicT Eagle is r n d IN THE HEART OF THE TYROL. 6i tng, a majestic beard — the whole breath- by assault, entered the town, and, ing command, inspiring respect, and at- after a hand-to-hand fight, forced Gen- tracting confidence. eral Bisson, commandant of the French Indignant at the double-dealing of the and Bavarian troops, to capitulate. Bavarian officials, exasperated at the per- But a cruel trial awaited the generous secution which menaced the treasure of champion of liberty and faith. On the the true faith, Andreas had but one i6lh of July, Austria, vjinquished at thought — to liberate his country from Wagram, was forced to the armistice of the foreign yoke and restore it to his Znaim, and in that convention Tyrol was Emperor. With this end in view, he ignored. Hofer refused to believe his commenced a correspondence with country had been abandoned to the ven- Archduke John of Austria. On the i6th geance of the conqueror. When he saw of January, 1809, he went to Vienna with the Austrian army leave Innsbruck and other fellow countrymen and had several interviews with the prince, in which the plan of deliverance was definitely settled. When all was ready, Andreas returned to St. Leonard invested with full power as commander-in-chief of the national forces. From that day Hofer's hostelry became the rendez- vous of all who sighed for the deliverance of their native land. To all who could join the sacred- cause Hofer opened out his views and his plans. On the night of .\pril lotli, the patriots were called to arms by great fires blazing on the beights ; and on the 14th of April, at the head of four thou- sand, five hundred men, who had all confessed an. I communicated, ih,' "Sandy landlord" bravely attackci the Bavarians .iiid completely routed them. The ne.\t morning fifteen thousand peasants sur- rounded Inns- bruck, carried the bridge and heights MONUME.VT TO ANllREAS HOFER. ON" BER' NEAR INNSBRUCK. retire before Marshal Lefebre and his fifty thousand men, he swore he would once more conquer or die. Hidden in an impenetrable gorge, he sent from valley to valley his call to arms. He signed his orders: "Andreas Hofer, from where I am." The chiefs addressed their re- plies : "To Andreas Hofer, wherever he is." A column of four thousand Saxons, with orders to sweep away the insurgents, began to cross the gorge, but when the whole corps was inside the defile a sudden cry re- sounded in the mountains, "No quarter!" The signal is fol- lowed by a terri- ble crash ; rocks, trunks of trees loosened by the Tyroleans and held together by ropes till llie sig- nal is given, are now set free, and an avalanche of blocks of por- phyry, enormous pines, stones, and earth, falls on the Saxons and ISEL, crushes tliem. THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. COSTUME I VALLEV tvrolea: injT start men, woiiien, oM |)Of.>i>lc ami chilclreii.to Iniri tlieiusclvcs on tliet'iioniy with the cry,'"f.>urGiJil ami our cotinlry." The I'lifniy is routed and ilies towards Innsbruck, cIosl-Iv inirsuod by Andreas HofcT. S|icckl)achi.-r. his lieutenant, anq the Capuchin. HaspinKor. who, holding; in one hand a orucifix an;l in the other chin took refuge in Vienna, and Hofer was obliged to disperse his handful of followers. A price was put on his head, and a wretch named RafB betrayed his retreat. He was taken by some French soldiers and escorted as a prisoner to Mantua, tried by court-martial and shot. By his last wish, Andreas Hofer was buried in the garden of his friend and confessor, Manifesti. Later, his remains were borne to the Franciscan church — the Tyrol- ean Westminster Abbey — of Innsbruck, where a beautiful tomb of Tyrolean marble has been erected to his memory. , So much for the history and heroic side of the Tyrolese people. Turn we now to consider for a moment the glory of Tyrol — the charming and picturesque city of Innsbruck which has in- deed a most unique situation. Tliere are but two cities in America that in situation resem- ble Innsbruck, and these are Monterey, in Mexico, and Salt Lake City, in L'tah, but neither ■-■ of the New World cities has a setting amidst a landscape of lofty grandeur and ideal beauty as apital of the Tyrol. e mountains, w L-d peaks. Maiid ai eted sentinels, imu niyslery <.l ihe ^k his s nl, : 1 like red. This second viciory gave Inn.-ibruek once more to the patriot parly, but again the peace of \'ienna forced Austria to renounce the Tyrol. The .\rchdidie John himself wrote to Hofer and ordered him to lay dmvn his arms. The apjiea! was ill vain. Hut his soldiers were dis- CGi>r.wf'l Speckbacher and the Capu- insbriiek is time of Ca' * the silvei plv iIr. 1, ft i> lo-da In ih:^ leir snow- ■ry gates as ■y the glory pons of a city ihabitants nd peace- riiis. Innsbruck, amid Alpiiu^ splen- is a pearl oi the dawn, a j^.^el upon waning cheek of niplit, full of li^ht s].lendor. The peopk- of Innsbruck kmdiy. hospflalde, courteous, uniting heir character in pleasinp harmnnv IN' THE HEART OF THE TYROL. 63 the strength of the North and the tender- ness of the South. They are essentially a music-loving people and are particularly fond of open- air concerts and the theatre. During the winter a great variety of plays and operas is produced at the theatre, and during the summer the so-called Feasant Plays, or popular dramas, are given at the Sum- mer Theatre. Among the plays which the writer once saw produced in Innsbruck was Shakespeare's Macbeth — of course played in German. Objection was taken to the hags, or witches, on the ground that they did not resemble the real witches of Shakespeare ; whereupon a Tyrolean friend added that the Tyrolean women were so handsome that they could not be turned into witches. It is quite true that the wo- men of the Tyrol are very pretty, possessing an attractiveness all their own. Tliev have vcrv comely faces, beautiful eyes, and a manner coy, modest and allur- ing. In figure they are some- times a httle too bunchy, though their features are generally full 01 harmony. Xearly every little town or village in the valleys of the Tyrol has its distinct cos- tumes— some of tiiem being especially pictures(iue and pretty. Innsbruck is replete witii mon- uments that speak- of the past. The monuments of the Francis- can church known as the Hof- kirche, and its very walls, con- jure up a living past. W'c fancy we see the lovely riiilip])ine Wesler, wife of Ferrlinand I . brought from .-Vmras Caslle in this her last resting placf. Tlicii, descending to the tliiircli again, we recall many actors in the local drama of the past tlir<.c hinnlr'.'il years. Here the Arclnkiko Li'i>- pold V kneels ivitli iJie be-iu- tiful Claudia of Medici to receive the marriage blessing, while beyond the frontier echo the thunders of the Thirty Years' War. Here kneels Queen Chris- tina of Sweden, while ranks of the priests and nobles crowd to hear her devout confession of the Catholic faith, and all the belts of the town, with the roar of cannon, add to the general jubilation. At the corner of Frederick Street is the Inn, "Goldener Adler" (Gohlen Eagle), the oldest local inn in Innsbruck. In the days when no other hotels existed here, this house was patronized by all the potentates and celebrities who passed through Innsbruck. Among its inmates have been Emperor Joseph II, Louis I, King of Bavaria, Andreas Hofer, Hen- vv>T\\ \\, v:co-\vv> THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. E FRANCISCAN CHURCH. rich Heine, Goethe, and many other famous men. The writer strolled in there one day hoping that with the aid of a httle lager beer he might poetically catch something of the Goethe infection, but he came away with not even the "Sor- rows of Werther." The Tyrol is indeed full of charm and its people unique among the peoples of Europe. Poetry and romance have many an altar in its vales, and' the tapers of faith and devotion light up each shrine by the wayside. In memory the writer treads again its hills and dells and breathes its buoyant air: Just for one day to hear the happy song Of River Inn thai swiftly flows along! Just for one day to fee! my soul expand Among the mountains of that distant landl To climb the hills, to gaze far down the glen, To breathe that buoyant air and live again. To hear the bells, their cadence soft and clearl Ethereal tones in boundless atmosphere! To kneel once more within some woodland shriae Where bums the Everlasting Light divine- Light that may flicker in the storm-tossed See! it ijurns brightly in that far Tyrol. Just for one hoar to see the .\!pine glow Tinge rosy red the pathless fields of snow! To see it spread across the mountains' breast From cliff to cliff, till on some lotly crest It kindles one lone light of crimson ray. And softly dies, this last, last fire of diyl To grasp a firm Tyrolean hand once morel To hear the .=aluiation as of yore, "God greet thccV Ah! if only for a day Among those pictured hamlets I might stray. And hear tlie joyous jodel as it flings Its mellow tones Ik trembling dther strings! It is a dream! Those awful mount?.ins rise In silver waves against the azure skies. Supernal beauty that defies all bound. To lose itself in mystic trumpet sound! No fear of earth they feel, no touch of time: They are what men would fain, but cannot In a lot For Ov( mghl a e I shall the s th. distance li Fate draws me back i O to be there again for and go. nending flow, ives the spirit dips, led by the swift winged ith weird, magnetic Told on cl Jaxinting^Car By MOLLIE PATTERSON HHE first thing you must do when you come to- Ireland is to have a ride on one of our celebrated jaunting-cars," my friend Den- nisO'Halloran had said to me a year ago. We were shooting together in Scotland at the time, and I had replied that I would be delighted to see for myself that ^'magical contrivance" — as Lover calls it. Now I had not only seen but was feel- ing it with a vengeance, and I must con- fess there did not seem to nie to be anv- thing very magical about it, as it bumped along the rough country road. Irish tastes must differ very widely from Eng- lish ones, in the way of vehicles at any rate, I thought ; but as it had to be put up with, I tried to make myself as com- fortable as circumstances would permit ; so, turning up the collar of my fur-lined great-coat, and wrapping the rug still more closely round my knees, I settled down to a ten-mile drive. My train had been delayed, and on stepping out on the platform at the small market town of Ballyneen, I -had looked round in vain for a trap from Craigdar- ragh, Dennis' place, and so had to accept the only other available means of con- veyance — Pat Mulvany's car — upon which I was now being j.ogged along. The country looked bleak and bare enough, and I wondered how any one could call it the ^'Emerald Isle." As far as the eye could reach there was nothing but a dreary expanse of ■cold, brown bog to be seen, save where, in the distance, I could just discern the outline of the mountains. "What a dis- mal place/' I muttered lo myself. as, turn- ing a corner, a gust of wind and sleet blew in mv face, and I hcartilv wishotival, fm ircn" (saint). t I)Hrk-h;urt:i\. Ill "pa- TOLD ON A JAUXTING-CAR. 67 anger, an' light-hearted Terence tried to make Kathleen forget all about it. 'Seein' we live in another part of the country, storeen,'J he would say, 'you couldn't be seein* him often anvwav, an' who knows but what we'll be hearin' some day soon that he forgives us/ "An' then he would caress her, and de- clare the fault was his entirely, for if he hadn't fallen in lov« wid her, sure there would ha' been no throuble at all, at all. An' she would smile, wid the tears still on her eyelashes, an' tell him he was more nor all the world to her. "Ay, sir, it's wonderful how foolish people are when they're ycung — an' in love ; I've been through it all myself, but all I iver loved has lain in the cliurch- yard in Ballinasloe, beyant, these twenty long years;" and Mulvany passed his rough coat sleeve over his tyes, and con- tinued half-aloud, seeming quite to forget my presence, "Eh, Mary, but it'i the weary long time since you left me agrah,* an' I'm lonely for you, Mary, an' thinkin' long for you, that I am." We jogged along in silence for several minutes, and then Pat seemed to rouse himself from a reverie, and resumed his story. "Kathleen and Terence had been mar- ried about two years when a child was born to them; as fine a little gossoont as iver I set eyes on, he was too. He had his mother's dark hair, an* his father's laughin' eyes, an' many's the time I've seen them, when I would be comin' home from my work, a sittin' together of a summer evenin', she wid the child on her knee, an' he a sittin' be- side her, his face just beamin' wid pride an' pleasure. Sometimes he would get out his ould fiddle an' play the dear ould songs we all knew and loved: 'Roscen Dubh,' 'Eileen-a-roon,' *]\Iodderecii t Little treasure. * Love. tBor. Ruadh,' an' the like. Troth he was the great hand at playin' her intirely; an' when it would be the jigs he was at — faith, you'd think the divil was in your toe. Sorra a one in Munster could hould a candle to him, an' to see the O'Xeills in them days was a sight for sore eves. "But even in all her happiness Kath- leen niver give over a-worryin' herself about her father, an' she couldn't bear to think that the ould man would niver see her lovely boy. On his birthday she had sent him one of the babv's dark curls. Surely that would ha' moved the very stones, an' if O'Donohue had seen it, it might ha' moved him too, but the letther was sent back unopened, an' afther that, poor Kathleen knew it was no use thrvin'. "The time passed on, an' one day the news came that ould Brien had died, but Kathleen was half-comforted when she heard he forgave her at the last, an' died blessin' her an' her child. "Things went well wid the O'Xeills for about three years, an' they were as happy as could be together. But one day Ter- ence came home wid the news that he had lost his place, an' through no fault of his. The man he worked for didn't need so many hands, by rayson of havin' taken a smaller farm, an' he and some others had been turned off. Terence tliramped the county from end to end lookin' for work, but sure it was alwavs the same answer he got. "Well, he had been out of work about two months when the great pratie blight came. I needn't be tellin' vou how they sthruggled on, the craythurs ; it was the same wid thousands of others. The bits of things soon had to go, the goat an' the pig, an' then the tallies an' chairs, till at last the 'House' or starva- tion stared them in the face. Poor Kathleen, she was c;W\ \X \\?y.s vW \m\^\ an' not the a\vU\\ \\\\\\^viY \\\^v \?C\tM'tliei. as (iiul wills, :iehnr:i,'shi' w«uild '..IN Hnt Teienee tli<>UL;lit it WtMild be lemptin' I'invi«lenec imt to \w aeeepliu' '.n« h .1 ^mhmI ollei . .ni* lie w. isn't as bi.ue III riidttiin' .is K.illileen. sin. til bl.unc lit linn, mi .it l.isl '•In* \\\\ in, m\ he Willi nil. lull III hitpe, .iiT sine th.it he wmitil In prllin' nn fM.indK in \inri il%.i\ " I III -mi.l iMiIn KllnU'i IliiVN K.hIiIiiII ni.in.ii'.i »l In iimIm In i w.r. Imi ■ li. i'i«i •■tiiMi \\ \ Inn' In i|ii. .Ml IniiInn ti>i\\ ml tn vitin liiiihi Itp lilt np \\iini|iihil .^« 1 1 1 « 1 1 • t M I 1 1 n n 1 1 n I \ 1 1 1 « I 1 1 < l 1 1 • 1 1 t ii h < > i n jnni . !• i| 1 III - Mil In ni\ I I w 1 nnii h nl .1 - « lit n.ii il .in v\ li il v\ • Mill! In lii ilnni \\u\ Il 1 1 III I \\ III n \\^ i ■ inliln i U.lil I \\« II! \m will II llii iMIli • IIMi r**iti},}t)in)u n .» h • 1 • 'iiii I* ii I In • 'l.| enough, too, an' thramped down to Cork to meet him. **Och, wirrastrue, but this world is the quare place intirely, an' God's ways seem strange to us sometimes, but He knows best, sir. '*\Vell, yer honor, Kathleen was fairly bewildered when she got down to the big city, wid all the carts an' thraffic an' noise, for she had niver seen a larger town nor Ballyneen we're just afther leavin', an' it wasn't as big then as it is now. An' besides, sir, she hadn't much of the English, havin' always lived in the country. But she managed somehow to get down to the quay, for she knew it was there the big ships do be comin' in from the furrin' parts. I was down in Cork myself at that time, an' just by chance was loungin' round the pier, and saw it all. Well, yer honor, Kathleen went up to a sailor kind of man she seen standin' about, an' says to him : 'God save you, sir. an' is't yourself could be tellin' me when a ship called the 'Ade- laide' is comin' back from Amerikav?' w I le stared at her for a minute like a fool. 'The 'Adelaide' is it?' he savs at last. 'The 'Adelaide' that sailed near two years baek ? Why, my girl, she wint down in mid Atlantic an' divil a soul was saved niV her at all.* "She ditln't understand him at first, iitit havin' much of the English as I was s.win'. .in' then she oluiched hold of his aim. M\ turned white like a corp. 'Mnther n' heaven.* she savs at last, an' Innkin' like a stricken cravthur, 'it's in.ikm* h;n ni me \nu are. It can't be n»ii . nh. s.iN :• ..>n": true.' 'Musha, God I'. Ii» N.-, ]^N-. >.M\:; s.iys he kindly «n.Mi!;h wlivr. :\' v.^u >n!nei!iin' was the "Mill-,:. Wa s:^. ,::.:::■: ^^ar him, sir, '•'« •■- i--.w-v'v: ■ \v- .iv." w .-,::d have fallen It ^l:ii Mvn^ ,;> :: x.i::;:ccn had had t\\.\n \\\Ov\ VvAW m JK V>\n the left lay the little village of (.'loiiL^lilouii^h- erty. its ([uaint, irrei^mlar streets run- ning alon«^^ at the ba^e of a hill, t»n whose summit a little i^^ray eliapel was silhouet- ted clearly ai^Min^l the evening sky. "There's where Kathleen rests." said my jarvey. pointing with his whip to- wards the stra^'^ling ohurchyard. which sloped down from the church to the vil- lage. "The s(|iiire"s lady had her buried there beside her wee lirian." *'I should like to see her grave," I ex- claimed, for the pathetic little story had touched me deeply: and. leavitig the t My boy. 4"J-ovc of my heart. * Dearest. car at the side of the road, we mounted the steep, winding path together. It was inexpressibly sad, that crowded God's acre on the wind-swept hillside, many of the green mounds without a stone at all, and manv, manv more bear- ing the date of the black famine year. The heavy clouds had lifted, and the sun shone out gloriously before setting. The windows of Craighdarragh blazed with color; the great mountains stood out blue and majestic against the rose and amber of the skv, and everv rain- droj) on the bushes, even the humid earth itself, caught and reflected the crimson glow. I turned from the dazzling sight to the simple white cross at which my com- panion halted, and my eyes rested on the inscription : "Sacred to the Memory of Kathleen O'Neill. Born at Knocknamurry, Cloughlough- ertv, 14th August, 1824. 1 )ie e as I stood beside Kathleen's gra\e with Honor Moore, the girl who had pronn>e treinhle. anlowly welled up. "^'e^. we «»we our ha])j)iness to her/* I \vhisi>ere(l. "Ihit for Kathleen you would not he Iktc now. my darling." And as Honor with a half-sob knelt to lay the snowdrops fro by iv r\\v:Y'^ Vvvvwk 73 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. Practical rather than imaginative, these people are naturally unselfish, and this trait takes the active forms of gen- erosity and benevolence. There is little abject poverty in Japan, no pauperism, almost no excessive wealth. Even the rich man dines not on nightingales' tongues, and money is little thought of save as a convenience. This strange state of affairs has grown out of the old feudal system, abolished in 1868, when the last Shogun was pensioned, for in old Japan the merchant, or money- maker, was ranked below the soldier, the farmer, or the artisan. Strange dis- tinction, think vou? Xot from the Japanese view-point, for the soldier up- held the honor of the country, the farmer tilled the soil in honest labor and en- riched his beloved Japan, the artisan wrought with his hands the evolution of his brain, while the money-getter traded upon the tastes of others and wrought naught save for his own emol- ument. That old feudal system of the Shogun- ate was one of the most remarkable in all history. Shogun was a title given in early times to the general commanding each of the four divisions of the empire, but, in 1 192, Goritomo Minamoto, after the great battle of Dannoura, was cre- ated Seiitai Shogun (Barbarian-cjuelling Great General) and, ruling nominally under the Mikado, laid the foundations of the Japanese feudal system. The office of Shogun became hereditary in his family, and gradually the Shogun grew so independent of the Emperor as to rival the French Merovingians and the mayors of the palace. A mere figurehead, the Mikado dwelt in his palace surrounded by every lux- ury, his person considered well-nigh too sacred to be exposed to the gaze of the "Jjoi poDo'i/' vet the inherent Japanese JojyaJty was so great that never in all the seven hundred years of the Bakufu, rul- ing cruelly and with unlimited power, do we hear the slightest breath of treachery upon the part of the real rulers of the empire. Where the Franks deposed monarchs or destroyed them with un- pleasant attention to detail, the Japanese cared for them in luxury ; all their man- dates were issued in the name of the Mikado; otherwise popular spirit would have rebelled. The Shogun was of the lordly Samu- rai class. Originally, the Samurai was a soldier who guarded the Mikado's pal- ace, but the word gradually took on the broader significence of the whole mili- tary class. This included the Shogun, or generalissimo, the daimios, or terri- torial nobles, and their retainers, among whom were the privileged *'two-sworded men." Every Samurai carried two swords ; one with which to fight and one with which to kill himself in case of necessity — it being considered a dis- grace to die by a common hand. Wonderful are the relics left to remind us of the old Shoguns! Superb tombs in memory of different rulers of the Shogunate, especially that of lyeyasu, the first Shogun, are magnificent monu- ments. Temples and shrines built by tliom, all in the most striking style of Japanese art, bear witness to their lux- uriant and artistic tastes, lent to the beauiifvine: of their country. The Sam- urai was a knight, the embodiment of all the best of chivalry and romance. Be- hind liini were centuries of training in the laws of honor, obedience, duty, and self-sacrifice. 'J'he etiquette of self-im- molation was his, the instinct of loyalty, the impulse of self-nian of Samurai rank, has an only snii, a naval officer, away in the tliickei.t of the fit^^ht. She says no word of lier sorrow; no hint of her natural anxiety mars the peace of the household,. 1)111 every morning she arises at four o'cbjck, bathes in ice water, and seeks the Shinto temj)le on the outskirts of the town long before daylight, praying for the preservation of her beloved son. Another Samurai ladv met the mes- senger who informed her of her son's honorable death in battle with the re- WITH SHOGUN AND SAMURAI. 75 mark : "Most honorable sir, it seems by your tidings that my son has been able to render to His Majesty, the Emperor, some slight service, which much rejoices me, his mother." The nice reticence is shown not only in the great things but in the least detail, and perhaps this is one reason why the home life of the Samurai is so pleasant. As a young ^rl, perhaps the Samurai has been admitted into the house of some daimio as lady in waiting to the high-born lady, and this privilege is eagerly sought after for the training in etiquette it involves, although for real courtesy her home training should seem sufficient. The housemother never scolds. Never in her life has she been scolded, why should she be disagreeable to others? In her own home, as a tinv baby she hears but courteous words; even more, then, should she bestow courtesy upon all within her husbands home — that husband chosen for her bv the wisdom and forethought of loving parents, and to whom her dearest wish is to render obedience, to anticipate his slightest desire. A true wife must render obedience and honor not only to her hus- band but to his old father and mother, and sometimes her life is a hard one. We hear a great deal about the diffi- culties which attend the Japanese wife, yet we are inclined to consider them ex- aggerated. Training stands for much, and to a sensitive soul, trained to the lodestar, Duty, the mere tact that duty is being well performed gives content- ment. Pampered and spoiled as are our American wives the Samurai women are not. But the true wife and mother, Oc- cidental and Oriental, is happy only when sacrificing selfish desires for her beloved, and for this the dainty Japanese has abundant opportunity. Sooner or later all must learn this lesson, and it is a debatable point which is the better fitted for the sacrifices of wifehood and motherhood, the American girl, spoiled from babyhood, accustomed to attention, imperious, inexperienced in all house- hold matters (the mother's boast being, "My daughter has never had a care in her life ; she'll have to have them soon enough, and I want her youth to be perfectly happy!) — or the carefully trained Japanese maiden, disciplined, ac- customed to setting aside lier own plans for those of others, cheerfully ready to do anything for those she loves. As a homekeeper, alert, economical, careful, she rujes her servants with diligence, yet is always ready for some errand of mercy to those less fortunate than herself. In feudal times the wife was the home guard in all times of the husband's ab- sence. She guarded her masters posses- sions as carefully as if he were there in time of war, while peace found her em- ployed in the most peaceful art of home- making. The pleasures of the Samurai women are few, such as we count pleasures. They are all simple in the extreme. A friend comes, not to have a cup of tea, but for dozens of tiny cups filled with the delicious beverage; a bit of exquisite embroidery engages the slender, tapering fingers ; it is cherry-bloom time, and there are the flowers from the garden to arrange, or, better still, the *'most rev- erend and honorable husband" is most graciously to escort his family upon a pleasure boat to Mukojinia to see the blossoms upon the side of Sumida. And as the gaily lighted boat drifts home- ward in the twilight, what sweet peace rests on the heart of this gentle soul, happy in her very self-abnegation. The same i)leasant spirit is shown among the children. How charming are those dear little Samurai boys and girls I Born into a heritage of good manners, they are irom t\\e\T t^T\\ts\. mx.'SAvo; ^<^ 76 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. uniformly treated with courtesy that the merry, light-hearted little creatures arc quite bewitching miniatures of their par- ents. A little Japanese boy of ten once saw an American child snatch an apple from a shop and run away with it, and the horror and astonishment of the Ori- ental were unbounded. Trained to mor- ality for the preservation of his own self- respect, it was simply impossible that a boy could do such a thing, and for months afterward he would refer to the occasion with puzzled wonder. At the great seige of Wakamatsu, where the Shogun made his last stand, a tiny girl was one of the beseiged, .carry- ing cartridges to the men on the walls. "Were you not afraid," she was after- wards asked. "No, most honorable one," was the answer. "I had my sword," pointing to a tiny sword which she wore at her side. "Had I been captured, I should have killed myself." It is pleasing to note that the Japanese children well repay the devotion show* ered upon them by their parents, for filial respect and obedience are the chief Japanese virtues, and a Samurai youth, especially, will care for his aged father and mother with the utmost reverence. Their loyalty and patriotism are un- bounded, and it is inspiring to hear the little voices singing the National Hyrnn^ beloved of Japanese since the eighth centur}', found in the Marivoshiu: * "Kixni ga vo wa Chiyo ni yachujo xii Sazari ishi narite Koke no musu made." Stirring words, sung by loyal lips through the long years of the Shogunate and typical of the devotion for "Tenshi Sama" (Son of Heaven), showing the true "Yamato Damashu"t felt by Nip- pon's loyal Samurai. * May our Sovereign live for thousands and tens of thousands of years, until the tiny peb- ble becomes a moss-covered rock." t Spirit of Japan. To Rainbow Town By Thomas Walsh I pray thee, tell nic who thou art. Pale youth, whose eyes like pilt^rim's yearn : Thou tak'st the iKithwav to niv heart, Where none must tread \vh(.) would reiui!i. Sweet shephers^^\v\Ocv 78 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. it could readily be seen came from a kind heart. Her step was quick but noiseless, her hands well-shaped and naturally white, though considerably roughened by hard work performed daily in the service of the sick and in- firm poor. • One only needed to see her cast a com- prehensive glance about the disorderly room to know that she was accustomed to the habits of the place and able to accommodate herself to them. One needed only to hear her say to the children, in a low, sweet voice: "Do not make any noise, my dears, your father is asleep," — to know that she did not originally belong — to tlie Faubourg. It was nearly a week before Louvard began to understand that a strange wo- man, silent and untiring, watched and waited upon him, night and day. When he gradually came to his senses, and recognized who she was, he was seized with a violent feeling of anger. "How had she dared lo come there?" he wondered. Send her awav? Indeed he should. But' first he would tell her what he thought of her and her prelensions. He was not afraid to speak his mind to "them" — no, indeed ! But, strangely enough, he was very weak, and contin- ued to lie there for nianv hours, watch- ing her sweep the room, prepare ihe meal, dress the children and send thcni to school, without a single word of re- monstrance. But when, her household tasks completed, she approached the bed with a nourishing drink in her hand, smiling brightly as she inquired : "Well, you are feeHng a great deal better, are you not, Pere Louvard ?'■ she received in reply such a volley of curses as would have made a trooper recoil. But the Sister did not recoil. Onlv, while the swearing went on, she did not smile, though her Jips moved. When it was finished she smiled again, but spoke no word, which exasperated louvard. Meantime, spring was advancing fast. In the neighboring window the tulip bulbs were bursting forth into green. The sick man, slowly convalescing, realized that violent bursts of anger were fatiguing and not good for him, and was fain to content himself with gnimbling at the Sister, while he endeavored to dis- cover when, and what, and how much she ate. He watched her with half-closed eyes, feigning sleep. And he soon learned that she neither ate with the children, nor took the smallest piece of bread from the cupboard, nor the tiniest sip of wine from the bottle. Every morning she brought food for herself in a basket, and sometimes she gave part of it to the little ones, who hung about her with adoring eyes. After all Louvard was human, and all this could not fail to make an impres- sion. To be sure, he would have to pay her at last : but an ordinary nurse would have cost more, he felt certain, and the results would not have been so satisfac- tory. The room was in order, clean and inviting as it had never been before, even in the lifetime of his wife, who, poor woman, had been obliged to spend most oi her waking hours among the hemp. The tire always burned brightly, the children had clean faces, their clothing no lont^er hun^ in rags about them, the boys' trousers had been repaired, the j^owns n\ the little girls mended also. What a good manager she was — to be sure! Ancl so (|uiet in every movement. Like all noisy men, Louvard liked quiet women. On the twentv-tirst dav he sat up for a little while in the afternoon. A few days later, as he steadily gained strength, the Sister said to him one evening : "Pere Louvard, I am going to leave you now. You will soon be as well as ever. tj THE GRATITUDE OF PERE LOUVARD. 79 at so? I am sorrv, but I shall rou to stay any longer, not being do so. As to getting well — we t later. How much Mo I owe ling, Pere Louvard.'* t is that? Your days* work?" lever accept anything." idea! Nothing for having kept othing for the soup, nothing for ding,, nothing for having taken tne? That must not be. I can lit it. Wait ! I have ten francs rose, and hobbled over to the e of the defunct Madame Lou- L kind hand laid upon his shoul- sured his feebleness, lot bother, 'mon ami,' " said the of voices, and the smile was larming than ever, "I can not iTthing. What I have done has ti for money. Good-bye, now, revoir.' If you should ever need J for me again, and I shall be :ome to you." t nonsense, Sister ! Here, here!" she had already disappeared the doorway — the black basket rm. at evening Pere Louvard was in le humor. When his neighbor towards nightfall, he cried out: is a fine one — that Sister!" t has she done, Pere Louvard?" has gone away without being he would not accept anything; n who took better care of my han mv own wife — be it said reproach — and who never tasted : my bread. Would you believe no, I can not let it go at that. >t do it. I tell you 1 must pay ehow." Pentecost came that year it ire Louvard an idea which he acted upon. The feast it sell concerned him but little, but the unusual abundance of flowers in the market put a thought in his mind. Being Sunday morning, he was not at work, but he went out very early, re- turning almost before any of his neigh- bors were up with an immense- bush of daisies in a huge pot. Sometime later he might have been seen issuing from his dwelling, carrying the flower-pot, the countless white and yellow blossoms bristling around his short neck like a halo, almost hiding it in their profusion. Proudly he walked through the Faubourg in his Sunday best, followed by his admiring family, also in holiday attire. As they passed the door of his charitable neighbor she looked out and smilingly inquired : "What have you there, Pere Louvard, and where are you going?" He stopped, shifted the flower-pot to his left hip for greater convenience, and looking lovingly down at his treasure, replied : "I am going to the Sisters. I am tak- ing this plant to that good Sister, whom you know of. A fine idea, don't you think so? I shall say to her: 'Sister, you would not accept any money, but all the same you must take something from me.' " "And if she will not?" "I have thought of that, neighbor. You do not know Pere Louvard. If she will not have it, I shall put the thing on the window-sill, and go away. But I think she will take it." He went on his road, staggering with the heavy load, for he was still weak, smiling and chuckling all the way, till he reached the other end of the Fau- bourg. Next day I passed by the house of the Sisters. The flower-pot was not on the window-sill. I think it might, probably, be found in the c\\apancis humbly withdrew, not, indeed, shaken in the strength of his vo- cation, but resigned until it should please (Jud tu manifest His will in favor of his nascent communitv. The time was not long delayed. The Pope at length, moved by the sincerity and sanctity of the young missionary, granted him a verbal api>robation oi his rule. Some years later, St. Francis drew up that rule in a more compendious form, and in this shai)e it was solemnly ratilied by Honor- iiis 111 in 1223. The world which St. Trancis and his companions set out to reform was in sore need of reformation. Tor centuries buffeted bv every hostile engine that malice could fashion, vet always triumphant, the Church seemed now threatened by the more insidious danger ot corruption from within Power ;iTvd vvo^v^I^^^• Vv^.\ \.to>x^W\ iVv^vr THE FIRST ENGLISH FRANCISCANS. 8i ant evils. The disiastrous struggle sn the two highest powers of endom, which began in the eleventh y and reached its climax in the mth, had seemingly ended in favor Papacy by the tragical downfall house of Hohenstaufen.(3) Inno- II had, a few years after his acces- > the chair of Peter, won back the ral power of the Church and thened its influence to a degree ng Gregory VI Fs ideal theocracy. d seen Peter of Aragon become his and, in token of submission, lay 3wn on the tomb of the apostles, e it replaced by the hands of the himself. John Lackland, at the end of Europe, was obliged to re- his from a papal legate after he vom fealty to the Holy See and himself to pay an annual tribute me. The efforts of Innocent III nbat the ecclesiastical disorders had crept into the medieval h, if no less vigorous than what I all his political activity, did not •uit so rapidly. Nothing, perhaps, more clearly the atmosphere of corruption which Innocent III so ed, as the rapid growth of startling *s, which found alike their origin e secret of their contagion in the es of the clergy of the time. The i extravagances of Manichaeism, ^agated by the Albigenses, and tinomianism of such sects as the rds and the Poor Men of Lyons, mt of a rebound from the carnal- the life of a considerable section Church in the thirteenth centurv. tspects of the heresies of the age >rthy of note. In the first place, the errors of Arius and Nestorius, are no longer the outcome of lysical subtlety and academic ►f intellect. Nor, secdhdly, do they up amongst the educated, but in . Pastor History of the Popes. Eng. Vol. I., p. 57. the ranks of the lesser clergy and amongst the people. The heresies of the thirteenth century were, in a word, based, so far as they extended, on popular and living issues.(4) This was precisely their danger, and it was, as we shall presently see, by heading a movement of reform within the Church and based on the ele- ment of truth in the errors of his day, that St. Francis and his disciples met with such miraculous success. Ideas of reform, of a return to the poverty and loving-kindness preached in the Gospel, were in the air. A preacher had only to advocate austerity and simplicity of life, and lo! there came at his word, not the laity only, but crowds of the clerg}'. We read of a certain visionary named Pons, who, towards the end of the twelfth century, aroused all Perigord by his discourses on the beauty of pov- erty.(5) It needed but the genius and the devotion of one who, while remain- ing a true son of the Church could enlist her sanction and influence in directing the vague altruism of the time and shape these abortive attempts into a genuine movement of reform. In Francis of As- sisi, that man was found. This "glorioso poverello di Dio, this "visionary," as many readers of his beautiful life are ac- customed to think, was, of a verity, pos- sessed of that true genius which consists in reading aright the signs of one's age. Always of course combined with his un- paralleled sanctity, this was the secret, under Providence, of the success of an achievement which seems to a superficial • observer so incommensurate with the means employed. "On all sides men begin to love the sick, the poor, the sinful; even to long for sickness and poverty, as if in them- selves they were virtuous. To rescue the (4) Vide an interesting essay on the "Beguines and the Weaving Brothers" in Madame Darmesteter's "The End of the Middle Ages." (5) Remeil des historieus dt l^ Fx^tv^^^^ Bouquet, tome xu, p. SS^SS^- 82 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. captive, to feed the hungry, to nurse the leper, as, unawares, St. Elizabeth of Hungary tended Christ in her Hungar- ian citv — this is the new ideal of man- kind. ♦ ♦ ♦ The modern age has be- gun. The saints of the preceding years had been men of a more militant or mon- astic turn, dogmatic minds like Bernard of Clairvaux, Xorbert, Thomas a'Becket. The era of charity and speculative thought begins when the twelfth century is drawing near the close.'*(6) Broadly speaking, these generalizations are well grounded. The best spirits of the three centuries preceding the thirteenth had been absorbed bv monasticism or the m Crusades — two noble ideals. With St. Francis of Assisi, religion was once more brought into touch with the joys and sorrows of real life : and every aspect of social a!ul oc<.»noniic civilization was in- terfuseil with its spirit and beauty. 1^7) 0\\, wondrous L'hurch that, in every ai^e. has inspired the highest ideals and fash- ioned them to the need of thv own mis- sion anvl aim. W'iih what >oemimrlv im- perfect uumus the wavs oi iiod are iusii- tied to man I What human ken couK! have anticipaievl liiai '\\\ one of the dark- est crisis of lier liistor> the^'huivh.whic-i Innocent III in his atYv'.;j;hted lireams saw : verier ins; to its ["ail. siunilvl W >\\y- por:evl -yx the sliouMers o! two oiu\\.i'.\l!\ weak ii'.en. Ir is I'.'.v.e :v^ Tvti'.vv. to \'.iv:e'.o 01 l^'.^.i and i'.is coT';pa!v.o!*.s \\::o:v Wv- !M\e «»v\''*. .ess. I »ll»,»»-'^l»l-v 1»'.* !•• \»'».«i- ^ a 1.1 lit !•» ■• ^ V.kl...C..,..\..l..V. .1 V ^, V. .k,\ W., ,.N » \ » 1 » - X. ' ■ ■..> \ ■ ■ ' ■ .1 came from the charitable. In London, Ox ford ,(8) Cambridge and Coventry Franciscan convents, destined to be fa- mous, quickly sprang up. Converts came, too, in astonishing numbers when we consider the condition of England at that time, and the rigor of the primitive Franciscan rule, which these first mis- sionaries strictlv adhered to. Within thirtv vears from the date of the arrival of Angelo of Pisa and his companions in the countrv, there were twelve hundred and forty-two Franciscans in England, and forty-nine convents. His first Eng- lish disciples, true to his teaching, had no other weapons than sanctity, Chris- tian love and poverty. Yet what marvels the silent and secret influence of these virtues wrought in the midst of a world- loving people I The Franciscans would have no possessions. Their property was borrowed from the authorities of the towns in which they settled. At Cambridge, their chapel was erected in a single day by one carpenter. At Shrewsbury, when, owing to the liber- ality kA the townsmen, the dormitory walls hail been built of stone, the Min- ister y^i the t"^rder had them removed and replaced with mud. To understand tlie eftect that these evidences of self- vlenia! were calculated to have, it is r.ece-^ary i.> i::ance for a iroment at the ::^v v\ v.. !•;:.!: o: the Church in Eng- 1 i.c !r.v v.xs. and particularlv the 'v:"\N. •: was who introduced V '• \ ,i:v /: v.'-:r:stian ci\nlization - '• a'.: the countries ^ v-> M/:::a:embert. "it is < •' . ::'.a: has been the " — ^ ^ A.- ■;» the monastic > ■< s.: believed in • ••vo friars find- ■' "^■?s:inning the ^'V^'.v \ % * - * N ^ ». . N N \ \ > parish) may Angl. viii, p. i:-r.g. Trans- : R«v. F. \. ■ 'n: Ximmo -rrt of mon- THE FIRST ENGLISH FRANCISCANS. 83 :ism as thev had never believed ing before. They were fully jus- their belief. The monks in Eng- re not religious merely, but the of a Church and nation. Each It monasterv became the centre industrial communitv. Towns up in their wake. They called ig cathedrals an*d parishes. "Far nfining themselves to prayer or labor," writes Montalembert of rly monks, "they cultivated and i with enthusiasm all the knowl- id literature possessed by the I their days. The distant places I they had been at first led by a solitude, changed rapidly and yr force of circumstances into Is, cities, towns or rural colonies, ed as centres, schools, libraries, ►ps, and citadels to the scarcely d families, parties, and tribes, the monastic cathedrals and the « I communities, towns which are existence formed rapidly, and il liberties soon dawned into life them, the vital p^uarantees of till exist, along with the very A the magistrates charged with ence and maintenance. "(10) The I of the monks on agriculture icularlv noteworthy. As is well serfdom died out in England any special legislation against it. too much to attribute its decline IV in that country to the benefi- ion of the monks as landlords. ;rfs," savs a recent Protestant i) "were best treated on the ec- ;al estates, and on priyate prop- ny liberations vveie granted at ritation of the priesthood." As can afford to neglect the masterly ion with which Doni Gasijuet this fine edition of Montr.lenibort's . opus.*' >. cit. Vol. IV^ p. .?o8. \'idi' also "Saxons in England." \'ol. II. pp. md Pearson's **The Early and Mid- of England," ch.*36. yarn's '^History of Shivery.'' p. SS. the result of this Christian action, we learn from Walter Map that in his time (twelfth centur>') the villeins were edu- cating their ignoble offspring in the lib- eral arts. When the monks came to England agriculture, except in the rudest form, cannot be said to have existed. Vast districts were uncultivated and un- inhabited, covered with forests or marshes. We must not forget that even in the reign of Henry III the population of England was only between a million and a half and two million- -considerably less, that is to say, than half the popula- tion of London at the present day. It is not overstating the matter to say that half this population lived in the large towns', so that the rural population, prop- erly so-called, must have been less than a million. It is obvious that the number of laborers of which that number would allow would be utterly disproportionate to the work of tilling a twentieth part of the soil. (12) As a matter of fact, the rural population was to a great extent centraHzed. If the reader will turn to a map of England and draw a line from Norfolk, through Reading, to Dorset- shire, he will have marke^ approxi- mately the area of greatest density of population . in the reign of Henry III. The effect of the rise of monasteries in remote districts may now be readily im- agined. The monks transformed deserts and forests into, if not market-gardens, at least into fat pasturage and abundant harvest-grounds. ( 1 3) "Medehamstede (now Peterborough), Ely, Croyland, Thorney, Ranisev, were the first battle- fields of these conquerors of nature — these monks who made of themselves ploughmen, breeders, and keepers of stock, and who were the true fathers of English agriculture. Thanks to their tra- (12) As a matter of fact, we learn that in the tliirtcenth century the populations of the town> and even the University students turned out periodically to till the ground and reap the harvest. (l^) c\. Lingard \, 267 84 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. ditions and example, - England has be- come the first agricultural country in the world/'(i4) In Henry HFs time, at the date of the coming of the friars, the mon- asteries in England might be counted by the hundred. In the fifty years preced- ing the accession of King John, more than two hundred had been built and en- dowed. But in the very success of mon- asticism in England, and in the lavish generosity which its institution drew from the Anglo-Saxon aristocracy, lurked secret evils which only required •time to develop. Thus the enormous grants of land which were originally made to the monks from motives of gen- uine religious zeal and charity, came eventually to be motived by different considerations. Monastic possessions were, the reader must remember, ex- empt from military service and taxes — a condition of things which led at once to abuses. Seduced by these exemptions, many nobles obtained, under the false plea of founding a monastery; vast grants of land on which they lived with their own vassals and, occasionally, some irregular monks who had been ex- pelled from true cloisters. "They then," says Montalembert, "called themselves abbots, and lived, together with their wives and children, on the . land extorted from the nation, with no care but that of their household and material interest." These pseudo- monasteries were a scandal even in the eighth century, when the famous Second Council of Cloveshove assembled, for we find that body censuring them as "houses which the tyranny of avarice, to the scandal of the Christian religion, retains in the hands of w^orldly persons, invested with them, not by divine ordi- nance, but by an invention of human presumption."(i5) Another alarming result of the prevalence of these false monasteries and one which had no little effect in preparing the way for the Nor- man invasion, was the diminution of the military resources of the country. "In the midst of the peace and security we enjoy," wrote the illus- trious Bede, in 731, "many North- umbrians, some noble, some hum- ble, put aside their arms, cut their hair, and hasten to enrol themselves in the monastic ranks, instead of exercising themselves in their military duties. The future will tell," he adds, with wonderful prevision, "what good will result from this." The future justified Bede's fears. Tlie reader will now, perhaps, be pre- pared to hear that when Angelo of Pisa and his Friars Minor landed in England, the monastic system had from a variety of causes degenerated from its pristine vigor and influence. The splendid old Benedictine monasteries, such as Mal- mesbury, St. Albans, Glastonbury(i6) still remained, it is true, to show what the true glory of English monasticism had been. Such institutions, in which the primitive rule of the Benedictines remained almost unimpaired, were, how- ever, it is to be feared, the exceptions. "Optimi corruptio pessima." The type of monk most familiar to the Englishman of the thirteenth century was, contem- porary history and literature leave us no option but to think, a selfish worldling. The reule of seint Maure or of Seint Beneit, By-cause that it was old and soxn-del streit, — This ilke Monk leet olde thynges pace And hceld after the newe world the space.(i7) We must, of course, remember that vice, then as now. was far more ostenta- tious than virtue, and that the undeni- ably large number of monks who still reflected honor on their religion by lives of saintly asceticism were likely to seek the cloister retreat, awav from a turbu- seq. (14) Montalembert, Vol. IV, p. 319. OsJ cf. Montalembert, Xol IV, p. 340 et (16) The reader who does not know of it will thank me for calling his attention to Dom Gasquet's splendid monograph on this venerable abbey entitled: "The last Abbot of Glastonbury and his Companions." C17) Ca^LUcti '^tcAo^t \. I. 173-176. THE FIRST ENGLISH FRANCISCANS. 8^ lant and wicked world, and thus to be far less "en evidence" than the pleasure- hunting and richly-clad person whom Chaucer has immortalized. Be that as it may, the Englishman of the thirteenth century, and especially the townsman, had scant reverence for the average type of the monk with whom he was likely to come in contact. Nor were the sec- ular clergy of the day,(i8) who divided with the monk the responsibility for the religious well-being of the country, as reputable as their sacred vocation de- manded. Here, too, it is evident allow- ance must be made for the extravagances of contemporary caricature and the per- sistence of discreditable types. But when all deductions are allowed for, it is im- possible to overlook the fact that in Eng- land, as in Italy, France, and Spain,(i9) the most serious moral disorders were prevalent amongst the clergy. To this wealth and license, the Fran- ciscan of the thirteenth century opposed a spirit of poverty and asceticism that, for men who were to live, rot in cloisters but in the very heart of a sensuous world, strikes us as miraculous. It was miracu- lous. The friars made at once for the towns. The first Franciscans were, be- fore all else, missionaries of the towns, which at the time I write of were grow- ing into distinct importance. It was the age of the rise of mercantile communi- ties everywhere. As in everything else, the modern spirit was invading com- merce, and the free burgher and rich merchant were already the serious rivals of the barons. Again, the monks, as we have seen, were the possessors of vast estates, and their monasteries, like col- leges or universities, diffused learning and education no less than habits of or- (i8) Lingard "Antiquities of the Anglo- Saxon Church," Vol. I, p. 457 et seq. explains fully the organization of the parochial sys- tem in England, on which space does not permit me to touch. (19) So far as Spain is concerned vide art. ''Dominicans" in Arnold's Catholic Die- tionary. der and economy among the tenants of the soil. The Franciscans, on the other hand, never became landowners. Theirs was essentially a social mission, and in the towns of England in the thirteenth century there was a wide field for their labors. They did not shrink from the task. The parochial system in the Eng- lish towns had, at least as a spiritual agency, almost broken down, and con- sequently the moral condition of these communities was chaotic. Their ma- terial condition was hardly less wretched. Cheek by jowl with comparative wealth and ostentation, poverty and disease of a most appalling kind existed. Leprosy (some think the soldiers engaged in the Crusade brought it back from the East), now unknown in the British Isles, was then shockingly common in England. Outside the boundaries of each town and village, the hapless creatures stricken with this terrible malady were huddled together, outcasts and neg- lected. Banished from society, out- lawed, a curse to themselves and an ob- ject of disgust to all — these "butt-ends of humanity" (to use a powerful phrase of Stevenson's)(2o) simply rotted to the grave. St. Francis, as we know, was in an especial manner .the apostle of the lepers. (21) His first English disciples (20) "Letter to Dr. Hyde." (21) An example taken from his lite will illustrate the spirit in which St. Francis min- istered to these unfortunates. In a certain hospital served by the Brothers was a leper so cross-grained and impatient that he was held to be possessed by the devil. He heaped blows and insults on those who came to wait on him, and perpetually blasphemed Christ and His Virgin Mother. The brethren would have borne the blows, but thev could not tol- erate the blasphemy: yet. before dismissing him, they sent to tell St. Francis, who came to see the wicked leper. "May God give thee peace, my dearest brother!" was his saluta- tion. **\Vhat peace," asked the leper, "can I have from God. who has taken my peace from me and made me a mass of stinking cor- ruption?" "Brother, be patient, God gives us diseases in this world for the salvation of our souls." "How can I be patient under pains which torture me day and tv\g,Vvt^ ^^v^^^'^^ your friars are uucT\dv\ta.b\^, ^lud do xvoX. VslSw. care of me as they oug\\tr 71^^ ^^cv^ x^^ovcAt^ 86 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. were in this respect worthy of their founder. Let me quote, apropos, the fol- lowing fine eulogy of the early Fran- ciscans, from one whose studies have made him admirably qualified to speak with authority on the subject. I refer to Dr. Jessop, the Protestant rector of Scarning, to whose fairness in dealing with Catholic questions every one must bear testimony. "To the poor, by the poor," he writes in his charming vol- ume of essays entitled, "The Coming of the Friars :" • "These masses, these dreadful masses, crawling, sweltering in the foul hovels in many a southern town, with never a roof to cover them, huddling in groups under a dry arch, alive with vermin ; gibbering 'cretins' with the ghastly wens; lepers by the hundred, too shocking for mothers to gaze at, and therefore driven forth to curse and howl in the lazar-house out- side the walls, there stretching out their bony hands to clutch the frightened almsgiver's dole, or, failing that, to pick up shreds of offal from the heaps of garbage — to these St. Francis came. More wonderful still ! — to these outcasts came these other twelve, so utterly had their leader's sublime self-surrender communicated itself to his converts. *We are come/ they said, *to'live amoncj vou and be vour servants, and wash vour sores and make vour lot less hard than it is. We onlv want to do as Christ w I bids us do. We are beggars, too, and we, too, have not where to lay our heads. St. Francis betook himself for a while to prayer, and. returning, said to him: "My son. since you are not satisfied with the others, I will wait on you myself." **And what can you do for me more than they?" "1 will do whatever yon wish." "Well, then, wash me from head to foot, for I smell so horribly I cannot bear myself." Forthwith a batli was heated, with many sweet-smelling herbs, a Brother ])oured out the water, and Francis bathed with it the noisome body. As his hand-;; passed over the leprous limbs — ^^o runs the legend — the incurable disease fled away before that loving touch, and the blaspheming Jjps poured forth uords of deepest penitence and adoring gratitude. Christ sent us to vou. Yes ; Christ the crucified, Whose we are and Whose you are. Be not wroth with us; we will help you if we can.' As they spoke, so they Hved. They were less than the least, as St. Francis told them they must strive to be. Incredulous cynicism was put to silence. It was wonderful ; it was inexpHcable; it was disgusting; it was anything you please; but where there were outcasts, lepers, pariahs, there were these penniless Minorites, tending the miserable sufferers with a cheerful look» and not seldom with a merry laugh." Is it anv wonder that the Franciscans were evervwhere welcomed? Here was m a self-sacrifice calculated to win back respect and reverence for the Church in England. They were, indeed, a revela- tion in a self-seeking age — this divine pity and compassion, and this declaration of the brotherhood of men. In a crisis of English civilization these despised mendicant friars arose to meet the new difficulties by new means. "There are few grander pages in history," writes the Protestant historian, Pearson, "than the record of the privations and suffer- ings by which the Franciscans triumphed over public opinion in England. Taking no thought for the morrow, living on meagre pittances, often of the most re- pulsive frtod. huddled together that they nii^ht fight through the bitter winters by animal warmth, walking barefoot through deep snow, tried by all diseases which austerities can induce in weak frames, disliked, envied and annoyed by the established Orders, sustained through every difficulty by the faith whose inner life is the miraculous — these men retrieved two generations to the Church and renewed decayed learn- ing." The entluisiasni with which the Franciscans wt^re everywhere received, and the number of converts that rushed to j(.)in their C)rder. are striking evi- dences, if evidence were wanting, that religious Eni^^land of that day was not altogether in the hopeless state of decay TANGLED THREADS. 87 lich it is occasionally stated to have , By the simple yet potent force of ; lives inspired by a noble ideal, early Franciscans restored some- ; of the primitive fervor of the faith, the dark era of the "soi-disant" rmation, they remained the evan- irs of the English towns, and when ninions of the lustful tyrant, Henry y came to sack their possessions, they found n6 hidden treasures but hurches in which they worshipped, ibraries in which thev read, and the houses in which they passed their No loot for a cruel spoiler, in 1! but treasures laid up "where er moth nor rust doth corrupt, and e thieves do not break through nor »» ch were the early English Francis- — men of single-purpose and heroic Circumstances, however, were destined to modify their methods, gh not to corrupt their spirit. The necessities of their mission, indeed, even before the death of their ier forcing them to look for weap- which St. Francis himself had de- d — the great weapons of knowledge icience. St. Francis was opposed to earning of his age solely as breed-, )ride of intellect rather than Chris- humilitv. "What have we to do with species and genera?" asks a'Kem- pis, and in the same spirit the saint of Assisi, on hearing of the fame of some great philosopher, exclaims: "How much happier he who makes himself barren for the love of God?" But new needs require altered methods, and thus the Order which began in poverty and almost enforced ignorance of worldly knowledge, became with amazing rapid- ity the great promotor of learning; and such men as Roger Bacon, Raymond Lullv, and Father Cre- scentius, became the pioneers of phy- sical and medical science. The con- ditions under which this remarkable transformation of the Franciscan idea was brought about are full of interest. But I must defer their consideration to a future date, content now if I have given the reader some conception of the revo- lution which the coming of the friars in the thirteenth century meant in the English social and religious life of that time. The considerations I have been urging are not such as are commonly obtruded in our historical text-books, but to those who feel with me that the present has its roots in the past, and that history is not a mere lecord of bat- ties and dynasties, they will have, if I may say so, an interest at once genuine and abiding. TANGLED THREADS By WILLIAM J. FISCHER mehow or other the gnarled oaks, nd majestic, remind one of the pure, , giant intellects that tower above world's mediocre crowd. Their feet « the ground, but their heads — ah ! are heaven-kissed and star-crowned. child is the sweetest, loveliest thing irth. On its pure soul pvcr lingers benediction that has fallen from God's white finger, and from its lips — two roses blown apart — many a bird-like, cheery message takes wings and flies into the empty cages of our hearts to give us a glimpse of that soft-hearted, gentle, brooding peace and happiness we all so ardently long for. ♦ ♦ ♦ Every where, we m^el \.V\])iring souls, and I see them tinning ticrccly from one opposing con- dition only to tin inexorable. It is to such I wduM say a few \vor(l> : Stop fretting! It (>nlv \vcakrn> yoin* i)o\vers. Instead of waiting y<»nr strength tugging at the chain, koop <\\\\ nntil your husbanded powers are sufficient to break it by one (leterniined effort. And while you wait, work ! And 1 charge \ ou t<.) do vour work as Joel T. Hart built his chinmeys and stone fences ! THE GARDEN BENCH. 91 Are you a farmer boy, with desire for a higher place in the world and the gen- ius to fill it creditably if you only had the chance? Are you proving your fitness for it by now slighting your work in the corn-field, by carelessness in the per- formance of your duties to the commu- nity of which you are a member, by per- mitting discontent to sour your disposi- tion and make those about >*ou unhappy ? On the contrary, you are deliberately de- stroying whatever ability you may have for the higher position. If you would prove to us that you are called to other and better things, let us see your furrow straighter than any one else's; let us be able to distinguish your part of the field by the finer growth of the corn and the freedom of the ground from weeds. Let us see you proving your superiority of character in your defense of the right in your small locality, and doing your share toward promoting the happiness of others. Let us see, while you are do- ing what your hands find to do with all your might, your quiet determination to hold the position to which the powers of your mind and soul call you, guiding you. Let us see this, and we shall be convinced that though the world were to set itself against you, .it could not thwart your purpose. But the world never so sets itself. It is only the pessimist who says so. The world may not help us — why should it? — but it gives the right of way to the one who demands it. The forces of Nature herself cannot daunt the determined of soul. Are you a woman, in whose heart dis- couragement has taken up her abode? Thrust her out! How can vou, an ini- mortal soul, yield tamely to the condi- tions that the blind workings of Circum- stance have built around vou? Break them down this day, if vou have the strength, and make yourself free, as it was intended from the hegmning of things that you should be ; if you have not the strength now, determine to pos- sess it, and then wait calmly and silently. There is no force so resistless as that of quiet, silent determination. The one who blusters and talks of what he will do rarely accomplishes anything of note. The men and women who have won greatness in any field of endeavor have nearly always been quiet people, never talking of their intentions and rarely boasting of their achievements. They kept their thoughts to themselves until it was time to deliver them in words or actions ; then, whether the world blamed or praised their results, they were indif- ferent, being occupied with new thoughts for future words or deeds. In the garden are two young peach- trees, of the same variety and planted the same year ; but one had the misfor- tune to be placed near a grape-vine, while the other was set in an open space. The latter is growing into a sturdy tree, symmetrical in shape, and the way it rises from the ground suggests strength and long years of usefulness. In the spring it was a cloud of roseate beauty, and now hard, green balls predict luscious fruit for September. Very different is the condition of its companion. The grape- vine, after the fashion of unpruned vines, whether vegetable or hiunan, grew rapidly, and not having been trained to do without a support, reached out and twined itself around the tree. At first it looked pretty, but soon the vine be- came coarse and tenacious, wound itself like a serpent around the slender trunk, caught the unformed branches, and soon spread its large, thick leaves over the entire tree. The struggle of the tree has been long and painful. With every inch of its growth it has had to lift the weight of the cumbeimg \\w^, ^tvv\ ^VA^ Sxs. iv?.- 92 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. ter stands straight and tall, it is bent and dwarfed, its branches twisted and shorn of their natural grace. Its effort to achieve the purpose of its existence is sad. Its blossoms were few and pale, and by searching for them I can find a few green peaches, but, screened as they are by the grape leaves, which deprive them of air and rain and sunshine, thev give no promise of maturity. In the larger garden of life how many, many promising trees are thus destroyed by human vines! It may be a man, whose promising career is ruined by a weak, parasitic wife ; it may be a woman, who allows devotion to the objects of her aflFections to clasp her life like so many rank, oppressing vines, until it is de- prived of the most ordinary pleasures of existence, besides being entirely thwarted in its development. It is high time that that sentimental bosh of the oak and the ivy were eliminated from the minds of men and women. In reality there is and can be nothing pretty in an oak swathed in vines, and when we think of that beau- tiful tree it is always of one standing in the freedom and grace of its own nature ; and whoever loves such trees does not wonder that, in the childhood of relig- ious sentiment, they were regarded as the fit dwelling-place for gods. As for vines — I never could see any need for them, and regard it a waste of time and ground to cultivate them. They are the weaklings of nature and should be treated as such. In the vinevards vou will not see the vines creeping along the ground or climbing up trees, producing inferior fruit, having expended all their vitality in growth ; but you will find them plants of sturdy growth, low and erect, bearing on their few branches large bunches of juicy fruit. As the vintage- maker treats his vines, so should human vines be treated. One of the first lessons a child should be taught is to stand erect, as befits a heaven-facing creature. Not only should his bodv be held erect but his mind and his soul. With the dawn of intelligence the staff of self-reliance should be placed in his hands and he should be made to depend upon himself. This sounds harsh, nay, cruel, for love always prompts us to offer our arm for the support of a dear one. But the time comes when the poor arm begins to fail, and when it falls, helpless to defend itself or the beloved one, there are two ruins where there should have been none. Souls are not -sent into this world vines ; they are made such after getting here, especially if they happen to have garbed themselves in the form of the fe- male. God never intended anyone to usurp His relationship to the soul. "Call no man your father," commanded Christ, and who tries to obey the injunc- tion knows that its first fruit is depend- ence on self. "God helps those that help themselves,'* and "Trust in God and keep the powder dry," are the es- sence of wisdom. Ask voursclf if vou are a vine. If truth compel the affirmative reply, and further shows you that not only are you a worthless member of society but a detriment to the natural development of the life upon which you have fastened your destructive growth, cut yourself away to begin a new, erect growth. It will l)e i)aiiifnl t(.) do this, and you will make little progress toward individuality at tirst, f(.^r the habit kA leaning is a hard one to overc(.)ine ; but if you are in earn- est, eventuallv vou will succeed, and grow into what God intended you to be, instead of proving a deadening weight around the neck of the one who loves you best. Current Comment Oood Books Providence Visitor Not all the reverses of life can take away the delight of a good book; nor is there a better way of **making our- selves, ' once we have left school, and of acquiring education and refinement than by communing with the great minds who have written their thoughts for the good of those who live after them. A good book is the very best of friends. We may converse with it and be sure that our confidence will never be be- trayed. We may have it near us when.- €ver we wish — a trait in which a book is unlike our other friends, who have all to be sought for and handled with care if we wish to retain their friendship. And, besides, in the matter of books we may choose our own companions, whereas in cvery-day life we are forced to make friends of those whom we meet whether or not they have similar tastes and char- acteristics as ourselves. The man or woman, therefore, who de- sires to hJive good friends, who aims at more than mere mediocrity, who loves to live in the past as well as the present and to converse with the great minds who have enlightened the world, will secure and keep ever at hand those dearest of all friends — good books. Faith and Non-Catholic Colleges The Cafiket W^e often see it offered as an excuse for Catholic young men going to non- Catholic colleges, that if their religion is worth anything they will not lose it. Such an argument was once presented to Henry Parr Liddon, when he was pleading that the religious character of Oxford should be maintained. "Is not this manifestly a confession," he was asked, "that religious truth needs a spe- cial protection ior its existence?" To which question he replied: "Speaking absolutely, we know that religious truth can take good care of itself, or rather that, in history, in the long run, God will take very good care of it because it is His Truth. But in the concrete and par- ticular case of young men living to- gether, tempted to every sort of moral mischief, and eager to get rid in their worst moments of the sanctions and control of religion, it is no disparage- ment to religious truth to say that it does need protection. * * * Xo treat Oxford undergraduates as in all respects men, appears to me the greatest possible mistake.*' The patrons of the other idea are, consciously or unconsciously, be- lievers in "the survival of the fittest." If they see a Catholic young man make shipwreck of faith or morals in a non- Catholic university, they conclude that he was a wretched weakling who would have never done the Church credit any- how. But what about his individual soul ? Christ our Lord thought it worth saving at an infinite cost, and shall we look on its loss as a matter of small ac- count? Rum in the Army The Ca.Hket In the old davs of naval warfare a double portion of rum was served to sailors going into action. Britain and the United States have given up this cus- tom ; Russia has retained it, while Japan never had it. This may ^o far to explain why Togo was able to annihilate Rojest- vensky's fleet so quickly. The German Mniperor seems to think so, and he is the keenest and shrewdest observer of such matters in the world to-day. Whatever the advantage of alcoholic stimulation to the men who fought with cutlasses and boarding-pikes, there can be none to those whose victory must dei)end on their abiUty lo s\^\\\. \\v\?,^ ^wcvs ^\>^ 94 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. sufficient accuracy to destroy a ship sev- eral miles away. There are no grog rations in the American navv at all ; and m the regulations of the I»ritish Admiralty forbid either beer or spirits to be given to the men during battle. On board British, American and Japanese warships it is the fine old beverage beloved of hay- makers, oatmeal water, which is served to the men during an engagement. On land as well as on sea the Kaiser thinks the Russians have suffered from their drinking habits. Lord Lansdowne says the same, but we rely more upon the Kaiser's opinion, for he is a better judge and one who is friendly to Russia. Ten years ago Lord Wolseley proved that in sham fights the whiskey drinkers had less endurance than the beer drinkers, and the beer drinkers less endurance than the water drinkers. Kitchener's men, in "the man-eating Soudan," were able to cover thirty miles of sand, with empty water-bottles, under a blazing sun, because they were not allowed a single drop of grog during the campaign. If the victor of Khartoum had had his way, the same regulations would have been enforced in South Africa, and the Boers would have been beaten sooner. The Japanese troops are total abstainers : the Russians, we are told by friendly wit- nesses, are immoderate drinkers, both officers and men. The time is fast ap- proaching when the drinking man will be told to stand aside in every occu])a- tion of life, with that most cutting of comments upon his inefficiency : "You're not up-to-date." Catholic Wealth and Catholic Schools Catholic Mirror We cannot prevent a feeling somewhat allied to regret when we read of some new million-dollar gift to a non-Catholic university. It is not permitted to us to be envious or covetous, yet it seems hard that all these benefactions are going the other \YB\ to fatten alreadv enormous endow- ment funds, while our Catholic institu- tions are struggling to keep their heads above water. Things Catholic have been generally handicapped in whatsoever direction we may choose to look, yet the fetters are not the easier to be borne because they have been on so long. . All we want is a good square chance, with our right foot on the same tape with our opponents, and we'll be heard from in the race. This is by no means saying that we are not heard from now, but if we can make our present educational showing against such odds, what could we not do with well-endowed univer- sities ? ^^'e have no word of complaint to speak against the generosity of our Cath- olic people. They have given and lib- erallv, too, but it is to the individual Catholics of wealth that we must look for our endowment funds. Tresident Wilson, of Princeton, re- cently announced a gift of 336 acres of ground to the L'niversity, more than doubling its present holdings. A second benefactor presents a recitation hall to cost about $300,000, while a third adds an additional S 100.000 to the annual in- come of the institution. Is it any wonder that Princeton is such a charming place to look upon ; that her atmosi)herc is so intellectual ; her faculty so conij)ctent, her courses so manifold? These are i)rincely gifts, hut may we not look for snnie such assistance from our «.)wn ])e<)])le to the e(lncati<">nal cause? ( >nr collejj^es and universities are not cxertiiiiT the influence tliev should be- cause their hands are tied. The effort to kee]) abreast uf the limes consumes all their funds, and ilie raj>i(l expansion and develoi)nient wliich oni^hl to be taking I)lace is heM in abeyance tlirough lack of means necessary to pu.sh the work. (.)ur help nuist come from those who arc superabundantly supj^lied with this world's goods. CURRENT COMMENT. 95 Immignition Monitor One million, in round numbers, was the total immigration from all countries to the United States for the past year. The problem which the figures suggest is to be taken up by the authorities at an earlv dav. If these million went out on the land instead of herding for the most part, as they do. in the squalid quarters of big cities already suffering from a congestion of the very poor, the advent of the newcomers would involve no prob- lem, industrial or otherwise. On the other hand, their coming would prove in every way advantageous alike to the country and themselves. This Republic is ver\' far from any danger of over-pop- ulation, even at the rate of a million • immigrants a year, provided the influx properly distributes itself. Under pre- vailing economic conditions, however, the big cities of the country, from the Pacific to the Atlantic, are already hope- lesslv overcrowded with the class to which the great mass of immigrants are inevitablv destined to add. Public Schools Monitor According to The Churchman, ''the best educational thought joins now with the ripest Christian judgment in recog- nizing that the public schools must be as absolutely separated from formal relig- ious instruction as the Stitc is from tho Church, and this in tho interest Ix^tli of religion and education/* We must pre- sume that The Churchman rei^anls itseh' as representing the "best educational thought*** and **the ripest Cliristian judg- ment.*' For whom else is our modest contemporary authorized tf) sj^eak so dogmatically on the subject? The same journal avers that *'to say tlie ])ub]ic schools are Godless, is t(^ brincf an in- dictment against the whole Anurican people." Not necessarily. It is. at worst, an indictment of four-fifths of the people of A/77e»r/ca who- own iin religious affiliations whatever, together with that section of non-sectarian sectaries who, like The Churchman, appear to think that religious and moral training in the public school means a desecration of that sacred institution. What Has Been Accomplished Frei'man's .TournAl Fifty years ago what is now our West African mission field did not contain a single vestige of Catholic Church or mission. It contains to-dav the Vicari- ate of Dahomev, the \'icariate of the Gold Coast, the Vicariate of Benin, the Prefecture of the Upper Niger, and the Prefecture of the Ivorv Coast. These districts count three Bishops, two Pre- fects Apostolic holding quasi-episcopal jurisdiction, one hundred and eighty priests, ninety religieuses, forty-seven chapels and churches, of which four have negro congregations of more than two thousand respectively, fifty-three colleges and schools, fifty-one orphan- ages and dispensaries, two leper homes and other minor institutions. It will be already understood that these Bishops, priests and sisters are all members of the African Mission Society, and that the missions of which they are in charge have been established by themselves and by their predecessors of the same society. ( )ut work in West .\frica and in Egypt has been hitherto mainly supplied with ])ric*sts and with material resources from certain bases of sn])i)ly in I-Vance. These the recent anti-religious camiuiign in that euuntry has i)raetically destroyed, and till- niissi(.ni of seeking ai ha> ])een latel}' a])i)ointed Secretary ^f tlie Xavy l)y PresideiU Roosevelt, is the kin miles of the L'niversity of Michijjan. Its pro- prietor is .\ndrcw !•". Smith. .\s one reaches the highest of seven liills that surround i(. he sees many red, barulike buildings, with dozens of little windows in them, atul beside each a tiny inclosnrc surrounded with wire netting. As he walks down this hill, espeeially if it is early morning, iiis cars are puz- zled by a strange, steady, purring noise. As he draws nearer it ^rows louder. Sometimes, with a suddenness that is startling, there conies absolute quiet. In that interval, perhaps twenty thou- sand guinea-pigs are crouching abso- lutely motionless, without a sound. Then from i>ne of the houses comes a twitter, which is taken up in another, until the whole sinnid is back again. ( 'rdinarily the proprietor of this great guinea-pig rrnich takes pleasure in show- he brings his visitor to ings he knocks on the .- tiny voice inside is 10 snildeniy throws the g the widls of the build- ing hi one quieteil. Th ■"bunk-i." with wire in e;tch hunk are per- unidred guinea-pigs. k nil the iloor has tiif front of the Thonsands oi eager little eyes ■nt fr.mi the white, black, and tortoise-shell maue>. Tliere are thou- sands of shaggy heads as motionless as if mg are scnres oi dofirs ill front, and liaps fiflv or ;i The >urised when he heard by chance that the books had been con- signed unread to the tlames. In •^i)ite of ill is. a boy and \(\x\ sent a ^dad hurrah! tln-(m.i,^]i the house when Christmas rolled ar«jund air«iin. for Dor- othy was InijLxi^in.j::^ a doll lal.jeled, **From Aunt Margaret," and Richard was cut- ting marvelous figures on the parlor cari)et with skates marked. "From Cousin Latimer." Confraternity of the Rosary ROSARY MISCELIZ^NY. I. HHE custom of carrying the beads openly came natural to the faithful of the closing Middle Ages. The Rosary then, as now, was preeminently a Catholic prayer. It was natural, too, that the Creed was prefixed to the mysteries proper, and that the people professed their belief in the mysteries of the Re- demption by publicly wearing its sym- bol. In 1477 Francisci tells us that many persons carried the beads on their arm, girdle, or about the neck. He com- plains that some gratified their vanity by procuring beads of precious stones and wearing them for ostentation. In 1500 the Venetian envoy in England testifies to this practice, especially among the women. A certain will of the fifteenth century provided that the beads be publicly worn in token of mourning. II. It may confidently be said that the Rosary was one of the commonest pray- ers in the Middle Ages. The Francis- can, Coelde, tells us that in the Rhine provinces, Westphalia and the Nether- lands there were numberless people who daily said the Rosary, and many said it three times each week. In Denmark the same practice obtained. After his apostasy Petersen complained that the people went to church too frequently and said the beads without ceasing. "In the future," he said, "it is enough to say one Tater' instead of the Rosary, for it has wrought no good among the people." III. It was the practice of St. Dominic to intertwine the Rosary in his sermons. He would explain a mystery and then recite with the people the corresponding, decade. Later on, owing to the scarcity of priests, the person who recited the beads would himself propose the mys- tery without the assistance of the priest. IV. The Rosarv, as we have it from St. Dominic, has inspired the faithful to ar- range, with more or less approach to the original, similar lists of prayers. Thus in a German treatise on rosaries in gen- eral we find fifty-six species enumerated, similar in design and mechanical make-up to the Rosary strictly so-called. We find a rosary to St. Aloysius, several to Our Lord and the Blessed Virgin. The Church has tolerated and even indul- genced many of these because they respond to various desires of the Chris- tian heart. But lately the promiscuous multiplication of beads has been dis- countenanced. The Dominican Rosary is by far the most richly indulgenced of any, and for that and various intrinsic reasons ought to be preferred. V. The pictorial representation of beads goes back to the days of St. Dominic. In I*>ance a bead-string was found on the neck of a statue of one of the Mont- I04 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. forts. In Denmark and England many beads have been found on statues of nobles. There exists in southern France a picture of the thirteenth century in which we find six religious, one of whom is holding in his hand a Rosary. These facts prove not only the high favor en- tertamed for this prayer, but also its an- tiquity. VI. Nearly all the saints who have lived since the time of St. Dominic have been devoted to the Rosary. Nor was this predilection for the beads confined to the spiritual family of St. Dominic. St. Ignatius Loyola daily said the Rosary and enjoined its daily recitation on the lay-brothers of his Order. St. Paul of the Cross was accustomed to lead his friends to a secluded chapel on a favorite mountain height and there sing the praises of Mary in her Rosary. St. Fran- cis de Sales in the rule of life which he drew up for himself included the Rosary to be said kneeling. St: Camillus de Lellis was shocked to find a priest with- out a chaplet and cried out, "A priest without a Rosary ? * The lately beatified Cure d'Ars always said his beads while going on sick calls, feeling certain that none of his sick would die before he reached them. VIT Not onlv saints, but men of the world in high places and low have been faithful to the Rosary wiien other forms of prayer and pious practices were forgot- ten. We read that Napoleon one even- ing at the theatre was discovered saying his beads. Xot to appear inconsistent perhaps, as his historian says — but also, mayhap, from humility, for all men re- tain some piety and virtue — he told off his beads, hiding them under his cloak. Louis XIV, even on the days of his wildest orgies, could not forget nor neg- lect the advice of his mother, who had said that she would rather see him dead than omit saying his Rosary. THE VISITATION — EXTRACTS FROM A SER- MON BY Sfr. AMBROSE. Here it is the superior who comes to the inferior; Mary to Elizabeth, Christ to John. The presence of Jesus and Mary is ever fraught with blessings. Elizabeth first heard the words, John first received the grace; she perceived through the operation of nature, he re- joiced by reason of a mystery; she knew the approach of Mary, he of the Saviour. Mary remained with Elizabeth three months and returned to her own home. Nor was it wholly through charity that she prolonged her stay, but to accom- plish the will of God. For if at Mary's first coming the infant leapt in Eliza- beth's womb and the mother was filled with the Holy Ghost, to what a degree must this grace have increased in Mary's presence ? WHY SAY THE ROSARY? Why do Catliulics recite the Rosary? Why do they re])cat "Hail Mary*' fifty times or more every day ? Can this repe- tition ct)nstitute an intellectual form of j)rayer, and has not Christ himself con- dennied "nuich speaking ?"( i) Onr Lord certainly condennied 'vain prayers and every sort of hypocrisy. But much speaking or repetition is not 0) St. Matt, vi, 7. CONFRATERNITY OF THE HOLY ROSARY. 105 always vain. We learn from the New Testament that the angels in Heaven are ever saying, "Holy, Holy, Holy.'X^) This is, indeed, repetition, and so is the "Hail Mary" of the Rosary, but neither of them is empty nor vain. Each time the cherubim say "Holy"(3) they ac- knowledge some new phase in the ex- haustless beauty of the Infinite. So with every Angelic Salutation the Rosarian considers some point in the life and suf- ferings of Jesus Christ Those who object that the Rosary is vain repetition do not know its funda- mental principle. Any Catholic, and surely any Rosarian, Hvould tell them that the first thing requisite in the reci- tation of the beads is meditation, and that vocal prayers are emplayed to help fix the attention on the point under con- sideration. By means of the Rosary every Catholic, however unlettered he may be, is enabled to do that which to most men seems impossible — to med- itate. Thus the Rosary is not only a legiti- mate and intellectual devotion, but it is admittedly the highest form of devotion. ''Benefits are daily accruing to Christen- dom through the Rosary," wrote Urban IV.(4) "The Rosary of Mary is* a tree of life quickening the dead, healing the sick and strengthening the living," said Sixtus IV.(5) Leo X,(6) the greatest patron of arts in the Renaissance, says of the Rosary that it was "instituted to save the world from imminent peril." "The Rosary is the glory of the Roman Church," are the words of Julius 111.(7) Attention need hardly be called to Leo XIII, of glorious memory, whose love for the Rosary was so great as to win for him the title of "Pope of the Holy Ro- sary." His famous bull, "Ubi Primum," is entirely devoted to this great de- votion. But churchmen have not been alone in extolling the Rosary. Kings, . princes and leaders of the people are no less outspoken in its praise. Maximilian I, Frederick II, Blanche of Castile, Edward III of England, Lous XIII and Louis XIV of France, Mary Queen of Scots, and John Sobieski of Poland, all loved the Rosary and praised it highly. Louis IX of France said: "God has g^ven me, through the merits of His Mother's Rosary, this noble kingdom of France." Examples might ber multiplied, but these suffice to show that good men and great have ever regarded the Rosary, the "Psalter of Mary," as a mo§t praise- worthy devotion, and a never-failing source of grace to those who practice it worthily. (2) Apoc, iv, 8. (3) Isais, vi, 3. (4) Pope from 1261-1264. (5) Pope from 1471-1484. (6) Pope from 1513-1521. (7) Pope from I550-I555. INDULGENCES FOR JULY. July 2 — Visitation of the Blessed Vir- gin : Plenary indulgence for confession, communion, visit to Rosary chapel with prayers for the Pope's intentions. Those hindered on this day from complying with the conditions can gain the indul- gence any day in the octave. July 9 — St. John of Gorcum, O. P., Martyr. Plenary indulgence on same conditions as July 2, except the exten- sion during the octave. With The Editor. The visit of our Lady to her cousin, St. Elizabeth, is commemorated in the second joyful mystery of the Rosary, and the feast of the Visitation is cel- ebrated on July 2d.. Gladly did Mary accept the exalted honor and dig- nity and privilege of Divine Mother- hood, and her overwhelming happi- ness found expression, under the in- spiration of the Holy Ghost, in that sublime and prophetic canticle: "Be- hold from henceforth all generations shall call me blessed." Blessed, indeed, she is, and love for her increases as the years go by. Rosarians, particularly, should love and honor and imitate Mary Immaculate. It becomes our painful duty to record the death of Father Henry Denifle, the illustrious Dominican and sub- archivist of the Vatican. Father Denifle died suddenly of apoplexy in Munich. In his death not onlv the .Dominican Order, not only the Church, but the whole world of scholarship sustains a distinct loss. Father Denifle was in his sixty-second year, not a great age for a Tyrolese. Only a year ago his great work on Martin Luther appeared and dealt such a blow to Protestantism that it is still reeling from the eflfects of it. The great German theologians of the Lu- theran Church, including Harnack, See- berg and Ilaussleiter, fell into a panic at the awful but unanswerable expose of the great so-called reformer, for since the publication of Denifle's book the world can know Luther as he was. Un- fortunately, onlv the first volume of this great work has appeared ; the second was in preparation when the relentless hand of Death struck the pen from the busy and able hand of the historian. Father Denifle's works will live, and to generations yet unborn will his name stand for honesty, reliability and critical acumen. Like all truly great men, he was surpassingly humble; and in the hour of his passing, this and the forty- four years of life as a model religious stood him in better stead than all his achievements in the realm of letters. Father Denifle, at the tim^ of his death,was on his way to Cambridge Uni- versity where the degree of Doctor of Letters was to be conferred upon him. His death was caused by apoplexy. He regained consciousness long enough to receive the benediction which the Pope sent to him and to adjust some of his affairs. He was a great and a good man and his loss is irreparable. The ques- tion now on the lips of all scholars is: Who will finish Luther? Ill tlie August number of The Rosary Magazim: an appreciation of Father Denifle will bo published which was writ- ten by one of his religious brethren who knew iiim well for a number of years. l'>om 1885 he ])ublishcd, with the illus- trious Father Ehrle, S. J., the Archives of the Literary and Ecclesiastical His- tory of the Middle Ages. On account of all these works — of such great scien- tific and historical importance and so licl])tul to students — he was honored with the Cross of the Legion of Honor of France, the < )r(ler of the Crown of Iron of the third class, Austria, and the illus- trious Academies of Europe, such as those of Vienna, Prague, I>erlin. Gott- iujc^en, Paris, had him as a member. WITH THE EDITOR. 107 The Academy of Munster nominated him a doctor, and, as we have said above, he was about to receive from the Prot- estant University of Cambridge the de- gree of Doctorship when death over- took him. He rendered singular ser- vice to the Holy See during the twenty years of his term as sub-archivist, merit- ing as he did for himself the entire con- fidence of Leo XIII and Pius X. The studies alone of Father Denifie can give us a worthy appreciation of his singular merits, that added such lustre to a life that was irreprehensible and marked by surpassing htunility. The life of Father Denifie gives the lie to those who charge the friars with ignorance, laziness, egotism, uselessness. In the historic Church of St. Mary of the Minerva in Rome, on the 19th of July, a Solemn High Mass of Requiem will be offered for the repose of the soul of Father Denifie. All the Roman Do- minicans and the distinguished clergy of the Eternal City will be present. On the day following his death the Holy Father offered up the Holy Sacri- fice for the repose of the soul of Father Denifie. The appointment of Mr. Charles Bonaparte as Secretary of the Navy meets with the enthusiastic approval of the great majority of the American peo- ple. Mr. Roosevelt has given abundant evidence heretofore of fairness, upright- ness and courage in his public and exec- utive acts, and his selection of Mr. Bona- parte, the finished scholar and orator, the illustrious jurist and advocate, the honest and capable man of affairs, the Christian gentleman and the ideal citizen, will deepen the confidence of the people in the excellent judgment and fine dis- cernment of our strenuous President. To Catholics, especially, is this appoint- ment gratifying because Mr. Bonaparte is a Catholic, and one of whom his co- religionists are justly proud. Notwith standi/7^ the clearest constitu- tional guarantees the fact remains, and in shame and sorrow be it said, that Amer- ican Catholics have never received fair treatment in the matter of important public offices. No Catholic has ever oc- cupied the Presidential chair, and no political party, as far as we are aware, has ever nominated a Catholic for the highest elective offices, national or state. But things are changing for the better; the era of bigotry and hate is fast passing away, and simple justice shall yet be done to all classes of American citizens. The Champlain Summer School, at Cliff Haven, N. Y., will commence its fourteenth session on July 5th. The Catholic Summer School has long since passed out of the experimental stage and has become a permanent institution and an important factor in Catholic in- tellectual and social life. The formal ap- proval of the enterprise by our late Holy Father, Pope Leo XIII, was most en- couraging to its projectors, who met with countless difficulties at the outset of their work ; and the endorsement and patronage of Cardinals, Archbishops, Bishops, the Reverend clergy and the general public has been most gratifying to all who have the best interests of the Catholic laity at heart. Courses of lectures will be given as follows : Three lectures by Prof. Francis X. Carmpdy, Department of Constitutional Law in the Brooklyn Law School of St. Lawrence University, N. Y. Subject,- America's Work in the World's Prog- ress. July 5-7. Evening lecture recitals, by Miss Charrille Runals of New York City. Subject, America in Song and Story. Accompanist, Miss Marian C. Pole. July 5-7. Imvc lectures by Key. Tos. M. Woods, S. J., Woodstock College, Md. Subject, The Hollandists. Tuly 10-14. Two kctvites b\ 'B.^\\N?\^tv'Cvcv^^<:J»c\- io8 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. beck, O. S. B., Chicago, 111. Subject, Bohemian Literature. July lo-ii. Two lectures by Prof. W. F. P. Stock- ley, Halifax, N. S., Canada. Subject, The Religious Spirit in Shakespeare. July 13-14. Five lectures by Rt. Rev. Monsignor Loughlin, D. D., Philadelphia. Subject, The V'atican Council. July 17-21. Two lectures by Prof. C. H. Schultz, Newman School, Hackensack, N. J. Subject, Cardinal Newman's Place in the Realm of Prose and Poetry. July 17-18. Five lectures by Jean T. P. Des Ga- rennes, A. M., LL. M., Washington D., C. Subject, A Comparative Study of French and English Comedy.. July 24-28. Evening lectures by Rev. J. P. Fagan, S. J., Loyola School, New York City. Subject, Forgotten Facts in the History of Education. July 24-28. Lecture recitals by Camille \V. Zeck- wer, director of the Philadelphia Musical Academy. Subject, Ancient Music to Fourteenth Century ; Folk Music. July 24-28. Five lectures by Rev. John T. Creagh, D. D., J. U. D.,'LL. B., Catholic Uni- versity, Washington, D. C. Subject, Religion and the State in America. July 31 -Aug. 4. Evening lectures by Miss Helena T. Goessmann, M. Ph., New York City. Subject, A Cozy Corner in Bookland : Some Facts and a Fiction in the Hall of Education. July 31-Aug. 4. Lecture recitals bv Camille W. Zeck- wer, illustrating the Eternal Feminine in Music versus Sacred Music. July 31- Aug. 4. Five lectures by Rev. John T. Dris- coll, S. T. L., diocese of Albany. Sub- ject, Philosophy Among the Novelists. Aug. 7-1 1. Evening lectxires by Hon. Hugh Hast- ings. New York State Historian, Albany, N. Y. Subject, Battles with England in JVcir York State. Aug, 7-II. Lectures by Rev. Bertrand L. Con- way, C. S. P., New York City. Subject, Conditions in Palestine during the Pub- lic Ministry of Christ. Aug. 7-1 1. Five lectures by Prof. J. C. Monaghan of the Department of Commerce and Labor, Washington, D. C. Subject, The Gain of Empire — Commercial and In- dustrial Asia, Europe, America, Africa and Australasia. Aug. 14-18. Evening lectures by James J. Walsh, M. D., Ph. D., LL. D., New York City. Subject, Biology. Aug. 14-18. Five lectures by James J. Walsh, M. D., Ph. D., LL. D. Subject, Some Steps in Physiological Psychology. Aug. 21-25. An International Song Cycle by Miss Marie Narelle, dramatic soprano. Aug. 21-22-24-25. Five lectures by Rev. Francis P. Sieg- fried, St. Charles Seminary, Overbrook, Pa. Subject, Some Catholic Ideals in the Light of Common Sense, Philosophy and Poetry. Aug. 28-Sept. i. Lectures by Rev. P. J. MacCorry, C. S. P., of New York City. Subject, The Gospel Narrative as Illustrated by Chris- tian Art, with a large collection of the finest views. Aug. 28-29. Three lectures by Mr. W. P. Oliver, Brooklyn, New York City. Subject, American Humorists. Sept. 1-4-5. Two lectures by Rev. F. Pascal (Rob- inson), O. F. M., of Baltimore, Md. Subject, The True and False Interpreters of the Teaching of St. Francis of Assisi. July 10-21. Conference on methods of advancing Catholic Educational Work in Parish Schools and Sunday Schools, under direction of Rev. Thomas McMillan, C. S. P., of Xcw York City. Aug. 28. Program especially devoted to the ad- vancement of Reading Circles, by War- ren E. Moslier, A. M., of New York City. The Schedule of Lectures also in- cludes special Lectures for Teachers ; A Class for Physical Culture and Dancing WITH THE EDITOR. 109 for children, conducted by Miss Loretta Hawthorne Hayes of Waterbury, Conn. ; and Lessons in Music on various popu- lar instruments, by Mr. Camille W. Zeckwer, Director of the Philadelphia Musical Academy, etc. The Summer Institute for Teachers, under direction of the Education De- partment of the State of New York, will be opened July 3d and will continue four weeks. A varied program of athletic sports has been arranged by Mr. James E. Sul- livan, who was the director of the World's Fair Athletic Exhibit at St. Louis, and is regarded to-day as the fore- most exponent of amateur athletics and sports in America. The annual meeting ot the Catholic Educational Association will be held in New York on July nth, 12th and 13th. The personnel of the promoters and offi- cers of the Association and the high standing of those who will read papers and take part in the discussions make the success of this meeting a foregone conclusion. The paramount question in the life of today is, beyond doubt, edu- cation. Our educational work has re- ceived unusual attention during the re- cent commencement days, at the hands of non-Catholics in high places. This is well, and we have reason to hope that our labors for God and country shall yet receive full recognition. BOOKS Many new books lie upon our table testifying unmistakably to a great activ- ity on the part of Catholic authors and publishers. That there might be a pro- portionate activity on the part of Cath- olic readers "is . a consummation de- voutly to be wished." There is much comfort in the conviction which is being steadily borne in upon us that Catholic readers are steadily increasing in num- bers and enthusiasm. Every good Catholic book which comes from the press is a potent factor to the bringing about of that blessed time when Catholic authors will receive due recognition and pecuniary com- pensation which will make it worth the while to wield a Catholic pen, an?l which will forever end the days of slack allegiance which have become the chronic infliction to which Catholic writers seem hopelessly subjected. PLAINCHANT AND S0LE5MES. By Dom Paul Casta, O. S. B., and Dom Andre Mocquereau, O. S. B Burns & Dates and Benziser, 1905. Brochure, 8vo, pp. 70. 45c net* This is a most interesting and oppor- tune pamphlet in which the methods of the Benedictine monks of the Monastery of Solesmes in restoring the true Gre- gorian chant are fully explained. The introduction is interesting and convinc- ing, for in effect it is an apology for plain- song, and one made with all the enthusi- asm of a devoted champion. Note this passage : *'How melodious the Latin language was in the early days of the Gregorian Chant, and how sweet was the sacred song that broke into bloom like a flower out of its smooth and flowing cadences, may be judged from what is recorded by the biographer of St. Gregory in words which are still not wholly inap- plicable. After relating how enraptured the nations of the north were with the Gregorian melodies, he adds that the forced efforts of the Gauls and the Ger- mans to give their intractable vocal or- gans the pliancy required by the soft sweetness of the Chant onlv resulted in the production of harsh, rough sounds like the rumbling and rattling *of char- iots rolling down a flight of stone steps/ It is precisely this dragging and thump- ing which comes from the English ten- dency to accet\U\3L\.t \jaX\vi \>^?.^ Y-'cv^v^, no THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. dwelling heavily on accented syllables and failing to give distinct articulation to the rest so as to reduce the promi- nence of stress and impart smoothness and lightness and undulancy to the chant, that often mars the execution of Plainsong in England to-day." And this one: "There is, indeed, no need for a form of art so full of divine afflatus as is Plain- song to go cap in hand to any other school of musical instruction. If Mozart would have given all his finest creations for a short piece of the simplest, earliest Plainchant of the Mass; if a critic of such unerring and delicate taste as Wal- ter Pater found in the Gregorian mel- odies the only fit exemplar for 'the city of the perfect ;* if Richard Wagner bor- rowed the underlying ideas of some of his most wonderful passages from the ancient Catholic chants, there is no need for the Church to wait upon the musical genius of later times for the evolution of a perfect melodic outfit; but rather should she bid modern composers give heed to the rule laid down in his recent 'Motu Proprio' by the present Holy Father : 'The more closely a composition for church approaches in its movement, inspiration and savour, the Gregorian form, the more sacred and liturgical it becomes ; and the more out of harmony it is with that supreme model, the less worthy it is of the temple/ " THE TRAGEDY OF FOTHERINQAY. By the Hon. Mrs. Maxwell Scott. Edinburg and London: Sands & Co., 1905. 12mo, pp. 256. $1.10 net. Interest in the life story of the ill- starred Marv Queen of Scots will never cease as long as there throbs a human heart capable of cherishing love and pity. The life of this beautiful Queen was truly a checkered one, with lights and shadows chasing each other in quick succession across her horizon until finally the end came, and her magnificent head^ which rather graced a diadem than was graced by one, rolled off the block, and her soul passed to the judgment of a Judge Who is justice itself. There will ever be factions for and against the innocence of Elizabeth's comely sister, and ambitious youths in Greek-named debating societies will wax eloquent in affirming or denying that the execu- tion of Mary Queen of Scots was justi- fiable. The volume under present con- sideration is founded on the journal of Doctor Bourgoing, Mary's physician, and upon some hitherto unpublished manuscript documents. The effect of all of these papers favors strongly the inno- cence of Mary and makes the reader feel that, after all, she was more sinned against than sinning. The volume deals in the main with the prison life of Mary, the last watch of her sad, unhappy life, from which the shadows arc being more and more lifted. NOTES ON CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE. By The lAoMt Rev. Q. Ba8:sluiwe, D. D. Loa- don: Kegaa Paul. Beazlger Btm., New York, Americaa Ageats, 1905. 8vo, pp. 287. $1.35 aet. These are excellent notes on Chris- tian Doctrine, making a volume valuable especially to intelligent CathoHc laymen who are not prepared for exhaustive the- ological treatises and who yet wish something fuller than is found in the or- dinary catechism. We commend the volume unrcscrvedlv ; it is accurate and will help the faithful wonderfully in giv- ing a reason for the faith that is in them. In the ])reface, the Most Reverend Au- thor says : "The following *Notes on Christian Doctrine' are notes from which, about forty years ago, I gave lec- tures on Christian Doctrine to the stu- dents at Hammersmith 'J'raining Col- lege. I endeavored to put into a small compass as many theol<.\i^dcal truths, * dogmatic and moral, as circumstances permitted. I have done my best, both then and in a recent revision, to make them exact and correct." WITH THE EDITOR. Ill THE SENIOR LIEUTENANTS WAQBR AND OTHER STORIES. New York: Beozlger Bros.* 1905. 12iiio« pp. 256. $1.25. In the collection there are sixteen short stories, and good ones at that. Maurice Francis Egan is represented by "The Heart of Hearts." In it Mr. Egan is at his best. It is a positive pleasure to read Mr. Egan*s writings; they are always so refreshingly whole- some, with such an utter absence of dilettantism. There is nothing gar- ish, nothing loud, but everything as soft and refined and as pleasing, withal, as is the French gray finish now so much in vogue on our silverware. Moreover, every story written over the name of Mr. Egan has a message of worth and value to deliver. Mary Bonesteel, Eleanor Donnelly, Margaret Jordan, Grace Keon and Madge Mannix are all represented in the volume, the latter by two cleverly done stories of impressionist character. We miss very much the name of Anne Eliza- beth O'Hare, our gifted Cleveland au- thoress. No collection of short stories written by Catholic authors is complete without a contribution by Miss O'Hare. QLENANAAR— A STORY OF IRISH LIFE. By the Very Rev. Canon P. A. Sheehan, D. D. Longmans, Qreen 6: Co., 1905. A new story by Father Sheehan but by no means a remarkable one. It is safe to say that it will receive more at- tention by reason of the fact that it was written bv the author of "Mv Xew Curate'* than from any intrinsic merit. The book is quite out of the vein we have learned to expect from Fatlier Sheehan, and for the most successful treatment the subject-matter would re- quire gifts which Father Sheehan does not possess. He has not sufficient dra- matic power for the perfect handling o\ the stirring incidents which he has chosen — incidents oi Irish woes, Irish loyalty, courage and heroism. The limita- tions of our author appear most glar- ingly in the description of the night ride of Wm. Burke to Derrynane Abbey to secure the services of the great O'Con- nell in the defence of his brother, whose life is trembling in the balance. The whole chapter is tame; not even for a moment does it approach Geo. W. Cable's description of Mary's night ride in "Dr. Sevier." The latter fairly lifts the reader out of his chair, so ex- citing, so vivid is it all, and so keenly is he made to feel that the object of Mary's ride is dearer to him than life. But reading Father Sheehan's descrip- tion of Wm. Burke's ride no such en- thusiasm is awakened, and it would not require much of a struggle to mark the page and leave the rest of the ride for some other time. Perhaps the most realistic description in the book is that of the famine; this is ghastly, strong and unforgettable. We hope that our author will recognize his limitations and not attempt things which are impossible to him. THE NEW CENTURY— CATHOLIC SERIES —FIFTH READER. New York: Benziger Bros., 1905. We heartily welcome the appearance of this Reader; it is a thing of perfec- tion. The selections are beautiful and most judiciously made. Most of the illustrations are done in colors, making the book one of undeniable attractive- ness. We all know from experience how the young scholar becomes at- tached to his school readers, and how deep and lasting is the impression made by them ; each selection sinks into his younj^ heart and plants there its germs for good or evil ; every illustration is forever stamped upon his memory. Therefore is it of supreme importance that selections and illustrations be at once wholesome and faultless from an artistic point. new re BBeoMB a ResARiAm 1. Hare your name enrolled by a priest anthorized to receive you. — If the Confra- ternity be not established where you reside, yov may send your name to some church where it is established. Our readers may send their names to the Editor of Thb Ros- ASY, and he will enroll them. Be sure to give the baptismal name and the family name. 2. Have your beads blessed with the Do- minican blessing.-^To accommodate those who may not have an opportunity of receiv- ing this blessing otherwise, the Editor of Thb Rosary will bless all Beads sent to him, and will return them. Postage for this must be enclosed. 3. The fifteen decades must be said during the course of the week — from Sunday to Sunday. — ^These decades may be divided in any way found convenient, provided that at least one decade at a time be said. It is a pious practice of Rosarians to say five decades each day. HOW TO SAY THE ROSARY. In the usual "make up" of the Beads we ind one large bead and three smaller beads immediately following the crucifix or cross. It is a practice of some to recite on the cross the Apostles' Creed; on the large bead, an Our Father; and on the small beads, three Hail Marys. In reality they do not belong to the Rosary. They are merely a custom, but not authorized by the Church. For simple- minded people who ^ ^r.not medl..ate, a devout fecitation is all that is asked. The method of saying the Rosary practised by the Do- minicans is as follows: In the name of the Father, etc. V. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. R. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb — ^Jesus. V. Thou, O Lord, wilt oocn my lips. R. And my tongue shall announce Thy praise. V. Incline unto my aid, O God. R. O Lord, make haste to help me. Glory be to the Father, etc. Alleluia. (From Septuagesima to Easter, instead of Alleluia, say Praise be to Thee, O Lord, King of eternal glory.) Then announce either "the first part of the lioly Rosary, the five joyful mysteries," or "the second part of the holy Rosary, the five sorrowful mysteries," or "the third part of •the holy Rosary, the five glorious mysteries." Then the first mystery, "the Annunciation," etc., and "Our Father" once, "Hail Mary" -ten times, "Glory be to the Father" once; in the meantime meditating on the mystery. After reciting five decades, the "Hail, holy Queen" is said, followed by V. Queen of the most holy Rosary, pray lor us. R. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. LET us PRAY. O God, whose on\y begotten Son, by His JHfe, death and resurrection, bus purchased for us the rewards of eternal life, grants beseech Thee, that meditating on theac teries of the most holy Rosary of the W Virgin Mary, we may imitate what tbqr tain and obtain what they promise, the same Christ our Lord. Amen. It is not prescribed, but* a pious assigns the different parts of At Rosarj to different days of the week* as foUowa: 1. The joyful mysteries are honored am Mondays and Thursdays throughout the ycM^ and on all Sundays from the first of Adveii to the first of Lent. 2. The sorrowful mysteries are honored oa Tuesdays and Fridays throughout tte, and on the Sundays of Lent. 3. The glorious mysteries are honored Wednesdays and Saturdays thronghont year, and on all Sundays from Easter to Ad- vent. ROSARY INDULGENCES. 1. The usual conditions for gaining plci^ ary indulgences are Confession, Commmiioi^ and prayers for the Pope's intentions, with special work enjoined, such as a Ytsit Oao Confession and Communion suffices for aB the indulgences during the week except thoeo for Rosary Sunday. In Calendar C C« means Confession and Communion. 2. Prayer: for intentions of the Ho^ Father, viz., the welfare of the Holy See; the spread of the Catholic faith; the eztirpa* tion of heresy; peace among nations. It is not necessary to mention these intentions is detail. Five Our Fathers and Hail MatTS will suffice for the prayers. 3. On the first Sunday of every montK tl.reei plenary inilulgences mcy be gained bir Rosarians. C, C, prayers. (a) By those vho visit a Rosar>- chapel. (b; V>y those who are present a» the Rot- ary procession and make a distinct visit to the Rosary chapel. (c) By those who are present at the expo* sition of the Blessed Sacrament (v. g., at Benediction), in a Confraternity church. 4. On any day chosen at will, a plenary in- dulgfcnce may be K^ined once each month b]r Rosarians who daily spend at least a quarter of an hour in meditation. C, C, prayer. 5. The many indulgences attaching to the recitation of the fifteen mysteries, may also be gained by Rosarians who celebrate or hear the privileged Rosary Mass, "Salvo Radix." 6. On the last Sunday of each month a plenary indulgence mav be gained by all the faithful who have been accustomed to say five decades of the Reads three times a week in common, C, C. visit to church, prayers. 7. Many partial indulgences may be gained every day, for the recitation of the Rosary, 8. Many other indulgences may be gained on certain feast days. A list of these is pub- lished monthly in The Rosary. 9. All the indulgences of the Rosary ara applicable to the souls of the faithftU de- parted. ( XVII . . 14 I AUGUST, 1905 ^ROSARY MAGAZINE ^ L THE I^osARY Magazine PUBLISriEl) MONTHLY BY THE DOMINICAN FATHERS. COIVTEIVTS. The Tomb of St. Dominic, Bologna Frontispiece A Marble Masterpiece -The Tomb of St. Dominic. Illustrated Marie Donigan Walsh 118 Fattier Denifle, O. P. A Dominican Priest 119 Memories of Connemara, a nountain Land of Beauty and Qrief. Illus Mii.ioR Dudley Costello 122 The French Stage. Illustrated Thomas O'Uagan, Ph. D. 182 The Leper. Poem Kobbrt Cox Stump 186 The Vocation of Philip, (IV) Gkorgina Pell Curtis 187 Parochial and Public Schools Compared in the Light of the New York Normal College Juae Examinations U. F. L. 149 Doctor Murat J. L. O'C 151 St. Eustace Thomas M. Crotty, 0. P., S. T. L. 164 UnfaithfuL Poem Edith R. Wilson, 167 That Boy Gerald, ( VIll) Ret. J. E. Copus, 8. J. 158 True Poverty. Poem Honora McDonough, 168 The Roman Campagna. Illustrated F. W. Parsons 169 The Irish Martyrs Rosalebn 0*Neil 179 Tuesdays With Friesds— The Boy From New York Maurice Francis Eoan 184 Syria and Palestine. Illustrated Rev. M. A. Quirk 186 A Sardinian Vendetta E. C. Vansittart 194 Handwriting and Forgery James I. Ennis, LL. B. 196 Crowned Immaculate. Poem Mary F. Xixon-Roulet 199 The Temples. Poem Thomas Walsh 199 The Qardea Bench 200 Current Comment 204 For the Boys and Qlrls 200 Confraternity of the Holy Rosary 214 With the Editor 216 Sabscrfptioiit $2.00 per year in advance. Single eopiea« 20 eanta BDITORIAL ROOMS AND BUSINESS OFFICES SOMBRSBT, OHIO Published bp the Rotary PresM^ Somertet, O. Entered at Pottofflce, Somertett O. cm fd elat* matttr. .vV' LH*"»52 TOMB OF ST. DOMINIC. HOI THE ROSARY MAGAZINE AUGUST. 1805 THE NFW YORK PUBLICUBRARV A AVARBLE MASTE ^ TKe Tomb of St. Dominic By MARIE DONEGAN WALSH cycle brings the of the feast of When the Au- gust days are with us once more and the year's double celebration St. Dominic and the second anniversary of the elec- tion of our Holy Father Pius X, one's thoughts travel out beyond the heat and the busy, every-day modern turmoil, to an Old World Italian city — dreamy Boiogna. — where, amid the shadows o£ a grandly solemn church, the relics of the great Dominican founder lie in ever- lasting rest. Here the incense of mem- ories lingers on the air — tenderest, hal- lowed memories, whose home is in the stillness of centuries' recollection. Outside, in the "Piazza di San Do- menico," two raised and canopied Gothic n-onuments erected to famous fourteenth century citizens whom learned Bologna delighted to honor, give a strangely medieval aspect to the square in con- junction with the massive, rugged strength of the church's unfinished ficade. But St. Dominic's patrimony snd possession of the place is instantly proclaimed by the soaring columns erected before the central and lati'ml en- trances, over which, clear-cut against the sky, stand out the figures — un one. of Our Blessed Lady, on the other, the great Samt who was Iht most ginrinus knight and champion. Restored at various piTiods througli- oijt the .centtin'of. !ili!c rciiiaiH.s now of the original early chuich and mon- astL-ry. wht-re St. Dominic lived from 1219 till 1 22 1 , but the exte- rior form of the church and the grand old monastery cloister adjoin- ing it — now a picture of deserted sadness— a neglected playground for the boys attending the college, into which the government has converted St. Dom- inic's last homo. It is sad, indeed, to see the cloister, grim and unlovely in its desertion — one of those notes of saddest discrepancy offered by so many of Italy's most hallowed shrines. But although the grand old monastery of St. Dom- inic has been turned into secular uses, a small number of the Do- minican fathers are allowed to re- main in charge of the church and shrine, so that the tomb containing the hallowed ashes of the Dominican founder is still guarded and tended with loving devotion by his spiritual sons. Yet this monastery of IJologna was once the most flourishing house of the ]>ominicans in the world! It was a house dearer to St. Dominic than his native Calaroga, or the Eternal City in which he was held in highest honor — ihc s])iit where llie Saint ever found refuge from the cares and journeys of liis apostolic life: the cloister where the first General Chapter of ihe Dominican ( irder was hi^M. -auiX vW twiV^ie. Vi which Si. Di^m'wuc , wcitw s^w'tNbs \\\!i;5. \.\\^\t '^>M\\. "Dick Martin's pnsotvj' ^tv cJA c."^s>\^\tv 128 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. which he used to incarcerate local breakers of his humanitarian law. He was also the terror of brutal cockney cabbies and costermongers. Martin made the first attempt to open up Connemara. Hitherto there was but one main road leading through it, that which led to his own house at Bally- nahinch, of which he is said to have boasted to George IV that he had an approach from his gate-house to his hall of thirty miles' length. "Dick Martin's gate-house" is still pointed out Clare- mont, near Oughterard. With the as- sistance of Alexander Nimmo, an emi- nent engineer who built the hotel and bridge of Maam and threw well-made roads across the black bogs, he opened up the northeastern gateway of his ter- ritory leading between the two large lakes and by the old abbey of Cong. The Ballynahinch road was continued to Clifden, on the coast — a railroad runs there now — where, in 1815, John D'Arcy built the first house, to be followed within twenty years by three himdred others and a pier, making it suddenly an important grain port and the capital of Connemara. Rich veins of marble, black, green and pink, were opened on the Martin estate. Tilings began to look promising. Lavish was the hospitality dispensed at Ballynahinch Castle, as the Martin homestead was called — although, save for the mahogany stalls for the horses, made of rich driftwood, the place was not in proportion to the vast estate of nigh two hundred thousand acres. But the fine and fishful lake system near by — Loughs Inagh, Derryclare, Glendalough and Ballynahinch, shields of silver con- nected by strings of ])earls with the Twelve Pins and other mountains tow- ering around, alive with fowlers* attrac- tions of fur and feather — brought streams of visitors and increased the wine and other bills. BailiflFs armed with writs began to hover on the borders. The Martins were generous and popular with their tenantry, and daring would be the minion of the law who plunged into those wilds to serve an unwelcome legal document on Dick Martin. But when the latter ceased to be member of par- liament, which office gave him certain immunity from arrest, the end came. Like many another unfortunate debtor he had to fly the kingdom. Far from Connemara and alone among strangers, the lawyer, politician, duellist and friend of dumb animals, having crossed the channel to escape a debtor's cell in the Marshalsea, died January 6, 1834, at Boulogne. Thomas Barnewall Martin, son and heir of the above, succeeded, and did what he could to improve and save the mortgage-laden estate; but he was struck down by fever in the perfonnance of his magisterial duties during the great famine and died, leaving an only child. his daughter Mary, popularly known as *'the Princess of Connemara." Light and life of the old house at Ballvnahinch was Marv Letitia Martin. High-minded, intellectual, charitable, patriotic, amiable, she was left, one lone woman, to bear on her graceful head the accumulated sins of her ancestors. The country people loved her. Scions of dis- tin.q:iiished families sought her hand. She might have married into wealth and splendor, removed the shadow of ruin from the estate, driven the bailiffs from the door. But, independently following the dictates of her heart, she married a gentleman of small means, a near rela- tive. Mr. Arthur Gonne Bell, of Brook Locl^e. Mayo, who on the day of his marriage assumed, by royal license dated Sei)teinhcT 15. 1847. ^^^^' name of his bride. Thcv had not much to start on — a small balance left over .iftcr paying the interest on many mortj^a|:^es. It was a most doleful time in Irelaml to get mar- ried. The land was in darkest mourning. The death angels of starvation and typhus had spread their black wings. Tcrriblv was the visitation Celt in Conne- MEMORIES OF CONNEMARA. KYLEUORE PASS, CONNEMARA. mara. In some districts there whole families died of warn or fever in their poor cabins, and, there being none to give them Christian burial, the mud walls were thrown in on them, and their homes became their tombs! In order to con- solidate the incumbrances on the estate at a lowtr rate of interest, the newly married pair united in borrowing large sums of money from the Law Life As- surance Company of London, to whom the mortgages were tranbfcrred. When the time came to pay the instalments due upon the mortgages there was no money forthcoming; the tenants, perishing of hunger, were unable to pay rents. Thtn the vast Martin property went into the Encumbered Estates Court and wa.'; sold off, the Assurance company buying it at a price (£180,000, or $900,000) im- measurably below its real value. The Slim reahzed was inadequate to liquidate the heavy ViabiUdes; having, on the im- pulse of honorable self-sacrifice, relin- quished her own legal rights in favor of her father's creditors, the daughter and heir, last, best and noblest of her race, found herself without an acre, without a single sod of the vast estates of her an- cestors. She retired to Fontaine IKveque, in Belgium, and boldly commenced the bat- tle of life. The path she chose was the briary one of literature, inr which, over and beyond the accompli,em-h enabled her to coniribulo to I-'rendi periodicals. She wrute ■■Can- vassing" and a work in three volumes called "St. Ktienne." So. for a liiue. she sup])oried herself with her pen. I'.ul her income was pitifully small, ami to tjnil a more anii>K' t\e\il iov Uvt -ArtViVw-ft 'i.VN'; vVt- terniined lo go lo Xw.mc^. "^cTOt I30 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. friends of the family helped her, but so poorly that she was able to take passage only on a sailing vessel. A sad and mis- erable voyage was that for a young lady reared in every comfort and luxury. In her rude, stuffy, squalid surroundings, tossed about on the rough sea, her suf- ferings were great. She fell deathly ill. Without medical attendance, without a nurse, without any necessary aid or at- tention in that wretched den and dan- gerous hour, with her thoughts long- ingly back among those mountains and lakes and at this old house among the trees where she played as a child, she became, prematurely, a mother. She died when the ship entered port, and a foreign grave received the remains of the poor "Princess of Connemara." Thus, under the black vortex of the long-gathering cloud of family misfor- tune, passed away the last of the mem- orable Martins of Connemara. Her memory sadly breathes around the old homestead beside the lake and haunts the lone and lovely bowers that bloom for her and hers no more. Some dull years went by, when sud- den fell a Danaean shower in Conne- mara, a little north of the old seat of the Martins. As Loch Katrine's '*burnish'd sheet of living gold" burst on the en- raptured gaze of the wandering Knight of Snowdown, so did the charms and possibilities of Kylemore lake, serene and beautiful amid the royal purple of its guardian mountains, appeal to Mit- chell Henry, "the Cotton Lord of Man- chester." "And, 'What a scene were here.' he cried. 'For princely pomp, or churchman's pride! On this bold brow, a lordly tower; In that soft vale, a lady's bower; On yonder meadow, far away. The turrets of a cloister gray; How blithely might the bugle-horn Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn! How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute Chime, when the groves were still and muter " Member of an aristocratic family of the Isle of Wight and lord of a great and prosperous industry that spread out from Manchester and Belfast to Calcutta and New Orleans, Mitchell Henry had re- fined tastes and ample means of gratify- ing them. He bought thirteen thousand acres of land and erected thereon the magnificent castle of Kylemore, com- menced in 1864 and finished in 1871, after an expenditure, it is said, of $2,500,- 000 on it and the grounds adjoining. The chief material used in the stately many-turreted building was an enduring quality of granite obtained from the im- mediate vicinity, with limestone facings. To it led splendid fairyland avenues, past glowing banks of rhododendrons and between hedges twelve feet high blushing with fuchsias. Fine stables were built, and conservatories whose orchids and tropical plants were famous. And, in swift obedience to kindly and trained culture, blooming gardens burst from the soil, luxuriant and resplendent with shrubs and flowers, with stately palms and rare ferns. The salmon and trout in the lake and river were pre- served, with the result of making the place famous for some of the best fishing in Ireland. Kindly, humane and philanthropic, Mitchell Henry entered sympathetically into the social and national life of the people about him. He fostered the ten- antry, he rcpeopled some of the evicted farms, he gave employment to an army of laborers. He even took up national politics, was elected member of parlia- ment, and was for six years one of the leading Home Rulers in the House of Commons. His wife, a good and char- itable woman, daughter of George X'aughan of Quilby House, County Devon, also endeared herself to the peasantry. A graceful local monument to her exists in the handsome chapel that gleams whitely amid dark sylvan sur- roundings on the sVvoie oi iVve \a.ke. MEMORIES OF CONNEMARA. 131 For two or three months each year Mitchell Henry sought rest and recrea- tion amid the beauties of Kylemore. At* length came the land war, and he found himself opposed to the views and tactics of most of his parliamentary colleagues. And there came a sudden, crushing calamity that forever to him robbed the noble place of all happiness and pleasure — ^the drowning of his young daughter in the lough of Kylemore, under the windows, so to speak, of the castle! Then he, too, passed sadly out of the life of Connemara and of Ireland. He quitted politics. He died some years ago, and the fine castle and estate he had created like a magician among those lake and mountain solitudes were offered for sale. Many were the longing patrician eyes, including even those of English royalty, that were laid on Kylemore. Some en- thusiastic Irish loyalists proposed to buy the place by subscription and present it to King Edward for an Irish residence, but the expensive project was promptly ignored by pinchbeck government offi- cialdom. At length came an American golden key to reopen the stately modern castle. In these days it is not a far cry from Cincinnati to Connemara, and from the former place came the shekels that have restored brilliant life and activity to the towers gleaming beside the lake. The deal was closed two years ago, when, for the bargain price of $315,000, Kyle- more changed owners, becoming the property of the young Duke of Man- chester, whose duchess was Miss Helena Zimmerman, daughter of a wealthy mer- chant of Cincinnati. The affluence of Papa Zimmerman considerately secured the pair a fitting ducal residence, and cordial invitations were sent out to Brit- ish royalty and aristocracy. But although quite recently British royalty, on a visit to Ireland, came quite close to the place, it stopped hard and short only a few miles away, at Ashlord, near historic Cong, putting up at the mansion of a wealthy retired brewer, and disap- pointment and heart-burning reigned again at ill-starred Kylemore. So the old order changeth. But let it change and pass and repass; small concern can one feel for the whims, fol- lies and ambitions of "society," high or low, while exploring those impressive solitudes, where the leafy sanctuaries of nature solemnly rustle and blue lakes glow lonelily under purple mountains. The sunset burns in the west, and the long, dreamy Irish twilight descends over the purpling waste of "every haunted mountain and streamy vale be- low." The beauty of the evening falls on the face of the lakes and steals into the music of the waters. There is a part- ing glow on the peaks of the Twelve Pins, and the moon is raising her white shoulder over Mountcashel. Long and shamefully neglected though it has been by the London company into whose pos- session fell the vast estates of the lost race, there is yet a magic and pathetic glory about the place that enables one to feel and realize the home yearning of the Connemara exile, as sung by John K. Casey: "On Corrib's cheeks the moonlight sleeps, The curragh skims full lightly; O'er CHfden's slopes our mountain girls Now wander singing blithely; And I must bear this strife and din, While memory strives to borrow One look of love, one sparkling glance Of the hills of Connemara. O soft-faced hills! O brown-tipped hills — Brave hills of Connemara! "God's dearest blessing dwell with them; God bless the race they foster; If Ireland's sons were all as true, We never would have lost her. God prosper all my burning hopes, The hopes to crown to-morrow. When the streams will sing my welcome back To the hills of Connemara, — My native V\\Us, My c\A\dV\oo^*s V\\\s, * The hills oi ConTvem^iT^V' The French Stage By THOMAS O'HAGAN. Ph. D. HHE national tastes of the Eng- lish and French differ in noth- ing more widely than in the character of the dramas enacted in their theatres. This is in a special manner true of. tragedy, but not so marked in comedv. As a critic has pointed out, the dis- similarity is so great that a native of either country, however candid or lib- eral, must have studied with some atten- tion the literature of the other to enable him not merely to relish but even to endure the tragedies of the neighboring realm. A Parisian critic, says the same writer, would be shocked at the repre- sentation of Hamlet "au naturel;" and the most patient spectator in the Drury Lane audience would incur some risk of dislocating his jaws with yawning dur- ing the representation of a "chef- d'oeuvre" of Racine or Corneille. Nor is this to be wondered at, for the great tragedies of Shakespeare and Cor- neille and Racine had birth in diflFerent centuries, or at least in diflFerent ages in England and France, and truly reflect the life, spirit and genius of these two peoples, so widely diflFerent in taste, dur- ing the two periods in history — that of Elizabeth and that of Louis XIV. Everybody knows what the manners and morals of the age of Elizabeth were, as everybody knows how France and its people were subject to two sceptres dur- ing the long reign of '*Le Grand Mon- arque" — the sceptre of Royalty and the sceptre of Taste. In the study of the evolution of the drama, especially in its beginnings, it will be well to remember the two great influences that were ever at work mould- ing and fashioning and directing the dramatic instincts and tastes of the peo- p/c of early modern Europe — the influ- ence and traditions of the Greek and Roman stage, and that of the loosely constructed but popular Morality Play of the Middle Ages. Perhaps the first country in Europe to develop a national drama was Spain, and it may be said that the Spanish stage has been influenced more by the Moral- ity Play than even that of England, while the French stage, on the contrary, ever held to Greek models, and, as a conse- quence, the French theatre as repre- sented by Corneille, Racine, and Mo- liere, its great dramatists, is the least national of the three. Yet, despite this fact, in no other country in the world is the drama culti- vated and the stage patronized as in France to-day. Of course when I say France I mean Paris, for the beautiful city on the Seine is a centralization of the life-thought of France — ^in politics, liter- ature and art. The absolute Louis XIV, who daz- zled France and really prepared the torches of the French Revolution, could say in verity. *'L'etat c'est moi;" but Paris of to-day can as truthfully say, "La France c'est moi." Outside of Paris, among the sixteen universities of France not one has a European reputation — nay, perhaps not even a national reputation ; and who has ever heard of a poet of Brittany or Prov- ence being made a member of the French Academv ? It is quite true that when Botrel, the Breton Bard, and Mistral the Provencal Minstrel, visit Paris they are hospitably entertained — perhaps lionized, but — ^and here's the rub — they are not made one of the literary council of France nor can- onized by academic legislation. The same may be said of the French stage. Outside ol Pans iWi^ ax^ m "^tw^l"^ THE FRENCH STAGE. . I^^UI "X 3^:^^fsi£S=^J^:^*w*^^^ JCfi ^^ ^T^^ ^''rm-^^mm. ' GRAND OPERA HOUSE, PARIS. neither dramatists nor actors of any great note. Paris swallows up all. Must, then, the French painter hie him to the Louvre, the French actor to the Comedie Francaise, and the French poet seek the sylvan shade of the French Academy — founded by a quartette of grammarians in the days of Richeheu — ere he may hope to bind the bays of tri- umph around his brow? It would seem so, for such is the tyranny of French cen- tralization and precedent. And yet the most glorious names on the be»l-roll of French literature be- long to the provinces of France : Cor- neille was bom at Rouen, Victor Hugo at Besancon, Pascal at Clermont, Fer- rand Alphonse Daudet at Nimes, Lam- artine at Macon, Bossuet at Dijon, Chateaubriand at St. Malo, Balzac at Tours. It is true that many of these finally fixed their abode at Paris and were can- onized b^ the French Academy, but only after they had become veritable Paris- ians. Distribution of genius like dis- tribution of wealth is, in my opinion, good for the general welfare of a country. It is worth noting that Mohere, who is the glory of the French stage, was, like Shakespeare, both actor £.nd playwright, and won his first successes in the prov- inces. As a writer of comedies, espe- cially the comedy of manners, Moliere stands perhaps without a rival among the great dramatists of the world. France, however, it will be conceded, has no dramatist who will compare with Shakespeare in tragedy. Certainly neither Corneille nor Racine is in the lists with him. There are no such studies of human life and character within the pages of Racine as in Shakes- peare. Take, for instance, King Lear, Macbeth, and Hamlet, and you have a trilc^y of tragedies une^Yiallad \u \.V\«. whole world ol dTaTivat\c. \A«4\.vnt. 134 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. And how universal is not the Bard of Avon ! During my sojourn last year in Europe. I saw "Macbeth" played at Ox- ford in English ; "Hamlet" at Paris in French ; "Macbeth" in Flemish at Ant- werp ; "Lear" in German at Bonn ; "Macbeth" in German at Innsbruck, and "Hamlot" in Italian at Rome. Shakespeare is great because he is human, and when he creates a Hamlet in DenuKirk, a Lear in Britain, and a Caesar in Rome, he gives his characters such truth of set- ting that they are as inchgenuus as the air which they feed upon. The Parisians are essentially a theatrical people : their very talk and their tastes are theatrical. Again. take the theatres of Paris: in what othtr city of Eu- rope or .Xmerica will y.Mt rind such a gtxidly numher of beautiful struc- ^^^Ps" tures, of wliieli perhaps ilic ni>»i magnirii-cnt is the Opera H.misc. Then thori- is the C.Mueiiic Immu- spouds U> ihe G'.obe n-.eatre in >.■ I.ond.'ii: the new AS Thcurc *ie :.i Rc.M-.>s;iv..v. ihx u. i:c; !;:i- llis:vTi,;ix «hv!:;:> -.; ;-' !'.■ :: and v\;-;c;i in iS.m 1> o.ir.'.o -.Iti' Sar.i:; ilcvnli.trO.t- ;ii d ::ie \. Speakv:g of ihc ^:h:.i IK granii sc.iirc.isc. as 1 .imer:i'n ahno.*t ,\;r;>.'«crs oi e by its > ness ; it comes on .the si^t as a burst oC brilliant and triumphant music on the ear. Prolific, indeed, is the French play- wright of to-day. During the first half of the nineteenth century the classkal theatre of Comeille and Racine became gradually superseded or supplanted in Paris by the romantic theatre. Victor Hugo, the greatest of French roman- ticists, dealt a death blow to Aristotle's throe unities in the preface to his "Cromwell," pub- lished in 1837, which was fol- lowed by the pub- lication of his two lyrical dramas. "Hernani" and "Ruy Bias." .About the same time appeared Alfred de Vign/t "Chatterton." The last half of the nineteenth century opened bnlliantly for the French stage with the comedy of manners domin- ant. The names of three dramatists share in the work of this period: Alexandre Dumas tils, Emil Angrier. and \'ictorien Sar- dou. But in the hands of these :i',ree clever play- MiTi. luu'oriunately, -■.;,\- >,. that now a ■-•>::: :^t something "t.-ed become .ures. but if •evils of so- ■ittle fruit — •■0 poison of n- f< 136 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. nition of the stage with the Parisians something of recent origin. In a work on dramatic art published in 1772, De Calivaha, one of the dramatists of that day, says : "A new piece is advertised; all Paris flies there; the curtain rises, the actors appear, the friends of the author applaud, the enemies of his person or his talent hawk or blow their noses. They go to supper; those of the guests who could not be present in the theatre ask about the success of the novelty. "Tis pitiable' or '*tis delicious,' says a'marveilleux' who in his life never judged anything but by contagion. From the end of the table a pretty woman confirms his judgment, only adding that the hair of the actress was very badly dressed." One thing the spectator in a Paris theatre is never called upon to do and that is applaud. The salaried applauders called the "claque" will do this. They always sit in the front row of the pit immediately behind the orchestra chairs. The head of the "claque" is called "the contractor for success." The chief of the "claque" feels his importance, as may be gathered from the following letter addressed by one of these functionaries to the tragedienne Rachel on hearing that the great French actress was dissat- isfied with the applause she had received on the second performance of a success- ful piece: "Mademoiselle: — I cannot remain under the obloquy of a reproach from lips such as yours. The following is an authentic statement of what really took place: At the first representation I led the attack in person no less than thirty-three times! We had three ac- clamations, four hilarities, two thrilling movements, four renewals of applause, and had two indefinite explosions. In fact, to such an extent did we carry our applause that the occupants of the stalls were scandalized and cried out: 'Turn them out!' My men were positively overcome with fatigue, and intimated to me that they could not again go through such an evening. * * * In such a situation as that which I have just de- picted, I have only to request you to believe firmly in my profound admira- tion and respectful zeal; and I venture to entreat you to have some considera- tion for the difficulties which envircm me. "I am, Mademoiselle," etc. The French stage certainly has glori- ous traditions. If the English stage has had its Kean, its Macready, its Mrs. Sid- dons, and its Helen Faucit, if the American stage has had its Booth, its Barrett, its Charlotte Cushman, and its Mary Anderson, the French stage has had its Lekain, its Talma, its Rachel, and its Bernhardt. The French stage is unquestionably an artistic stage, but unfortunately it shares in the demoralization of the France of to-day No person could or would question the gifts of a Coquelin the elder, a Mounet-SuUy, a Sarah Bernhardt, a Rejane, or a Madame Scgond-Weber. though he might regret that the French drama of to-day, as in- terpreted by them, has fallen in such evil wavs and evil da vs. The Leper By Robert Cox Stump Poor ghastly sufferer, an outcast driven Forth from the walks of men, and all denied That makes life dear, hath naught to thee been given ? Yea! Though the bonds of human love are riven, Christ loveth thee as martyr crucified, And granteth thee, with anguish muhiplied, Patents of new nobiHty in Heaven. The Vocation of Philip By GEORGINA PELL CURTIS X. /k IFTERNOON tea was in progress ^^1 in the drawing-room at Haskell Manor as Philip Everdeen de- scended the stairs. He and Pierre had arrived two hours pre- viously and had been shown at once to their rooms, where Pierre commenced to unpack, occasionally giving vent to some delighted comment at his sur- roundings. **Mais, c'est magnifique 1" he said, looking out on the beautiful park where, nestling among the trees, was a hand- some Gothic chapel. The Haskells were Catholics, and Lord Haskell had built this beautiful private chapel on his estate. The manor- house was in keeping with the wealth of its occupants, and Pierre made no secret of his enjoyment at living in such a splendid environment. "He is more of an aristocrat than I am," wrote Philip to his uncle. "I am glad our manner of life at Canterbury is more simple than the life here, for I fear Pierre would become insufferable if he were always surrounded by so much wealth.'' Lord Haskell had received Philip at the door, giving him a warm greeting; and after showing him up-stairs, had de- parted, mentioning that tea would be served in the drawing-room at five o'clock, when Lady Haskell would be glad to see him. After much talking and gesticulating Pierre finally had his mas- ter attired to suit him, and saw Philip depart with pardonable pride. "It iz .Messaire Pheelio who iz ze beau gentilhomme, n'est ce pas?" thought the devoted valet. "Zare iz none like him/* and he commenced whistling a French ditty under his breath. A buzz of voices greeted Philip's ear as he entered the drawing-room. Lady Haskell advanced with the utmost cor- diality and empressement. This tall, fine-looking man, with his air of high breeding, combined with an innate spirituality of expression rare in one so young, was undoubtedly a welcome ad- dition to her house party. She even dreamed before his advent of throwing him a . great deal with Lady Blanche Howe, a devout Catholic and a member of one of the oldest Catholic families in England ; and now he was here, and she was introducing him to her guests, of whom Lady Blanche, a lovely fair-haired girl was one. "Mr. Philip Everdeen, Miss Natalie Blackwood," she said, leading the young man up to a deep bay window, where a young girl sat talking to the Honorable Charles May, the eldest son of the house. "Ah! you are friends already," she added, as Philip and Natalie greeted each other with marked cordiality. Just then Julian Blackwood advanced, and there were more greetings, which cov- ered up a surprise that was almost em- barrassment on Philip's part; for this young man, along with his knowledge of the world, had a certain simplicity and directness of character that prevented his adopting the blase way of many of his compeers. As to Natalie Blackwood, «he was half conscious of some quicker heart beats than usual, and of an interest and pleasure that she had not felt on meet- ing the other men present, many of whom she already knew. Philip drew up a chair and sat down near KataWe, ^tvd \\v^ c.OTNN^T%'^>i\^xv \i^- 138 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. came general. It was not until after the ladies had retired to dress for din- ner, and Lord Haskell had carried him oflf to the smoking-room, that he had time to realize how much pleasure the meeting had given him. When dinner was announced, two hours later, his hostess requested him to escort Lady Blanche ; and during the course of a really interesting conversation with her, he had time to observe Natalie, who was seated opposite to him. Once he caught her looking at him with a curious, al- most searching gaze ; but when their eyes met, hers were instantly withdrawn, and she seemed to avoid catching his eye for the rest of the meal. Lady Blanche had spent the winter in Rome and had much to tell, and much, to ask about Philip's Egyptian sojourn. He could not but be interested in his con- versation with the young girl, who was as intelligent and good as she was beau- tiful. "Have you seen the chapel, Mr. Ever- deen ?" she said, and on his replying that he had not, she continued : "It is a gem ; the Haskells have done everything that art and wealth and good taste can do to make it beautiful. There will be Mass at seven to-morrow," she added. "No matter how late they are up, or how many pressing duties they have, our hosts never fail to hear Mass dailv.'' "It is ideal," said Philip, to whom the subject was thoroughly congenial, "and how diflFerent from the usual Eng- lish spirit. One could almost fancy that the Reformation had never swept over England. Do you ever wonder, Lady Blanche," he added, "what it would all have been like if Henrv VIII had been a different man?" "Yes," said the young girl, "I have thought of that. The history of the three isles would not have been what it is, and even America would have been influ- enced by it." "It seems such a tremendous respon- sjbjJJty," he said, "to think what one man has done for so many millions of men and women in wresting them from the Church." **He has had the most far-reaching in- fluence of any man in history," said Lady Blanche — "greater than Alexander or Caesar. I doubt if the Church will ever entirely recover from it." Slie arose as she spoke, the signal hav- ing been given for the ladies to with- draw. Later, when the gentlemen re- paired to the drawing-room, Philip found the opportunity to talk to Natalie alone. They renewed their Eg3rptian reminiscences, and Natalie narrated, with her usual charming grace, her doings at home and abroad since they had all separated in London. About one sub- ject only the young girl was silent ; her visits to Father Basil and her week at the convent at Hammersmith. Some instinct made her decide it would be bet- ter to hold back the knowledge of this from Philip until het own mind was made up. He, on his own part, told her about Pierre, his fidelity, his originality, and the measure of freedom he enjoyed. ''He is a sort of untaught child of na- ture," said Philip. "What would be al- most impudence in some valets, in him is part of his character, and too simple to give offense. Sometimes I have to check him ; but with all his talking, he has the fine quality of never carrying tales or speaking evil of others."- **Surely a good trait," said Natalie, and she remembered long afterwards, when the finding of his master depended entirely on Pierre, what Philip had said of the boy's loyalty, patience and ready wit — qualities that, in the months to come, when all tidings of Philip were lost to the world, were remembered with comfort and cheer by Natalie and (Gen- eral Hales alike. Grim war, however, seemed far re- moved from the scene when, the next morning, Philip crossed the park and entered the magnificent chapel named in THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 139 honor of St. Augustine. Here, indeed, was a scene that seemed like the gate of heaven. The deep chancel that faced the east had long lancet windows filled in with rich stained glass. The high altar of marble and onyx had a beautiful reredos, enclosing carved figures of saints, apostles, and prophets, all gath- ered around, and yet subordinate to, the central figure, which represented the .Crucifixion. The interior of the church was of stone, with beautiful 'frescoes of the stations of the cross embedded at intervals in the stone wall, the latter standing out to the depth of half a foot around each station, forming a sort of frame to the painting. The chapel was built with two small transepts, in one of which was the altar to the Blessed Vir- gin, in the other the Blessed Sacrament. In the chapel of the Virgin, over the altar, was a painting of the Christ Child, an exquisite little figure with arms out- stretched, the golden halo around His head, while behind Him, her arms and drapery seeming to protect without touching Him, stood the Blessed Mother, divine sweetness and maternity in her whole aspect. Over the altar of the Sacrament was a fresco of St. Stan- islaus Kostka receiving the Blessed Sacrament from angels. The stained glass windows in the nave were unusu- ally rich in color and design, depicting the Annunciation, the Nativity, the bap- tism in the river Jordan, the giving of the keys to St. Peter, and the landing of St. Augustine in England. Philip had arrived early, and only a few villagers were as yet present; so he knelt down, drinking in the glory and beauty around him. Here was indeed a worthy offering to the Lord of all. The poorest church was just as much His, thought Philip, yet he rejoiced that the Haskells had given Him of their best. It is the best that the Crucified Christ demands, according to the meas- ure t}Mt each one has received. There was a soft rustle of skirts, the tread of feet, and such of the household as meant to be present entered. Philip saw first his host and hostess, with their son and younger children, enter the front pews: behind them knelt Lady Blanche, her proud, patrician head bent reverently over her clasped hands. The other guests quietly took seats, when Philip felt, rather than saw, Natalie Blackwood bend her knee for a moment before entering the pew with Lady Blanche. He experienced a rush of overpowering feeling. Never before, perhaps, had he acknowledged to him- self, as he did now, what she was to him. He bowed his head as the priest, a white-haired old man, entered the sanctuary and the solemn service began. "Ah! my God," prayed Philip, "I offer to Thee this Divine Sacrifice for her conversion. Shed the light of Thy saving truth upon her, I beseech Thee." **Quid Retribuam," said the priest. "What shall we render to the Lord ?" Ourselves and our lives ; our actions and thoughts. All that we hold most dear is too little to give Him Who said from the rood of the cross, "I thirst." Not mere physical dryness called forth that cry ; it was the longing of the Divine Heart for the souls that knew Him not. Kneeling in the clear morning light to receive the Sacrament, Philip prayed, as perhaps never before, that this one who had become so dear might receive the light of divine truth and have cour- age to embrace it. So intense was his desire that when the Mass was over and they came out in the early sunshine, more than one noticed how pale he was, though no comment was made upon it. XI. Paul Morgan had not attended Father Basil's Lenten lectures without being profoundly impressed. That some of the difficulties \n \\\s mmd s^v^t^>oxv^ Ktw- I40 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. glicanism from the Church had van- ished since listening to the priest, was true ; but there still remained the "ignus fatuus" of a divided Church composed of three Catholic branches, and as long as that idea still had such a hold on him, he felt that to make anv definite move was impossible. He had not yet felt the call to separate himself from the Church to whose work he was devoted heart and soul. There remained, also, in his mind the old love for Madeleine Sargent. Was she satisfied, he wondered? Had her mind reached out to the claim of a universal, world-wide, and united Cath- olic Church, or would his conversion, if ever it took place, shock her? He felt the worldliness of allowing such thoughts to harass him, and that his de- cision, whatever it finally resulted in, must be single in purpose and free from any human influence that was mixed up with love. He was sitting in his rooms about five o'clock one afternoon, an open book before him. It had been a long and fatiguing day, during which he had worked harder than was necessary ; and coming home, cold and wearied, he had been glad of the cup of tea and book that were awaiting him. The short rest before going out again to an evening meeting of his boys' club seemed very grateful, and he found himself hoping half absently that no other call would come before eight o'clock. As if in an- swer to his thoughts, there came a tap on his door. "A gentleman to see you, sir," said Mrs. Brownell. Paul laid down his book, and arose. "Show him up, please," he answered, and walked to the door in time to greet a tall, soldierly-looking man, of a fine though not strictly handsome aspect. '*Wynville," said the clergyman cor- dially, holding out his hand, which the other grasped and shook warmly. The older man saw at once that some great mental agitation or trouble had brought the younger one to his door. "Sit down and have a cup of tea/' he said, and he proceeded to take a fresh cup out of his cupboard, busying him- self the while Captain Wynville bent toward the fire, shivering slightly, though the day was not cold. Paul Morgan and Gerald Wynville were distant cousins, and had been friends since they were at Eton together, where Gerald had been Paul's devoted fag. The ' clergyman readily divined that the youn^ army officer had fallen upon some dark hour and had come to him in his need. He waited until the tea was disposed of, talking meanwhile on some trivial matters; then, having removed the tea things, he drew his chair near the fire, and said : "Well, Wynville, something has gone wrong. What is it, and how can I help vou ? m The Captain raised a haggard face to the handsome, kindly one opposite. "Everything is wrong," he answered ; "but I shall have to explain first, Mor- gan, that for two years I have been an engaged man, or as good as engaged. My fiancee wished it kept a secret ; and now that I am able to marry and take care of her, she has thrown me over, be- cause, so she openly says, I am poor, and poverty has no attractions for her." Paul Morgan's eyes glowed, and un- der his breath he uttered the one word, "Base!" "Perhaps so," answered the Captain, catching the word : "but when you have loved a woman for nearly three years, Morgan, and have lived and worked only for her, it conies hard in the end to be met this wav." "Yes," answered the clergyman, "but, nevertheless, Wynville, you are to be congratulated. In the long run you will rejoice that you found out her real char- ater before it was too late. A woman who puts wealth and luxury before un- selfish love is not worth regretting." THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 141 "I may get to that in time," said the younger man; "but not now, Morgan. It is only an hour or two since I left her/' "What is her name?" asked the clergyman. The Captain stirred the hot coals with a poker; then the name came out with an effort. "Anita Sargent." "Miss Sargent!" said Paul, in amaze. "Why, I know her, Wynville! We. met in Egypt, where I joined her uncle's party for some time. I can scarcely believe it of her.'' To himself he said that Mrs. Stoker evidently had some foundation for her marked dislike for the young girl. "Xo one would dream she was so worldly," answerea the Captain. "I was totally unprepared for her dismissal of me ; yet, when we talked it over, I saw plainly she was not to be moved, and that her decision was final." They were sitting now almost in dark- ness save for the light made by the fire. Long the two sat there and talked, the elder man gradually comforting the sore heart of the younger and more untried one. until at length the clock on the neighboring Catholic church sti;uck seven, and the Captain arose. "I must be back at my barracks at eight," he said; "if war is really de- clared, I hope my regiment will he or- dered in the field, and that there will be work for me still to do." "Work and a useful career lie be- fore you, I am sure, Wynville," an- swered the clerg>'man. "Come to me again, and as often as you can — and take courage." "I trust I shall bear it like a man," was the answer, "though my life with all its hopes, is altered. The world is a different place from what it was this morning, Morgan." The clergyman wrung his friend's hand. "God bless you, Wyn\ille," he said. *'Sonje blessing you do not dream of, something worthy of you, will come when you least expect it." For the first time the Captain smiled — a smile that revealed the charm of his strong, dark face. "Your mind runs far, Morgan," he said — "Good^night." Left alone, Paul Morgan sat down again by the fire. Past scenes rose up before him as he looked in the glowing embers. "Twin sisters!" he thought, "and yet it seems impossible. The one so un- worldly and holy, the other so thor- oughly heartless and selfish. Well, thank God, Wynville has escaped her." He lit his lamp and rang for his even- ing meal, which was quickly despatched. Eight o'clock found him at his boys* club, where he spent over an hour ab- sorbed in the work that claimed all his attention. Half-past nine o'clock came, and with it the departure of the boys. He was putting out the lights when his Superior entered the room. "A few words with you, Morgan," he said, and Paul obediently followed him to his private study. Although mem- bers of a Brotherhood, the Vicar and his subordinates did not live in com- munity. Lack of funds had not yet permitted them to have a suitable build- ing, hence the Superior had a bedroom and study in the Parish House next the church, while Paul and his confreres lived in lodgings near by. "I have important work for you, Mor- gan," said the elder man as he closed his study door; and he proceeded to tell Paul that he was to be sent to Cape Town to reconnoitre the ground, with the idea of founding a branch of their Order in South Africa. "I onlv heard from the Father Superior this morning," he said. "It was undecided at first whom to send : but Father Jones has fixed on vou." "How soon do I start?" asked Paul, to whom the proposed tri^ was full ot attraction. 142 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. "I am not yet able to say/' was the answer. 'These rumors of war have made the Father Superior a httle unde- cided whether to send vou now or later.*' A few more words passed between them, and then Paul went home. For the next two weeks he held him- self in almost daily readiness for the expected orders ; but it was, in fact, sev- eral months before the matter was finallv decided, and the order came to him to prepare to embark. XII. Anita Sargent had not come out of her interview with Gerald Wvnville without some feeling of shame. After receiving his letter in Egypt she had put off answering it, and then their sudden return home, so much sooner than she had expected, had made a per- sonal interview necessary. The Cap- tain, wholly unprepared for the nature of his reception, had been at first both bewildered and stunned; then, as the truth gradually came home to him, he had behaved with a dignity and courage that, while it made it easier for Anita, filled her with some faint twinges of self-disgust. She had promised that afternoon to go to the Anglican convent on Street to see her sister. Glanc- ing at a clock after the door closed on Wvnville, she saw it wanted half an hour of the time when her sister would be free and expecting her. Anything was better than to stay at home and think, so summoning her maid, they were soon driving toward the Sisterhood in a hansom. Madeleine Sargent, who was the elder twin, had alwavs been devoted to her sister, and welcomed her with an aflFection that partook of an almost pro- tecting and motherly quality ; but Anita had spoken truly when she said that she had never returned the intimacy that the elder one desired. Hence, during the hour spent at the convent she talked chiefly about her Egyptian trip, anJ about the improvement in their ^father's health since his return from the Conti- nent. Had she unfolded to her sister the crisis through which she was passing, her whole subsequent life might have been diflFerent. It happened that that night there was to be a fancy dress ball to which she and Natalie were going; and Anita had already chosen the role of Cleopatra. When she was dressed, her appearance was so strikingly beautiful that Natalie's admiration was open and generous. Little she knew how well Anita's pres- ent disposition was suited to the role of the fair and fickle Cleopatra. Of her quasi-engagement and final dismissal of Wynville, her family knew nothing. Naturally secretive, she had guarded the whole matter well. Anita's thoughts, as she drove to the ball, were dark and bitter as well as utterly selfish. No remorse for the injury she had done to the man she had held in tow so long, and then dismissed, troubled her. There were other men to choose from, she thought, and so it was; for one of the strange problems of human destiny is that women of her type are often the most loved. The scene that night was a bril- liant one, and Anita was the gayest of the gay ; but it did not escape the pene- tration of her cousin Julian that some- thing unusual had occurred. Julian himself had taken the part of Charles Stuart, while Natalie was looking par- ticularly handsome as Joan of Arc. Dressed in white from head to foot, with a light shield of steel, and grasping her standard, on which was embroidered the lilies of France, Natalie was a striking figure among the many beautiful women present. Anita looked at her with envv as one free from anv inward turmoil, little knowing that her cousin's mind was nearly as disturbed as her own, though for diflFerent reasons. Anita had seen Natalie at the convent at Hammersmith, THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 143 but was ignorant of her disturbance of belief. Her own presence there during Holy Week, was due to her having an intimate friend among the older pu- pils— an English girl who lived near them in Devonshire, and who had pressed Anita to attend one of the Ten- ebrae services — an invitation which Anita had accepted chiefly to please her friend, though, also, because she liked the im- pressive ritual of the Church. And now, by a curious fatality, the op- portunity to plunge yet deeper into un- truth and self-deception came to Anita the very" night of her breaking with Ger- ald Wynville. Among the guests present at the ball was the Due de St. Andre, a handsome boy of about twenty-three, the oflfspring of a marriage between a French father, of noble blood but impoverished fortune, and an American mother worth many millions. The Blackwoods had met him in Paris, and had been attracted by his light-hearted gaiety and the innate chiv- alry and refinement that distinguished him. The young Due had fallen desper- ately in love with Anita Sargent, and had come to London with the avowed purpose of winning her if he could. Attired as a noble of the time of the Grand Monarque, he paid assiduous court to her, although at first she re- ceived his attentions with a coldness that only inflamed his ardor. Until that night Anita had not thought seriously of him. Now, however, for the first time the idea came to her — ^why not accept the Due? Anita had heard of his chateau, and of its splendid furnishing, made by the American Duchesse. Before .the ball was over that night her mind was made up, and at parting she gave the Due a pressing invitation to come to see her the next day, sending him home wild with joy. In less than a week he had proposed and been accepted, and the engagement was announced. The Due's wealth and high lineage, as weU B3 his own attractive personality, could not fail to make him an acceptable parti to the Blackwoods. The dowager Lady Blackwood was delighted, though she openly lamented that it was Anita and not her favorite Natalie. The Due urged a speedy marriage and proposed liberal settlements. There re- mained only the question of religion, and about this the Due, a Catholic, in spite of being head over ears in love, showed remarkable firmness, proving his sound religious training. To his surprise — for he had expected opposition — Anita man- ifested a willingness to hear the other side and receive instruction. Delighted beyond measure, St. Andre arranged an interview between her and his confessor. Father Becar. The priest, with his wide experience and keen insight, found the girl a puzzle. He half doubted her sin- cerity; but as Anita finally professed herself fully convinced, he could not re- fuse to receive her into the Church, though in their final interview he gave her a solemn warning that she must be sure of herself before taking the step. Advice which Anita listened to with an impenetrable look in her wonderful eyes which baffled the priest; but as a de- mure, **Yes, Father, I am fully con- vinced," was her only answer, he could not do otherwise than make final ar- rangements for her reception. The wed- ding took place the end of June at the Catholic church on her uncle's estate in Devonshire. The Due and his bride departed for France, and five months later the social world of London and Paris was thrown into a flutter by the announcement in the papers that the Duchesse de St. Andre had left her husband, and had gone to South Africa as a volunteer nurse. XIII. It was the autumn following Philip's visit to Derbyshire. General Hales sat in his study one afternoon in. deep thought. Like ^\\ Tt\At^^ ^tm>3 oSSiK.^x^ 144 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. he was following the fast-developing sit- uation in South Africa with keen inter- est and with a growing desire that his nephew should have some part in it. If Philip was to enter at Woolwich next year, well and good; but in the mean- time, if he could go to Africa the experi- ence he would gain would be invaluable. To i)uv a commission in the armv was impossible under the new regulations. The General thought with a sigh of how easily his own military career had com- menced. For Philip to go as a private citizen would not bring him within the lines: what else, then, was there? Suddenly a thought came to the old veteran. *T have it," he exclaimed aloud, "the boy shall go as a war corre- spondent. I w-ill go up to London to- morrow and see what influence w^ill do. He has just the ability to make a splen- did record that w-av ; and if it is offered to him, I don't believe he will refuse." For the General to decide was to act with military precision ; accordingly, on the morrow he left on an earlv train for London, accompanied by his valet. These trips were of frequent occurrence and caused no surprise to Philip, who knew that his uncle was fond of an occa- sional visit to the Armv and Navv Club. The General was gone a week and re- turned in excellent spirits. He had been successful almost beyond his expecta- tions. A prominent morning paper was in need of an energetic war correspond- ent to go out with a regiment that was to leave in two weeks, and the editor, a man of position and influence, who was personally acquainted with General Hales, lent a favorable ear to the elder man's proposal, only stipulating that Philip must come to London and see him before the matter was closed. To London, therefore, Philip went, very much surprised, and at the same time delighted at the offer his uncle had lost no time in laying before him. Needless to say that the journey was successful. The editor v/sls charmed with the handsome young man, who speedily gave him satisfactory proof of his ability and attainments. The matter was soon concluded, and busy as the editor was, he found time to congratulate himself on the series of brilliant articles from the seat of war that he would soon be able to publish. The next morning's edition of the paper contained an announcement of Philip's engagement as correspondent and the date of his departure for South Africa. *'\Ve feel pleased," the article read, '*to have secured the services of Mr. Everdeen, nephew of the distinguished Indian officer. General Hales. We do not doubt that Mr. Everdeen will soon make a name for himself in the editorial world, and justify our choice of him." Numerous were the friends of Philip and his uncle who were soon in posses- sion of the news, and it was not long before letters and telegrams came pour- ing in from friends and relations alike. '*Everv one seems to have a word to say on the subject," exclaimed Philip, after reading through the tenth letter received in one day. "I begin to think it will require more than I am capable of to live up to such standards as the public seems to require." **X6nsense." said his uncle, "of course you can do it. Phil. I only wish I were going too," and the General, who was on horseback, ready to start on his after- noon canter, rode off proudly, the while he uttered a fervent wish that he could indeed ride in front of his own regiment again ; for tliis brave old soldier and courteous gentleman was a warrior born, who would have liked better to continue in action to the end than to spend his last vears in retirement. Yox the next ten days all was bustle and activity at the General's house, and the only person who did not join heartily in the preparations was Pierre. He openly lamented the departure of his master, and that he must be left behind. THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 145 "Take me with you, Messaire Pheelip/' he said. "See, I will follow you. I will protect you with my life. When the bul- lets come flying through the air, it is I, Pierre, who will throw myself in front of you and save you. 'Viola !' " At which dramatic picture Philip would laugh until Pierre shrugged his shoulders, though well he knew his young master's real aflFection for him. Philip explained as well as he could to his devoted body-servant, that the battle field was not the place for an officer or any one in the service of his country to be accompanied by a valet; so Pierre was obliged to acquiesce, though he was not silenced. "When you are lost, Monsieur," he said, "when we hear no more of you, and know not, 'Ah Ciel!' whether you are alive or whether we must sav for vou the holy Mass, then poor Pierre will look for you. I wiir penetrate that land of barbarians and search for you until I can restore you to T Oncle cher.' " "I verily believe he would do it," said Philip to the General. "He is dog-like in his devotion. I shall almost expect to wake up in Africa some day and find him standing by me." A prophecy that was in the end verified. It was Sir Arthur Blackwood who had read aloud at the breakfast table the no- tice of Philip's appointment. Natalie turned a shade paler, and the hand that held the sugar-tongs shook; but any notice that n^ight have been taken of her was happily covered by Leonard, who was home on a two davs' leave. "Hurrah," he said. "What good news ! I only wish I were not going two steam- ers ahead of him." "General Hales is crazy to get him in the army," said Julian, "and I suppose has brought this about as the next best thing." "I sympathize with my old comrade," said Sir Arthur. "Every retired officer must he anxious and proud to send some one near and dear to him to fight the bat- tles he can only look upon from afar." The opinion was pretty freely ex- pressed, both in London and elsewhere, that it was the beginning of a career for Philip. But not many knew that a few days before his departure, the young man, in the true spirit of a knight of old, went to the Brompton Oratory and made a three davs' retreat. He confessed and received the Sacrament the morning of ' the day he was to sail, and as he knelt before the altar in the early morning light, thoughts of Natalie came to him. Fervently he prayed that the faith might ere long be hers. He hardly dared ad- mit to himself how deeply he wished it, or how the thought of her had become a part of all other thoughts and dreams of his future. He remembered, as he alighted from the cab at the door of the Oratorian Fathers, that it was a vear since the time he had seen Father Basil in Rome, and now he was to meet him again. And it had come about not as a specially arranged interview, but as an incident in plans that had been already formed. He knew he was now far from the desire to be a priest ; still it was with no feeling of false shame that the youuj^ man met the priest that evening and had a long talk with him. It was with the same frankness as of old that Philip spoke of himself and Natalie, and his hopes that if she became a Catholic he might win her. The priest, who had already had several interviews with her, thought he saw a happy end to present uncertainty ; but he kept his own coun- sel, only giving affectionate advice, and cordial approval of the present step. The few days calm and quiet in the Oratory passed all too quickly, and the time came when Philip once more said good-bye to England. He arrived at Cape Town the last week in October, four weeks after Leonard Blackwood had landed, and onlv a few davs before, the siege ol "LaAysmHAv Xi^^^^u. 146 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. XIV. Before leaving England for Africa, Paul Morgan paid several visits to Mrs. Beaumont, who had rallied and who was somewhat better. **It is only a respite,* she said, in an- swer to the clergyman's kind enquiry. "I shall never really get well." On the first visit he found her happy in the reconciHation with her daughter — a happiness in which the son and younger daughter shared. Entire har- mony seemed restored, and Sister Mary Fidelis was allowed by her Superior to spend as much time with her mother as possible. So Paul Morgan was hardly surprised when, on making his last visit, two davs before he was to sail, Mrs. Beaumont told him hesitatingly, and almost as if she feared the vials of his wrath would be let loose, that she and her younger children had decided to fol- low the example of the older one and be- come Catholics. To her amazement the young clergy- man expressed neither surprise nor anger. "It will make you a united family," he said, "and if you are convinced, I am quite sure it is the best thing you can do." Emboldened by this remark, Mrs. Beaumont asked him to be present at their reception the next day, and, half in surprise at himself, he consented. Coming down-stairs half an hour after this conversation, he met Sister Mary Fidelis and stopped to speak to her. **Your mother seems very happy,'* he said ; "what will be others* loss, seems to be distinctly her gain." The Sister's beautiful face flushed ever so little, and her eyes were moist. **I am very happy about it,*' she said, and then, half timidly, she added : "And you, sir — you do not seem angry OT bitter. May we not hope you will be wjth us some day." Was that whither he was tending, the man thought Was he under the spell of Father BasiFs eloquence, or was some secret, spiritual force at work within him, leading him from darkness to light? Who could say? "It is a long road that has no turning," he answered, and with this the Sister had to be content. He was present the next morning when the mother, son and daughter were received into the Church, Mrs. Beau- mont having recovered sufficiently to be taken out. Almost Paul Morgan could have envied the calm certainty with which the priest took their profession and finished the ceremony, ending up by saying Mass. Was this the sure road to eternal Hfe, or were other roads as good or better ? In the vestibule of the church he said good-bye to the little quartette; moved by some impulse Sister Mary Fidelis followed him to the door. "Adieu, sir," she said, "and God bless you. I can never forget that it was you who searched for me and brought about the reunion with my mother." "If I have served you in any way," he answered, "I am thankful. I have a long voyage before me, and an uncertain fu- ture, so I trust you will pray for me." "As long as I live," she said, "and I will ask others to pray." She held out her hand as she spoke, and met his in a warm, friendly clasp. The next moment he was gone, and saying farewell to her mother, the Sister hurried back to the convent, where a multitude of duties awaited her. Paul Morgan was hastening back to his rooms that afternoon, having con- cluded all arrangements for sailing the next day, when in makmg his way through the crowd at Charing Cross he heard his name called, and looking up he saw Mrs. Stoker nodding and beck- oning to him from her carriage. "Jump in," she said, holding open the door. "Yes, I know you are going to Africa to-morrow morning and have a THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 147. thousand and one things to do, but yod must let me have the one thousand and second part of your time before you go/* They had not met since parting on the steamer at Naples at the conclusion of their Egyptian trip, so Paul Morgan was amused at the freedom with which he was spoken to ; but he had rather liked the shrewd, kindly, if somewhat eccen- tric woman, so he met her half-way. **It is an unexpected pleasure to meet you," he said. "Have you been in Lon- don since we parted in Italy?" "Only for about a month/* she an- swered. "My nephew Ambrose and I travelled on the Continent after leav- ing you until his time — which had been extended — ^was up, and he had to rejoin his ship, which has now been ordered to take some of the Irish troops to Africa. No doubt you will come across Ambrose in Cape Town as he sails to-morrow." "Every one seems journeying in that direction," said the clergyman. "There appears to be work there for all." Mrs. Stoker changed her position and looked at Paul with what seemed to him a curious, searching gaze. "Have you seen the Duchesse de St. Andre since you returned to England?" was her rather abrupt question. "You mean our travelling companion. Miss Sargent?" answered the clergyman, in a tone that scarcely concealed his sur- prise. "Yes, I have seen her several times," he continued, as Mrs. Stoker in- clined her head in reply to his question, "but only for a few moments at a time. Now, I believe, she is in Africa. I heard there was some diflference between her and her husband, and that she left him rather unexpectedly, going to the seat of war as a volunteer nurse." "Yes, she is in South Africa,", said Mrs. Stoker, "and that makes me sorry to know you are going there too." "What does she mean?" thought the amazed listener. "This is eccentricity with a vengeance, " Aloud he answered : "I am hardly likely to meet the Duchesse as I believe she has gone to the front, and my duties are in Cape Town." "Mr. Morgan," said Mrs. Stoker, fix- ing her keen, gray eyes on him, "no doubt you think me a very queer old woman, but I see that you are blind to the facts, and I think it my duty to warn you. As Miss Sargent, the Duchesse was madly in love with you, and I believe she is still." The blood rushed to Paul Morgan's face. "You are very kind," he answered coldly, "but I certainly never saw any- thing in the Duchesse's manner to make me think that she bestowed even the re- motest thought on me. Our acquaint- ance was confined to the merest com- monplaces, and even were it not so, I happen to know personally that your surmise is altogether a mistake." "I knew I would certainly surprise and probably offend you, Mr. Morgan," said the little old lady who, having once taken an idea into her head was not easily turned from it, "but I was willing to take the risk. If you will wait long enough you will find that that woman is both dangerous and deep." "I heartily agree with you in that," said Paul, and then, anxious to be rid of a subject that was both absurd and thoroughly distasteful to him, he changed the conversation. That she had seriously annoyed and distressed him, Mrs. Stoker knew perfectly well ; but a lifelong habit of saying ex- actly what she wanted to sav had not failed her in the present case. Besides, she was genuinely attached to the young clergyman, and having, as she thought, divined that Anita was attracted to him, knowing also her real character, which she had carefully studied while they were in Egypt, she had made up her mind to warn Paul at her first opportunity. She had met Anita and the Due in Paris after their marriage, tv^id ^^xv^h^^^ her acquamtSLtvc^, atv^ \va.^ vcsaAfc Sx\^TAa» 148 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. with the dowager Duchesse. Her shrewd old eves had seen, amidst all the luxury that surrounded them, that one thing was lacking, and that was love on the part of the bride for her husband. She had seen, too, the Due's absolute devotion, and had pitied him. Having accomplished her object with Paul, she changed the conversation, re- lating some of her own and her nephew's experiences during their foreign travel. With all her peculiarities she was an amusing talker, and her Hstener could not be other than entertained. They were bowling along toward his lodgings, whither Mrs. Stoker had insisted upon driving him, when she changed the con- versation again, and inquired if he had seen any of the Blackwoods. m '*Not lately,*' he had answered. "I suppose you know," she continued, "that Leonard Blackwood is shut up in Ladysmith with his regiment, unless he is dead or starving; that Julian has just been accorded a most flattering testi- monial from the Royal Geographical So- ciety for a paper of his on Egypt; and that Natalie is about to become a Roman Catholic.'' "I have been so engrossed with work," he said, "that these things have es- caped me.'' "I always thought that that handsome Everdeen had some influence over Natalie," remarked the old lady. "A fine girl, and one who deserves some- thing better than to become a Papist. Her grandmother told me she has re- fused some of the best men in London society; one of them, Lord Lamblay, was inconsolable over her refusal." "Indeed," said Paul Morgan. He was beginning to feel distinctly bored. "Natalie is like her grandmother," continued Mrs. Stoker, no wavs cast down by his want of interest. "Susan Blackwood and I w^ere old friends at school. A strong will, and a tendency to hold all the reins of government in /ler own hands and yield to no one, were among her chief characteristics. It just escaped her, however, that some one among her desceiidents might take after her, and Natalie is that one. All the rest are more or less under Susan's thumb, and none more so than her clerical son." **If that is the case," said Paul, "why does she allow him to go to such ex- tremes in ritual. I should judge it would not be acceptable to Lady Blackwood, who was brought up among the Low Churchmen." "Oh! she likes it," was the answer; "it brings distinction, and makes him a marked man, and much talked about. Then, too, in spite of her Low Church environment as a child, there was always a strong vein of efflorescence in Susan Blackwood that made her take readily to her son's taste for lights and music and incense. I told her the last time we met that she only stopped short of the Pope." "Good old man," said Paul Morgan involuntarily, "she might go farther and fare worse.". He was trying hard not to allow the irritability he felt to show in his manner ; why had he run up against this talkative old lady! The carriage rolled out of the main thoroughfare and into the street where Paul Morgan's lodgings were, and he breathed an inward sigh of relief. "Natalie seems to have an active champion in you," pursued his uncon- scious tormentor, "though I know you are not in love with her." "Good heavens, no," he said, and then, as the driver drew up at his own door, he held out his hand ere alighting. "My dear Mrs. Stoker, a thousand thanks for bringing me this long drive home," he said. "If I meet Mr. Ewing in Africa shall I give him any message?" "Tell him to take care and not get coast fever," answered the old lady; "and you, too, Mr. Morgan — you can't be too careful. A dose of quinine early in the morning is a great preventive." PAROCHIAL AND PUBLIC SCHOOLS. 149 He raised his hat and thanked her, with a smile. The smile deepened intb a laugh as the carriage drove away. "She is even more peculiar on her native heath than she was in Egypt," he thought. **As to all that about the Duchesse de St. Andre, it*s absurd. She seems to have spent her time on the trip in imagining we were all in love with each other." He hurried up-stairs and dismissed the matter from his mind. There were last visits to make that even- ing, and other and more engrossing topics for thought than his meeting with an eccentric elderly lady. At six the next morning the great steamer moved out of her dock and set her bow toward the far-off African shore. Amid the crowd on deck before starting Paul Morgan caught a glimpse of Father Basil, who had come to say good-bye to some confreres who were going on the African mission. The priest's clear blue eyes met his for a moment with what seemed to Paul Morgan a glance of recognition. The young clergyman remained on deck musing on Father Basil's strong, at- tractive face, and hearing again the clear, insistent voice, as he had heard it in the Lenten lectures. He seemed at peace. So was Sister Mary Fidelis, and so were a multitude of others who had suffered and gained a faith that, from their own testimony, was above measure and above price. Would that faith ever be his? Paul Morgan was too tremendously in earnest to have hesitated had he been convinced : but around him still clung the '*ignus fatuus'* of a divided Catholic Church. (To be continued.) PAROCHIAL AND PUBLIC SCHOOLS U COMPARED IN THE LIGHT OF THE NEW YORK NORMAL COLLEGE JUNE EXAMINATIONS By H. F. L. HHE New York Herald of June 1 8th contains some statistics of the June examinations at the Normal College which are ex- ceedingly interesting as affording a basis, imperfect though it is, for comparison of the two systems of elementary educa- tion adopted in our parochial and public schools The figures published relate only to the girls' schools ; if a similar statement concerning the boys' schools has been printed we have not seen it. The superintendent of the parish schools, speaking of these examinations in his annual report, says: **It is a source of regret that, at present, we have no means of acquiring complete statistics as to the number oi children participat- ing in these examinations, and the suc- cess obtained." This is indeed a matter for regret, but one which we think can be easilv remedied. What more is neces- sary than to require the schools to keep a record of the pupils whom they recom- mend for these examinations, and of the result? Judging, however, from the in- complete statistics at hand, the convic- tion for which we have so long con- tended has been confirmed, namely, that, notwithstanding the drawbacks against which our Catholic schools labor, thev need not shrink from a comparison with the public schools. These drawbacks are obvious. In the first place we have, compara- tively, a vast\\ gT^?L\.^T wwrc\i^\ q»\ "Ocv^ ISO THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. children of the poor, and fewer of the well-to-do class in the parochial than in the public schools. The consequence is that only a very small percentage of our children can afford to remain at school till they graduate. They must become bread-winners and help support the family. The public schools are not thus depleted of their advanced pupils. There is nothing to prevent them from remaining for the full course. It were preposterous, therefore, to expect as many graduates, in proportion to their numbers, in the parish, as in the public schools. In the next place, we Catholics lack that all-important element of material progress — funds. We can afford to spend, proportionately, only a fraction of the enormous sum at the disposition of the public school authorities. The parochial schools of the arch-diocese of New York educate fifty-five thousand, six hundred and twenty-nine children at a total cost of about five hundred thou- sand dollars per annum, as we learn from the report of the Catholic School Board — ^about nine dollars for each pu- pil. The public schools cost the tax- payers of Greater New York a little over sixteen million dollars a vear for **in- struction and supervision*' (salaries) alone. The "grand total" for school purposes during the last year (vide Alaxweirs report) was twenty-seven million, eight hundred and forty-eight thousand, eight hundred and fifty-three dollars and sixteen cents. The average cost per capita is given as thirty-four dol- lars and forty-seven cents. To expect equal results from such unequal condi- tions would seem a little unreasonable. And yet we contend that our parish schools not only compare favorably with the costly state establishments but actu- ally surpass them, even along the lines of purely secular education. Now, if it be admitted — and it is a truism which none hut the dolt or the infidel will deny — that religion is the first factor to be considered in the formation of a good citizen, then is the parochial school system infinitely preferable to that fostered by the state, from which all religious instruction is rigorously excluded. We might easily show that this view, once almost exclusively Catholic, is now adopted by thinking men of every denomination; but we must not be led away from our present purpose. The Herald prefaces its statistics by saying that "six hundred and sixteen graduates of the public schools out of a thousand who took the entrance exam- inations of the Normal College" were successful. This statement is incorrect and misleading. The "six hundred and sixteen successful graduates of the pub- lic schools" include one hundred and sixty-seven pupils from the nineteen parochial schools represented, and sixty- three "independent candidates." More- over, we have it on very good authority that the number of those "who took the entrance examinations of Normal Col- lege" was considerably more than "a thousand," thus making still further in- roads on the percentage of successful candidates for promotion. Now, if we deduct the number of parochial school graduates, together with the "independ- ent candidates," and also the graduates from the "Training School" — ^which, under the immediate supervision of Prof. Hunter, may be said to be in a class by itself — we have left three hundred and fifteen successful candidates to be ap- portioned amongst the forty-two public schools named in the Herald, as against one hundred and sixty-seven from the nineteen parish schools. In other words, the parish schools had an average of over eight and one-half successful can- didates for advancement, and the public schools only seven and one-half. Of these successful candidates, seven out of the forty-two public schools had only one each ; whereas only two out of DOCTOR MURAT. 151 the nineteen parish schools had so low a record. Nearly half of the public schools — twenty out of forty-two — presented, each, less than five successful aspirants ; whereas only four of the nineteen pa- rochial schools made so poor a showing. It would be interesting to know just how many of the public school appli- cants failed to pass the College exam- inations. We have no exact data on this matter, but from the figures published it would seem that the percentage was very large. Nor have we any means of knowing how many failures were re- corded from the parochial schools. Did we possess this knowledge, we would have a better test of the comparative success of the two systems; yet from the facts within our knowledge we are justified in concluding that a vast majority of the unsuccessful candidates and a much greater percentage of failures came from the public schools. In this belief we are fortified by the records of some of our own schools. For instance, fifteen grad- •uates of St. Vincent Ferrer's school pre- sented themselves for the High School and College examinations, and all passed except one; two of the boys, who were thought to be not quite up to the standard, took the examina- tions as "independent candidates," and both were successful. The Herald says that "the parochial schools stood high in comparison with the records of the last few years." Had our patronizing reporter said that they compared, more than favorably with the pet institutions of the state, he would have told only the simple truth. Still, notwithstanding this showing, there are certain timid Catholics— either weak- kneed or weak-minded — ^who are un- willing to claim that the work done in our parish schools is of as high a grade as that of the public schools. This opin- ion was entertained quite extensively some time ago, but now it is held by none except those who are either igno- rant of the facts or interested in sup- pressing them. DOCTOR. MURAT By J. L. OX. HHE sombre mantle of night is gently lowered over the little town of Avon, and as darkness comes on a light drizzle of rain, aided by the dismal glimmer of the street lamps, lends to the scene an aspect not unlike the proverbial old-fashioned Lon- don fog. The main street is deserted save for the retreating figure of a policeman, who soon takes shelter in an inviting door- way, over which hangs a small oval sign, inscribed : "F. W. Murat, M. D., Phy- sician and Surgeon." To-night, within his cozy little office, the popular jown^ doctor is comfortably seated in an old armchair which has been drawn up close to the genial fire- place. The blazing logs cast a cheer- ful, ruddy glow about the room that seems to have a strange effect upon the doctor, for, as he leans forward to knock the ashes from the end of his cigar, he continues to stare vacantly at the glow- ing grate as if his imagination were hard at work fashioning familiar pictures of the past out of the playful flames. Yes, the doctor is secretly communing with the spirits of the past. It is not en- tirely a pleasant retrospection, however, for an occasional shadow flits across his face as all unconsciously K^ blo^% iVvft. pale b\ue fmgs oft m\.o %^^c^. 152 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. "No, they must never know," he muses, and then, as a fresh pained ex- pression darkens his countenance, he continues, '*No, as Doctor Murat, she must never know, for it would be wrong, very wrong, and as for the other — well—" Truth is. Doctor Murat is in love ; the charming daughter of Judge Donovan being the object of his silent devotion The friendship that sprang up between tliem three years before has of late de- veloped into a love so strong, so passion- ate that, try as he will, the doctor can- not silence it. Though perfectly aware that the love he bears her is reciprocated . with an ardor no less emotional than his own, still he is equally conscious that, if he is to act honorably, he nuist ever forego an avowal of that love. A bitter thought this, and one that is responsible for many sad reveries just such as this in which the doctor is now so profoundly lost. The door opens and closes suddenly, and a newspaper falls in upon the floor. "Why, on earth, didn't the young ras- cal stop in and get warm?" cries the doctor as he stoops to pick up the printed sheet, for it is the "Devonshire Evening Call" that the newsboy has just left. He shuts the door tightly, resumes his old place near the fire and begins to scan the head-lines in a rather half-hearted ' manner, when suddenlv his eve falls on mm the following: NOTICE ! The sum of five hundred dollars will be paid to any one furnishing us with such information as will lead to the knowledge of the where- abouts of Frank R. White who, in 1892, resided at 206 Beaver Street, London. London Bureau of Information, Brummel Building. The doctor rises slowlv without tak- ing his eyes from the notice, holds it so that the light strikes it full and then lets it fall straight into the fire. With one hand resting on the back of the chair, he stands there watching the eager flames devour the shrivelling leaves and, when the last charred remnant has crumbled away into dust, he glances at his watch and murmurs : "I have just forty-five minutes to drive over to Devonshire and catch that nine o'clock express. I will go to-night and have this matter cleared up at once." Ten minutes later the doctor, wrapped in his big rain coat, was seated in a light surrey driving through the drizzling wet on his wav to Devonshire. m « « « « « * There was the usual happy look on Judge Donovan's face as he entered the doctor's office some three weeks later. "Good morning. Judge," said Doctor Murat in his heartv manner. **!Momin'," replied the judge, remov- ing his hat and brushing his hand across the heavy shock of gray that still adorned his massive brow. **By Jove," continued the doctor, greeting the judge with a warm hand- clasp, "but this is fortunate — your drop- ping in just as you did, I mean, for I was just thinking of you and wondering whether or not I would find vou occu- m pied this morning." "Well, you see I am at leisure," smiled the judge, "and at your service." "Sit down," said the doctor, pointing to a chair, and then, after a slight pause, he went on: "Judge, I have a story for you, one that will explain my sudden de- parture three weeks ago and one that may surprise you somewhat before I am done. Judge Donovan, who was ever ready for a story, was soon seated lazily in a large armchair near the window, with one of the doctor's favorite Havanas DOCTOR MURAT. 153 d placidly in the corner of his , when the narration began, vas back in the fall of ninety-two/' ctor was saying, "and at that time attending S — L — College. On in night a wallet, containing about ollars was stolen from one of my ates. The next dav a search was and the missing wallet was found bottom of my wardrobe. I tried :> prove my innocence, but the evi- was too strong against me. f, exasperated and enraged at the iting audacity of those who had ed my room, I cursed the care- ts of him who had lost the money tterly deplored the lack of justice college generally, r all this, evidences of my guilt d only to increase as the day Ki on. Toward evening the humii- torture of it all became unbear- ircely knowing what I was about, ►nly the feeling of escape to spur , I hastily packed a small suit-case •ept away from the college I had Instead of going home — for my s were both dead and I had not urage to face my stem uncle who :ting as my guardian at the time — : South, fully determined never to the place that had caused me so disgrace and misery, e foolish fear of being followed, >ted me to change my name, which nk R. White, to F. \V. Murat. at winter I received employment ity hospital, and it was there that became interested in medicine. In pring I was working my way |[h medical school, and three years ; graduated with honors. ter two years of practical work at 36pital I came here to dear old The incidents of the last five are already known to you. Well, weeks ago, I saw a notice in the tfishire Evening Call" which 1 a large reward !ov information concerning Frank White. For obvious reasons, I felt a strong desire to answer that notice in person, so I left Avon that very night and arrived in London the following day. After I had established my identity, which, let me say in passing, was no easy matter, I learned that my dear uncle was dying and wished to see me at once. I reached his bedside just in time to close his eyes and extend to him that consolation that only a relative can give to a man who is dying among strangers. **Dunng my brief stay in London I learned that the character of Frank White had been vindicated by the dying confession of. an under class-fellow who met with a fatal accident while returning to college after the Christmas holidays. I also learned that I was to inherit all my uncle's riches, a bit of news that pricked my conscience sorely after the manner in which I had acted. "And now. Judge," he continued, drawing in a deep breath and bracing himself for what was to follow, "I come to the most serious part of this tiresome tale. For the past three years I have \\'ished vainly to ask you for your daugh- ter's hand; still, as Doctor Murat with his questionable past I felt that it would hardly be the most honorable thing to do. But now, as simple Frank White again, I feel that I am free to make such a request." "My lad," began the old judge as he laid one hand on Frank's shoulder, seem- ingly to emphasize his remarks, "It will be the proudest day of my life when I can call you my son. Go in and win her, lad, and may God bless you both." To-day, in the little town of Avon, a new name graces the sign in front of the doctor's office, but in the center of the town is a magnificent public library which bears the following inscription: "The Murat Library, A. D. 1903." It is all that remains to tell of the short- lived but happy career of the once famous DoclOT "Nlut^X.. St. E^ustace By THOMAS M. CROTTY. O. P.. S. T. L. BAR back in the history of the Christian Era, there Hved a man born of wealthy parents but outside of the pale of Christ's Church. He was brave and generous, and possessed many virtues rarely to be found in a man who had not the blessing of being baptized. His name was Eu- stace. His story is preserved in the Office of the Church. There we may read of his life as a pagan soldier, as a Christian, and as a martyr. All cannot read the Divine Office and few are will- ing to read the life of this saint of the sec- ond century. It was for these, and for the honor of the saint, that the artist em- ployed his skill to paint the likeness of a man dressed after the fashion of a Roman soldier, with a stag-^between whose antlers is a figure of the Cruci- fixion— ^by his side. This picture fills up one of the lancet windows of stained- glass which adorn with varied tints the small chapel of our Blessed Lady in the Church of the Dominican Fathers, New- bridge. Our saint was descended from a rich and powerful family. He had been brought up in the midst of ease and wealth. Having arrived at that time of life when he was called upon to choose a profession, he at once determined to follow the Roman Eagle as a soldier, and to devote his life to the service of the Roman Emperor. In this calling he gained for himself, in a short time, great renown. Among his superiors in the army he was famed for his military skill and brilliant triumphs. As an offi- cer of a Legion he was looked up to as a father by the soldiers, who loved him for his kindness towards them and re- spected him for his justice. Almighty God, Who is not an ''acceptor person- arum," saw how good this pagan was, and was so pleased with his many good works that He sent His angel to him that he might be instructed in the true faith and be brought into the road that leads to heaven ; and as Saul, the per- secutor of the Christians, was blessed with a visitation from God, so, too, this Roman soldier was granted a like favor. One day, in company with his fellow officers, he was hunting in the Sabine Hills, and soon they came on a troop of beautiful stag^, amongst which was a white one surpassing the rest in size and beauty. This did Eustace single out as his special prey. He dashed onwards his steed and, fearless of danger, crossed rapid streams and passed many hills to come upon the stag. In his eagerness to gain the prize he had outstripped his companions, and, all alone, he rushed on until he arrived at the spot where the village of Guadagnola now stands. There the stag suddenly stood still; turning towards his pursuer, it was im- mediately surrounded by a heavenly light, and between its magnificent branching horns appeared an image of the Crucifixion. Filled with astonish- ment, Eustace reined in his charger ; and then a voice cried out to him : "Why do you follow Me ? Lo ! I have taken this form to speak to you. I am Christ, Whom you serve without knowing. Your charity and good deeds towards the poor have stood before Me and have made Me follow you with My mercy. The just man, dear to me on account of his works, must not serve devils and false gods who cannot give life or reward." These words struck Eustace with ter- ror and confusion, and having dis- mounted, he could not turn away his eyes from the wonderful vision before ST. EUSTACE. ISS him. Although he heard the words spoken, yet he was not able to under- stand their meaning. At length he re- gained his presence of mind, and asked : "What voice is this? Who speaks to me ? Tell me Who Thou art that I may know Thee." Again the voice in answer to his ques- tion says : "I am Jesus Christ, Who cre- ated heaven and earth out of nothing. Who threw all matter into shape, and made the lig^t spring from the chaos of darkness. I am He Who created the moon and the stars, and caused the dav and night; Who created man from the slime of the earth, and for his redemption appeared in human flesh, was crucified and rose the third day from the dead. Go to the city, and seek the chief pastor of the Christians and be baptized." These words were no sooner spoken than Eustace fell on his knees to adore that God Who had thus wonderfully manifested His divine will to him. He then returned homewards and hastened to his wife to recount the wonderful ^events just related. She, too, was en- lightened, and thereupon resolved to be- •come a Christian. Anacletus was at that time Pope, and to shelter himself from the dreadful persecutions he retired to the Catacombs of Saint Priscilla, in the 'V'lai Salara. Thither these two souls, specially directed by Almighty God, be- took themselves, taking with them their two children, the elder of whom was but five years old. In disguise they we^nt their way, passed the SalaYian gate and arrived at the entrance to the Cata- combs. They made themselves known to the Holy Pontiff, who received them into the Church and poured on their heads the saving waters of baptism. The name of Eustace's wife was Theopista. Agapius and Theopiston were the names of his children. This family had now tasted the happiness that belongs to true followers of Jesus. In course of time they found how sweet was the yoke of ^Christ, and the pleasures that they once believed the most complete and perfect they now despised, and gave their whole hearts and souls to the looking after the '*one thing necessary." As gold in the furnace is proved, so was the faith of these people. A virulent pestilence deprived Eustace in a short time of all his cattle, his servants and domestics. He, with his wife and chil- dren, withdrew from his home to avoid the disease and death. In their absence all his wealth had been plundered by rob- bers, and when they returned to their home they found themselves reduced almost to beggary. This was a severe blow, but the^ knew that it was an afflic- tion sent to them by God, and they de- termined to bear it patiently for His sake. By going far away they might live unknown, and would work and toil for their support in a strange land ; so they resolved to set out for Egypt. Having arrived at Ostia, they found a ship ready to sail to that country. Thev had no money, but the captain, moved by their condition, and secretly entertaining wicked intentions towards Theopista, who was extremely beautiful, offered them a free passage. As soon as they had arrived at an African port; the cap- tain demanded payment from Eustace', and on being told that he possessed no money he, with hi§ sons, Agapius and Theopiston, was compelled to leave the vessel, whilst the beautiful and faithful Theopista was detained on board as a slave. Heartbroken with grief at the separation from his wife, yet trusting in God, he and his sons travelled towards the interior of this land, where greater trials awaited him. He found it neces- sary to cross a river in order to pursue his journey, and believing it unwise to take both his children at once, left one on the bank and placed the other on his shoulders, whom he carried safelv to the opposite side. In his journey across, an enormous lion seized his second son, an^ Eustace, re-entering the river to secure him, left the otVvei \io^' ^^^\.^^ wv ''Ccvft. 156 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. bank ; but he had not advanced far when this bov's cries drew his father's atteh- tion.. On turning around, he saw a wolf dragging his son away, and so, struck with sorrow at these misfortunes, he was incapable of rendering even the least assistance to his captured children. After some time, which he spent in beg- ging God's help and grace in these severe trials, he quitted the scene of such bit- ter sorrows, and we next hear of him as a laborer on a farm called Bardyssa, where he passed his days unknown, in labor, prayer and solitude. For a period of some months he was left in the enjoy- ment of quiet and rest, disturbed only by the thought of his many sad losses. The Emperor Trajan, fearing the combined armies of the Persian and other nations, collected a mighty army, and a leader the most skilled was looked for. The name of Eustace was every- where spoken of in the army as a brave and gallant soldier. Immense rewards were offered to the person who should be so lucky as to find him and to bring him to Rome. Two veterans set out for Egypt and succeeded in finding Eustace in the garb of a laborer. After many entreaties they prevailed on Eustace, w^ho returned to fight once more for the Roman Empire. At the end of the cam- paign, in which the Romans freed them- selves from the attacks of their enemies, a portion of the army was in great dan- ger, and were it not for the bravery of two young soldiers who encouraged their companions in the strife to con- tinue until the arrival of the main body of the army, there might have been a victory for the enemy. Eustac^, who was the general of the campaign, saw how well and bravely these two young men had fought, and, after the battle, raised them to high rank in the army. He became much attached to them and his attachment was reciprocated. In their rnutva) confidences it appeared that one of these young soldiers was, in his early childhood, carried away by a lion and saved from death by some shep- herds ; the other related how a wolf had taken him from the bank of a river, and how a ploughman had helped to rescue him. At length they found that they were brothers, and children of the gen- eral who so much favored them. Great was their joy, and with heartfelt thanks they prayed to God and adored Him Who had shown them such mercy. Soon after this, the Emperor Adrian (Trajan was at this time dead) sent a messenger to Eustace to inform him of a triumph that was to honor him and his army in return for their glorious vic- tory. He prepared, together with his sons, to receive the honors to be be- stowed on him. Before the appointed day, a poor woman earnestly sought for permission to be brought into the pres- ence of Eustace. She received the favor and from the story of her life it was discovered that she was the wife of Eustace. With joy she recounted how she had been preserved by her constancy and fidelity from the wickedness of the captain who detained her on board his vessel as a slave. After so many troubles and so much bitter suffering the family of Eustace were once more united, never again to be separated. The day of the triumphal procession has come, and Eustace, the great gen- eral, with his family is there. The Temple of Jupiter is marked out as the place for the sacrifice. Eustace refuses to enter. A cry from the immense crowd sounds the death-knell for the Chris- tians, and the air resounds with the words: "Death to the Christians." In- stant death was the sentence of Adrian^ who discovered that his general and fam- ily were followers of Christ. "You may command me,'' said Eu- stace, "to lead your legions against the enemies of the empire, but never will UNFAITHFUL. 157 I offer sacrifice to any other god than to the one great and powerful God Who created all things. He alone is worthy of sacrifice; all other gods are but demons who deceive men.'' In the same manner did the wife and children of Eustace answer the Emperor. Immediately thev were hurried awav to the Coliseum, where they were put to death by being placed in an immense bronze ball where they might be con- sumed bv a slow fire. After three davs. their bodies were taken out in presence of the Emperor; no trace of fire could be noticed ; a beautiful odor came from them, and the four appeared to be in a sweet sleep. These bodies were stolen by the Christians, who carried them to the spot where, years before, they had received the holy sacrament of baptism. Thus, in the year of our Lord 120, St. Eustace ended his days by a glorious death as a soldier, not of the world but of Christ. Unfaithful Edith R.. Wilson The Dawn is clad in radiant mist Of opal and of amethyst, With glint of gold, to mark her tryst With Him, her sun-crowned Love : — He standeth where the lilies feed, White-footed on the dewy mead, — She presseth forward with love's speed. — The blue skv bends above. The garish day is decked with flowers, And through the honied, golden hours. Dallies in fragrant, jasmine bowers, Where hidden waters flow. She turneth from her Love's embrace, — "Must I look up to greet His face, Who see Him mirrored in His grace In the cool wave below?" Wan, wan, beneath the moon's pale beam, Night standeth by death's sullen stream. And, like one waking from a dream, Starts back with shrinking feet : — "Woe, woe, my sun-crowned Love is tied! My day is done, my course is sped ! The death dews gather round my head }N\\ert onct His kiss lav sweetV That Boy Gerald By REV. J. E. COPUS. S. J. (cuTNBKirr) Aatkor of **lteiT7 RimmU," "Satot Cvthtert." "^hadowi Ufftod." Btc XV. A CONSULTATION. lURING all that Mondav, as well as all the day before, our young Preparatorian had been revolv- ing his scheme in his mind. He k€pt his own counsel until, as we have seen, the secret was becoming too painful a burden. He had sought relief by confiding in his singing com- panion, Master Blatchford Darce, and that young gentleman had promised to help him heart and soul. The plan's success, as we have stated, depended on the secrecy with which it was carried out, yet this very secrecy seemed to be fatal to his scheme. What made Gerald tell Mr. Laffington that he could not attend on the Tuesday? During the last hour of class that day he had hit upon a brilliant idea. He would consult his great friend, Mr. Watson. He was a very great man in Gerald's estimation. Great in body, as we know ; great in boyish and delightful enthusi- asm, and Gerald was sure he would be •great in expedients. Yes, Mr. Watson was the man to help him out of his diffi- culty. Albury knew very well that he could not see him at his office on Monday afternoon, after the singing lesson. It would be too late then. With a delicacy creditable to Gerald he refrained from going to his friend's residence. He thought that would look too much as if he wanted to be invited there again. On Tuesday afternoon he took the down-town car and was soon in the midst of the tall office buildings. He entered one of them and walked into the elevator cage. "What floor?" asked the elevator man. "Don't know, I'm sure. I want Mr. Watson's office." "Which Watson? the lawyer or the insurance agent?'* "The lawyer." "Eighth floor." The elevator was an old-fashioned, slow one, and Gerald thought it was an interminable time in reaching the floor he wanted. "Eight!" said the king of Ups and Downs, but Gerald did not move. He had forgotten where to get off. "Look here, you young fellow. You don't come that on me. I am not here to be fooled." "No?" said Gerald, innocently, "what a pity." "Get out of here! There's Watson's office." "Thanks, mister," said Gerald, as he made a jump for the landing at the same moment that the ill-natured man made an attempt to seize him by the coat col- lar. The man slammed the cage door to. and began to ascend, in the mean- time shaking his fist at the boy, who in return made a decidedly ugly face at the ill-natured servant. All of which goes to show that during that day, at least, Ger- ald had occasional lapses with regard to that "awful goodness" resolution. "What can I do for you, young gentle- man," said an elderly looking clerk, as Gerald entered the outer office. **I want to see Mr. Watson, please." "I am very sorry. He is out just at present. Can I do instead?" THAT BOY GERALD. 159 "No, thank you. I want to see him. He is my friend." The last sentence had a note of tri- umph in it which the clerk did not fail to notice, and which caused the other clerks to look up and smile good natur- edly at the diminutive client. "Mr. Watson will return*at a quarter after four. It is four o'clock now. Do you care to wait?" "If you please, sir," said the boy politely. His manners were quite differ- ent from what they were two minutes before with the elevator man. Environ- ment has a great influence on a boy's manners. If you treat him as a little gentleman, he is likely to act as such, and viceversa. "Kindly step this way," and Gerald was shown into a little antechamber be- tween the clerks' office and Mr. Wat- son's consulting room. The boy sank down in an easy Morris chair. The green burlap wainscoting was soothing to his eyes, and the red- stained plaster above it gave the room a cosy appearance. Gerald Albury was not conscious of being unusually tired. It is true that he ran around the big yard of the college twenty times, on a "dare," during the lunch recess. It is also true that instead of resting after that feat of speed and endurance, he went straight to the hor- izontal bars, and "chinned" the bar by the strength of his arm muscles nine or ten times. During the quarter of an hour recess between the afternoon classes he had not ceased for a moment to practice something in the gymnasium. Yet it cannot be said with certainty that all this was the cause of what hap- pened. If chief clerks will put boys into Morris chairs, and in rooms with soft, soothing colors on the walls, the boys cannot be blamed for anything that may overtake them. If everything in that special room was so perfectly quiet, and so comfortable that Gerald could hear the ticking of the clock in the <(i ii' next room, and if the great leather chair was so easy, the boy is scarcely to be blamed for what took place. James Watson, Esq., attomey-at-law, came in and found his young friend fast asleep. The boy's cap had fallen to the floor, his books had slipped from his lap. His legs were stretched out straight in front and one hand drooped gracefully over the arm of the ^eat chair. "Hello! Gerrie, boy! Wake up. This is a nice thing to be doing in broad daylight." The boy mumbled something, and sank back into slumber. "Come, wake up, Gerrie! Do you want to see me ?" The lawyer took him by the hand, and raised him to his feet. Gerald rubbed his eyes with both fists, and yawned. 'Guess I fell asleep, sir." 'You need not guess, Gerrie. There is not the slightest shadow of a doubt about it. He was actually snoring, wasn't he Simpson?" "I beg your pardon, Mr. Watson. I — I don't know what made me go to sleep." "I do. Being tired, and a good easy chair. But come to my private room, my boy. I am glad to see you. How are you getting along?" The big man threw his arm arounJ the boy's shoulder, and walked him into his private consulting room. "Now, great punisher of apple thieves, what can I do for you ? You are not in trouble at St. Mark's, are you?" "Oh, no, sir." "Whv, then, am I honored with this visit?"' "You said I might come to you when I was in trouble." '*Yes, but you said just now there was no trouble." **I am not in trouble which is trouble, but — I don't know how to put it. I am troubled; that's it." "Upon my word! a great distitictvow'. Well, what \s it. iV\ abowV?' i6o THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. Gerald paused, as if to gain courage, and perhaps to arrange his ideas. In the latter he was not particularly suc- cessful. The sharp legal expert watched him closely and became unusually in- terested. He did not fail to notice the quiver of the eyelids, but he also saw the firm set of the lips. As he watched, the **boy" came uppermost in him. In imagination he dropped off thirty-five or forty years of his life, and entered into the feelings and the difficulties of the bright lad before him. Half suspectiag that behind it all there was something of a tragedy, he said sympathetically: **What are you in trouble about, Ger- rie? Tell me everything, and then I can help you." "I knew you would talk that way, Mr. Watson." "All right. That's good. Go on." "Papa told me the other night that I had been guilty of respect — eh! — no, that isn*t all — ^there was another word. I can't remember it." "Self-respect ?" "No, sir." "Respectability? That could not be the word. You would not be guilty of that, would you, Gerrie?" said the law- yer, with a merry, mischievous twinkle in his eye. "No, sir," answered the boy, ingenu- ously, at which Mr. Watson laughed heartily. "That isn't the word. Oh, dear!" "Now, boy, away with grieving and sighing. Such things do not help ! We will catch the vagrant thing in time. I have it! It was disrespect?" "No, sir." "Was it — let — me — see! It was not self-respect, respectability, disrespect. I say Geiald! was it human respect?" "That's it ! That's the word, sir." "Phew!" said Mr. Watson, pretend- ing to mop the perspiration from his brow. "Please give me something easier next time, will you? But, go on, I am aJJ attention/* "Papa said, on Saturday night, that I had been guilty of human respect, and it had caused me to act like Dr. Tolmin, who turned his mother out of doors be- cause he had a party, and she got sick and nearly died, and she brought him some yellow^ flowers with a long name, and nearly kissed a policeman, and oh! lots of things." Gerald's tongue was loosened now. Mr. Watson, perfectly nonplussed for the moment, looked at the boy in amused amazement. He knew little of what it was all about, knowing nothing, of course, of the storv of the Widow Tolmin. "Stop! stop! Gerrie. This is worse than hunting the snark! What does it all mean?" "Papa says I was like the doctor who did all these things." "But, my lad, you have not — you could not possibly turn your mother out of doors, and it is certainly the very height of improbability that she made an attempt to kiss a policeman. If it is not too much trouble, would you try — ever so little — to be a little plainer." **Pa read a beautiful storv to me all about a doctor." "Yes, I understand that, now.' "And he had human respects.' "Eh! what! oh! oh! proceed." "And when pa had finished the story, which made me feel awful mad. pa said I had the same things." 'What things?" The respects." "Now I begin to see. Now light be- gins to break in. Your father told you that you had the fault of being governed by human respect. Now I see. Give me an instance." "Two weeks ago I was told I was to sing a duet at the concert last Saturday." "Yes ; but how on earth could you sing a duet ?" "I mean that Blatchford Darce and I were to sing together." "All right." >» ff iO ti' THAT BOY GERALD. i6i "And Mr. Laffington dropped me — • » US. **\Vhose fault? Yours or Darce's?" "I did not go to practice when he told me." ''Your fault, then, decidedly. You must not blame him in the least. But go on ; your system of developing a story is as interesting as novel." "When he told me I was to sing, I invited mamma and papa, and Blanche and Will to the concert." "That was very kind, but — " "When he dropped me, I — I — didn't tell them, and they all went on Saturday and were disappointed." Then the lawyer saw the situation, in- cluding the vexation of the ladies, and all the attendant circumstances. He also saw the little fellow's awkward position, and all his sympathies were aroused. "My! but, Gerrie! that was wrong, indeed ! Why did you not tell them be- forehand and save them all the annoy- ance they must have suffered?" "I had the respects, sir." Do what he would, Gerald could rarely get the name of that vice correctly. "You had too much human respect, you mean?" "Yes." "That was very wrong, wasn't it, Gerald?" "Yes, Mr. Watson, and I want you to help me." "How can I help you, my boy? I certainly will if I can. Do you want me to go to your parents and tell them how sorrv vou feel?" "No, sir. I apologized myself. Pa told me to. But Mr. Laffington is now practicing me on 'Please Give Me a Penny, Sir,' and I know 'The Larboard, Watch,* and I can sing 'Chamouni* and oh ! lots of others." "Well?" "I want to sing them all at home now, sir !" 'Capjtai^ J am sure your father and «i mother would be delighted. May I come, too?" "Of course," said Gerald, with a shade of reproach in his voice, at which his big friend laughed quite heartily, but understood. "I want to sing, Mr. Watson, for mamma and papa because they were dis- appointed before — but, I don't want them to know anything about it — and Martha can't do it, nor Blanche, nor Willie, because they won't be let, and I don't know how to do it at all." There was a tone of dismay in the youngster's voice. "Now, this is serious, Mr. Gregory the Great; not that I understand more than one-seventh of what you have just now said, but it must be serious because vou look so verv much so yourself." "Yes, sir." "Now let us take the thing piecemeal. You want to sing for your parents. All right. I understand that. The reason of your desire is because they were disap- pointed when they went to St. Mark's concert, and you had not been man ^enough to tell them that you would not be allowed to appear. I understand that. But how you are going to sing to them without them knowing it, is a poser! Ah! you can sing to them while they are asleep!" Gerald burst out laughing. "You don't understand, Mr. Watson. ' "That is within the bounds of the strictest truth. I do not understand." "I want to do it in secret." "How on earth — " began the lawyer. "Oh! I don't mean that. I want it to be a surprise! That's what I mean." "Oh ! ah ! I am much relieved. Once more I begin to see the light, but I beg of you not to spring any more Hnguistic Chinese puzzles on me. They arc too wearing." Ao, sir. '*What do vou mean that Martha — who is she? T\\e cooV."^. N^x^ ^c«^. And Blanche and ^owt \iTO>Jcv^Tl Xwv. 1 62 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. say they cannot get it up. You and your musical chum are to get up the surprise, are you not?" **That's easy — our part is, sir; but it has to be done by to-morrow week — Wednesday night of next week, because Thursday is my holiday and I — " "Stop ! stop ! wait a minute. Why must the surprise concert come off on that particular night?" '*'Cause, sir, Wednesday is the only night in the week when mamma receives, and it has to take place before the next monthly concert at St. Mark's, other- wise it's no good." "Now you are lucid. But what have the cook and Blanche to do with it? With a couple more experiences like this I shall consider myself an equal and rival of Sherlock Holmes 1" The big, joking man saw a passing shadow of worriment come over the boy's handsome face. He was instantly all sympathy again. "It's all right, Gerrie, boy. Don't worry. We are getting along splen- didly ; but how does the cook or Blanche come into your plans. They appear at* present merely 'deus ex machina' in the drama." "I don't know what that is, sir, but Martha could not invite any one with- out being allowed to do so by mamma or papa, and then they would find out everything." "Exactly! Don't you know, my boy, that servants do not invite guests? Do you expect Martha to invite the police- man on the beat?" Gerald giggled. Mr. Watson waited patiently. "Oh, no! he! he- he! — it's a drawing room concert. Policemen don't come in there, do they?" Not generally. Well ? " 1 want to invite some of the ladies who were at the concert on Saturday and talked to mamma and praised my voice to her, and also those gentlemen fvho spoke to papa about me. I want «' «i them to come to our house, because it was on account of my human respect in not keeping papa and mamma away, that their talk made the disappointment all the bigger." **I see. What else?" "Then, sir, when the time comes for me to sing, I want to — ^that is — if you will help me — I want to make a speech and tell them — ever>-body — I got the human respects, and that I'm awful sorry I hurt mamma and papa, and Blanche and Willie— and that's all." It took a minute or two for the lawyer to piece together this rambling, and cer- tainly incoherent speech, but when he succeeded and grasped the intention and the real generosity of purpose of the boy in his attempt to repair a fault — well, the man of law was remarkably affected for one of his age and learning. He looked so long into the handsome face of the boy sitting in front of him that Gerald began to be uneasy. He squirmed in his seat in true boy fashion, and tried to twist his fingers out of all shape. He even blushed. The lawyer continued to stare at the boy, although he did not appear to see him, but through him and beyond. Just then he had eyes that see not, and ears that did not hear, nevertheless his mind was very actively thinking of many things. **You are not angry with me, are you, Mr. Watson ?" "Angry!" he said, arousing himself from the train of thought, "angry! why, laddie. I think your plan is simply grand! gorgeous ! brilliant ! scrumptious ! oh ! I have no words! Of course I am not angry, but I am going to help you. I will get your little speech ready for you. We must try to find out who are going to be invited. We must try, also, not to let papa and mamma know. Hush! aha! silence! walk on tiptoe, eh! all that sort of thing. It's all like a comic opera. Oh! we'll have lots of fun. It will be glorious, eh? All right, Gerrie. Good-bye, now. Do you ktvow that this THAT BOY GERALD. 163 is one of my busy days, and that you have taken just fifty-five minutes of my time. Good-bye, now." XVI. THE TWO CRONIES. Gerald left the lawyer's office in a state bordering on ecstasy. He had scarcely got outside the door when he remembered the episode with the ele- vator man. He ran back to his friend. "Oh ! Mr. Watson, I am afraid of the elevator man. I cheeked him coming up, and he tried to grab me by the col- lar, but I was too quick for him. He'll catch me now, sure." Mr. Watson, who was once very much of a boy himself, gave a ringing laugh. He understood the situation completely. "So! so! Be sure, young man, your sins will find you out. Mr. Simpson will you kindly see this young scape- grace safely off the premises. That man in the cage has been as ugly as a bear with a sore head for the last week. He will lose his job if he does not change." "Certainly I will, sir,'* said the clerk, and he smiled pleasantly on Gerald. He was a refined, pleasant-faced man, and Gerald "took" to him at once. "You remind me much, oh ! so much," said he, as they descended slowly, "of my only bov. He was just your age when he died." "Is that so," said Gerald very sym- pathetically. "Yes, you are very much like him, and we miss him — my wife and I — we miss him so much. Life is not the same without him." "What did he die of?" asked the boy in a low tone. "Of pneumonia, and he was sick only three days." "What was his name, Mr. — Mr. Simpson ?" 'Sidney." «< "Well, I am going to pray for the repose of the soul of Sidney Simpson every day." "Thank you sincerely. That will be a great comfort to his mother," and the clerk thought young Gerald Albury a perfect little angel. He might have changed his opinion had he seen him, ten minutes later, fol- lowing a street sprinkler and deliberately walking every now and then into the spray. By the time he reached home his clothes were drenched from the waist down. "Hello! central. Give me forty-one- seven-three, main. Hello ! is that Judge Albury. Yes. This is Jimmie Watson. Quite well, thank you. Say, Judge, I met with the strangest experience this afternoon ! Always meeting them am I ? Well, this one was unique. Before I for- get it, will you please invite me to your wife's Wednesday reception next week? What's that? I want no invitation — always welcome? Thanks very much. But I am particularly anxious to be in- vited this time. Why? Oh! that's too long a story. Besides, it's a great secret. Come over • on your way home and I will tell you all about it. That youngster actually took up an hour of my time this afternoon, and this is my busy day — big case in court to-morrow. What young- ster? Gerald, of course. Do you think there is another boy in the city who could make me do that, busy as I ami Foolish am I? Well, I don't know. The boy is worth it all — aye, and more too. Good-bye ! Say, hello, hello, hello ! say. How did the Smith case go? Got ten years did he? Poor chap! It will break his mother's heart. Good-bye." Whirrr — click. The reader might imagine from the above that Mr. Watson was, at once^ about to betray the confidence reposed in him by his young friend. It will be remembered that he had not promised absolutely. He Vv^id s^a^ \o C^^t^^^^^ must try not to \tt ^^^^ ^^^ m^xwccsa. i64 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. know/ but he saw then, and more clearly later, that absolute secrecy was impos- sible. If the boy's plan was to be car- ried out, at least one of his parents must know all about it. Gerald, however, need not be told which one was in the secret, but it was clear to Mr. Watson that some one in the family must be in- formed if the scheme was to be brought to a successful issue. "What has Gerald been bothering you about now?** asked Judge Albury, as soon as he was comfortably seated in Mr. Watson's consulting room. "If he comes here without an invitation again, I shall positively forbid him coming at all." "You will do nothing of the sort, an ye love me." "But I cannot permit a boy of mine to come bothering. a busy man, especially in business hours." "Tut-tut, man ! If vou were aware of half the pleasure his bright face gives me, you would know that such an in- junction from the court would be a far greater punishment to me than to him." "Upon my word, Watson, you are a strange man — vou are a perfect bov, still." "And hope, please God, to be one until I die of old age. It is the bright innocence of boyhood that keeps the world from going altogether to the bow- wows. Heavens! Judge, is not your work on the criminal bench a confirma- tion of what I say ! Do you think that if that poor fellow to whom you gave ten years this afternoon had kept more of a boy's heart and a boy's innocence, he would now be where he is? Bright, pure boyhood is the solacing flower in our world's grime and crime, and his innocent laugh is the honey of the flower. A boy's hearty laugh — like your Gerald's — is always a positive tonic to me. But while I rhapsodize I keep you from your dinner. Let me a tale ifji/o/d. " The attomey-at-law, in a few brief, concise sentences told the plan which had taken the inexperienced boy nearly an hour to unfold. The Judge listened without interrupting. W'hen the story was finished he was well pleased at the evidences of his son's attempt to over- come his fault, and his effort at repara- tion. ** Besides singing for us, do you mean to say the boy intends to offer a public apolog}' ?" **Exactly ; and I have received the supreme honor of being commissioned to write the little speech. I must g^t out my old school rhetoric and look up the parts of a good speech. Let's see : what are they? Introduction, announcement of subject, proofs, answering supposed objections, and the peroration." **Xow, James, you are not going to prepare anything like that for Gerald. It would be too long, and such a tech- nically perfect speech from one so young would appear ridiculous." The trouble with Judge Albur}'' was that he took life too seriouslv. He had no saving grace of humor. He took literally everything told him, with the consequence that life was a very serious thing with him, perhaps far more seri- ous than it was ever intended to be. His position of judge demanded much of him. He was, in consequence, deprived of a great deal of the rational recreation which is found in intimate intercourse witli men. Judge Albury deemed it would not be becoming for him, except on the rarest occasions, to attend public banquets. For the same reason balls and the theatre were relinquished. Every one knew of Judge Albury's pub- lic spirit. For the amelioration of the condition of the poor, for better civic government, for sweet charity, he was indefatigable. But all this was for him work and not relaxation, and in conse- quence of his seldom or ever unbend- ing he was beginning to take a very sombre view o( V\ie. THAT BOY GERALD. i6s Watson delighted in teasing him. He laughed heartily over the last remark about the proposed speech. **Yes, I am. I am thinking of making a translation of Cicero's *Pro Lege Manilla/ and adapting it to suit the occasion.*' "But the boy could never learn all that !" "Judge! you dear old goose*' — these two were very familiar in private — "if I did not know you from the time we sat together on the benches at St. Mark's, I would say that you were a perfect — a perfect what? — goose! — not even that; a mere gosling. Don't worry about the young orator. I'll fix up a speech all right for Gerald. Can you invite those people whom the youngster wishes to be invited?" "He is beginning early in life, cer- tainlv, to have his own invitation list. Who are they?" "There you go again ! Blaming that bov, when he has the verv finest of in- tentions about those to-be-invited per- sonages." The Judge smiled. "Who are they ? Would not my wife's choice do?" "No. This is the plan of Prince Charming. He knew that his mother and you were both spoken to by several persons who praised his voice, and an- ticipated pleasure from hearing it." "Yes, several gentlemen spoke to me about Gerald's power of song, and con- gratulated me. They told me they had come on purpose to hear him." "Something similar happened to your wife, from the ladies?" "Yes, she told me afterwards." "Exactly. Then you know between you whom to invite." "But why does he want these very people ?" "Because they, as well as his parents, were disappointed by his failure to ap- pear, and because they were the uncon- scious cause o/ added vexation to you and his mother. Do you not see the boy's fine spirit in wanting them to be there when he makes fuller reparation? I believe the youngster is making an almost heroic effort to overcome all human respect." "I certainly brought home to him, last Saturday night, its evil effects, but I do think, James, that you imagine this boy of mine will soon be sprouting wings on his shoulders." "Not much, Judge Albury," said Wat- son, emphatically, adding enthusiastic- ally, **but I not onlv think, but I know that he is a real, true, live, good, Amer- ican boy, as fine as found anywhere, with unlimited possibilities for good in him, and I say to you, his father, that it is my prayer every night and morn- ing that no untoward circumstances may mar the making or thwart his bright career, but that he may grow up, not a molly-coddle, nor even become an unearthly and unapproachable sort of an ideal, but rather that he may de- velop into a manly, whole-souled Cath- olic young man of principle. We want them — we want them badly, in states- manship, in law, medicine — every- where. Thev are to be the future salt of the earth — or the body pol- itic— and let me tell you, Judge, with- out such men of solid principles — who dare to stand up for the right for right's sake — without these, I say, God help us all ! for we are drifting far from the sound principles, the honesty, the in- tegrity of our forefathers." It was not often that Mr. Watson • spoke so freely, and never except to his most intimate friends. Judge Albury was more touched by his friend's inter- est in his son than he had been by any- thing in many a day, although the im- mobility of his countenance gave no in- dication by which his friend could dis- cover this. "Here is a safe and true friend for my boy as he grows up " vj^x^ nJcvr. wtss^ONVi\i\i '0(\(at ojaa.'i* 170 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. afford, after long continued rains I have seen t!ie Pantheon surrounded by water and approached by boats, and the little circular bnilding, erroneously styled the "Temple of Vesta," in the midst of a lake, fed by the Tiber's waters. Atten- tion to modern sanitation has reduced the average annual death-rate of Rome below that of any other large Europeali city, with one exception. Artists and botanists now seek in vain for that "incomparable and strangely unique flora of the Coliseum" which for- merly merited for it the title, "a gar- ON THE CAMPAGN.\. landed rinff." It lias been claimed l)y some that the wealth oi verdure that once adorned this noble ruin, dear to every Christian heart, was affecting its stability. Signor Kossa certainly dis- played a zeal that was not tempered by discretion when he removed this luxuri- ant and beautiful veijetatioii. destroying a considerable portion of the structure in the uprooting of shrubs and trees. Hare justly complained that "the Baths of Caracalla, stripped of all their verdure and shrubs, and deprived ahke eff the tufted !oi'mge amid which Shelly wrote, and of the flowery carpet which so greatly enhanced their lonely solem- nity, are now a series of bare, featureless walls standing in a gravelly waste." Al- though there is a certain nobility of pro- portion in what remains of this grand old structure, yet much of its beauty has been lost, though doubtless arcjiaeo- lugical interest in it has been increased through this "improvement." . In the Rome of to-day, the spirit of modernity (something quite distinct from progress), bids fair to justify the prophecy attributed to Prof. Rudolpho Lanciani, that "if they keep on^ eventually, nothing will be left of the Rome of the past but the Coliseum and St. Peter's." The mania for change has, for cen- turies, been a character- istic of the Romans, and they have been far more ruthless m the destruc- tion of their own city than have invading bar- barians or hostile iocs. Almost all that re- mained of classic Ro- man architecture was destroyed or torn away by the great masters of the Renaissance, and Alichae! Angelo him- self was the most noted vandal of them all. All that was beau- tiful and most characterictic of medieval Rome was covered up or defaced by so- called "renovations." or "restorations," of the litiT Renaissance, a movement that, in architecture and art, finally spent itself in decadent forms of more than doubtful appropriateness and taste. The varied beauties of the Roman Canipagna are now happily beyond the likelihood of any materia! mutilation. Of course, the character and topography of this vast, undulating plain have changed many times in the lapse of cen- THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 171 tunes that witnessed the beginnings of nine Romes before the father of Romulus and his shepherd companions left their native hills to migrate to the banks of the Tiber. This great Agro Romano, once covered with trees, traversed by water- courses, and dotted, here and there, with cities, has been the scene of fierce con- flicts in the struggle for power and supremacy, pre- historic, pagan, medieval and Papal, There are fea- tures, however, that have not changed, and that re- main unchangeable : the brilliancy of the light, the serene beauty of the sky. and those- wonderful atmos- pheric effects that baffle ahke the pen of the writer and the brush of the painter. Of the rest, the French historian, Ampere, has writ- ten : "The admirable moun- tains that encircle the Re- man Campagna present al- most the same spectacle' that they offered thirty centuries ago ; they are, doubtless, less wooded, above all, those of the Sabine, which belong to the calcareous chain of the Apennines nearly everywherc despoiled of its primitive vegetation ; but otherwise, they are what they were and always will be, marvellous in line, in bulk and in color, forming, at the north and at the east, test ]n an immense amphitheater, the vast seats of which are the highest summits, rising gradually one above the other, and at the foot of which extends the arena (to-day silent and gloomy) which has re- sounded with the noise of so many com- bats, whilst Rome, yet in its place, forms the scene where has been represented the gratett drama 0/ humanity. " A matchless view of this "arena" can be obtained from the summit of Monte Cavo. The excursion can be made from Rome in a day, taking an early morn- ing train from Rome to Albano, and thence making the ascent on foot, or the train can be left at Castel Gandolfo, and, after following the road to Albano HORSEMANSHIP .^T THE MILITARY SCHOOL a certain distance, a good mountain climber can make his way up the path- less and rugged mountain side. On the sunuuit of Monte Cavo stands an old Passionist monastery, now surpressed, and used in warm weather as a cheap lodging house for pedestrians who arrive there too late to descend by davl^^l^*-. From ihe o\ti bcWi'^ ^^^Q: i-iim^ "A *ii\.. THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. WINE CART. ^ TTr -ji^rtsfc-, -1 THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. 173 Peter's, fifteen miles or more distant, can be plainly seen on a clear day. End- less, indeed, are the varieties of beauty of the intervening country, "in outline, in grouping and, above all, in color." An- cient towers and ruined tombs abound, and many miles of this solemnly impres- sive wilderness are spanned by countless arches of ancient aqueducts. Between the aqueducts lie modem roads, some- times following the general course of ancient Roman highways and, occasion- ally, some, as the Via .Tiburtina, are still paved with blocks of black lava, laid two thousand years ago. greatest altitude in Monte Cavo. From there the chain descends with a mod- erate slope, extending finally to the plain in a line long drawn out and finally lost near the seacoast. It is significant of the unchanging character of the Campagna that the im- pressions of Charles Dickens, recorded after a walk from Rome to Albano along the old Appian way, read as but of yes- terday: "For twelve miles," he says, "we climbed over an unbroken succession of mounds and heaps and hills of ruin. Tombs and temples, overthrown and prostrate ; small fragments of columns, VTA APPU — ^TOMB OF CECELIA METELI^, A FAVORITE SPOT FOB THE MKICT. This vast plain presents a most brilhant spectacle in the early springtime, when the wild flowers are in bloom, or under the crimson and gold of late autumn. Travelers who have no incHnation for tnountainous ascents can pass out of Rc»ne by the Porta San Giovanni and view the Campagna as it sfrefciics out for eleven miles in a slightly undulating plain, unbroken by any tree, but varied somewhat by ruined tombs and ancient aqueducts. Then there arises that line of blue hills, nobly proportioned, that, leaving the Sabine coimtry, ascend in diverse graceful forms, attaining their friezes, pediments ; great blocks of gran- ite and marble; mouldering arches, grass-grown and decayed — ruins enough to build a spacious city from lay strewn about us. Sometimes loose walls, built up from these fragments by the shep- herds, came across our path; sometimes a ditch, between two mounds of broken stones, obstructed our progress; some- times the fragments themselves, rolling from beneath our feet, made it a toil- some matter to advance; hut it was always ruin. Now we tracked a piece of the old road above the ground; no-w traced it \iTidttt\ea,X\v a. ^ta^-a-} tc^Nt^vtv^ 174 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. as if that were its grave, but all the way was ruin. In the distance, ruined aque- ducts went stalking on their giant course along the plain, and every breath of wind that swept towards us stirred early flowers and grasses springing up spon- taneously on miles of ruin. The unseen larks above us. who alone disturbed the awful silence, had their nests in ruin ; TKMI'TISG K.ATK AT TOH Dl yClNTO. and the fierce herdsmen, clad in sheep- skins, who now and then scowled upon us from their sleeping nooks, were housed in ruin. The aspect of the desolate Campagna in one direction, where it was most level, reminded me of an American prairie ; but what is the solitude of a region where men have never dwelt to that of a desert where a mighty race have left their footprints in the earth from which they have van- ished ; where the resting places of their dead have fallen like their dead ; and the broken hour-glass of time is but a heap of idle dustt Returning by the road at sunset, and looking from the distance on the course we had taken in the morn- ing, I almost felt as if the sun would never rise again, but look its last that night uppn a ruined world." Looking, again, across these wide stretches of the Campagna, from above the Porta Maggiore or Porta San Paolo, the extreme limit of the horizon is filled in with a low chain of mountains, varied in outline, soft and beautiful in color. In autumn their changing tints range from sapphire blue to that incomparable amethystine and mystic haze for which the uplands of Italy are fa- mous. Winter casts a man- tle of snow upon their sum- mits, which reappear, later, brilliant with the luxuriant green of early springtime. I have used the term Cam- pagna in a restricted sense, limiting our field of observa- tion to that plain around Rome which is watered by the Tiber and the Arno, and hemmed in by the Alban and Sabine mountains, the hills above Ronciglione and the seacoast. A glorious view strelch of country can be ob- from the highest exterior gal- lery of the cupola, or dome, of St. Peter's. From there, also, the Mediter- ranean can easily be seen on a clear day. More personal and real than our mem- ories of great Roman men and women, famous m the "bisiNe Aa^s ol Ci\A" vi ttw of thi taincd THE ROMAN CAMPAGXA. 175 Hlr,H LEAr, human interest attaching to the cata- combs of the Campagria. It was be- cause of Roman respect for the burial places of their dead, always outside the city, that the early Christians frequented the catacombs, and in days of persecu- tion worshiped there when even do- mestic basilicas of individual Christian patricians, like that noble lady, St. Cecilia, no longer afforded adequate protection. The Roman CollegJo Cultorum Mar- tyrum was created to keep alive the memories of the early Christian Church and to honor all places associated with 4he lives and death of those who seale<[ with their blood the testimony of Jesus. That famous authority on Christian archaeology. Prof. Horace Marruchi, has for years been president of this Col- legio, or association, and visitors to Rome can become monibers by the payment of a small subscription which entitles them to attend all cunfer- ences or reunions in the catacombs throughout the Roman seasnii — that is, from November to March. These conferences are delivered in French or Italjan, and when held in the innni' ing they are preceded l^y Mass. Per- haps nothing in or about Rome is ^ more thrilling than Mass celebrated in the cat a* combs amidst surround- ings practically the same as they were during the great persecutions, or in the century that fol- lowed them. Most of the bodies of the mar- tyrs have been removed from their resting places in the catacombs. The removal commenced in the eighth century, and was undertaken through fear of their desecration by hostile invaders of Rome. But enough re- mains of the memorials of the past to recall the daily life of the people of the first centuries of the Christian Era. Truly, "the blood of martyrs is the seed of the Church," and Christian blood flowed freely in tho.se glorious days. At the close of the nineteenth cen- tury a solemn commemoration was made of all martyrs of the Faith, particularly TX'K.l'NG K s.TO'SY. 'tf^'it. 176 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. those of the century then ending. A procession was formed at the catacombs of St. Domatilla. Students of the Prop- aganda and of all national colleges in Rome participated. Thus, in the line of procession were representatives of about all the nations of Europe, of many states of North and South America, also Greeks, Armenians and students of the Greco- Ru then ian rite, those in Holy Or- ders wearing their picturesque oriental vestments. This memorable pageant wended its way through the catacombs and out again upon the Campagna, the Cardinal Vicar of Rome bringing up the rear. The last rays of the setting sun illumined the swarthy faces of the Ori- entals and gave a new gleam to the bright, alert countenances of young men from the United States ; the tapers flick- ered with an uncertain light while the Cardinal Vicar gave Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament from a temporary altar erected in the open. The striking contrast between the ashes of a dead past and the cheerful gaiety of the living present constitutes a very notable characteristic of the city by the "Hber. Representatives of all nations are drawn to Rome by many and varied reasons, diplomatic, political, social, religious, for study and research, as well as through climatic considera- tions— for here, indeed, is the best winter climate in Italy. Every one naturally seeks occupation and amusement con- genial to his tastes, and Rome certainly affords large opportunity for a variety of both. For fully half a century, under both the old and new governmental regime, the bi-weekly meets of the Ro- man Fox Hunt Club have been kept up. Each successive season has brought to Rome from all nations large numbers of men and women devoted to the chase. Some may not regard with favor or approval the sport of fox-hunting; but no one who has witnessed a spirited chase on the Campagna can fail to ad- mire the splendid feats of daring horse- manship which it involves. No artificial READY FOR THE HUNT. THE ROMAN CAMPAGNA. I FAIR RIDER IN THE C obstacles or hurdles are here set up ; but broken tombs, ruined temples, the rug- gedness of the country, with its streams and ditches, afford the severest test that skilled equestrianship c^in desire. Occasionally a rider is thrown and is picked up bleeding from the ground, with a broken limb, perhaps. Generally, however, the hounds are followed by men and women who sit too firmly in the saddle to be unhorsed. Accidents are generally the result of bad weather, a wet and sinking ground making flying leaps difficult and dangerous. The "meet" presents a brilliant sight just before the hounds are "thrown off." Hundreds ride out from Rome on horseback, in carriages oi all kinds and descriptions, in automobiles and on bicycles, to view the start and — where possible — the finish of a hunt. Hie royal livery was a ami liar sight at a chase during the reign of the laic King Umberto; but the present King is not so much given to this as to otlior forms of sport. The hunts attract many of (Ik- Komiin nobility and other Italians of wealth ami leisure, and foreign anibassadins find in them relaxation from the c.ircs ami anx- ieties of state — not in these days very burdensome. Military men in large num- bers follow the hounds, and they dehght in feats of horsemanship which their training at Tor di Quinto, the Italian military school of horsemanship, well qualifies them to execute. Almost every season there are a few intrepid and skill- ful riders of the gentler sex, mostly Italian, Enghsh or American. One of the most interesting and re- markable sights which the Campagna affords is the practice work of the mili- tary school at Tor di Quinto. The an- nual course of equestrianism commences early in January and terminates in March. About thirty-five young officers generally follow the course at one time, and ihe final examinations are the occa- sion of a great exhibition, which is wit- ncssi'd by higher officials of all branches of (111- service, by niililary attaches of for- eign cniljassit-s. and usually by the King Iiiiiiselt. Cavalry niJiiieiivers and difficult cvulutions nf various surts are executed wiih wnnrleriu! skill and |jrecisi.>n. No- tabU' iVaiiirLS are nnjunled leaps over lii;;b walls iinrl the deseent nf very steep an.l ]ireeipilnii> ■^l"pe';— a feat of skill and daring iov \v\\k\\ \\m.- \w\y.\\\ \-.\\\C\-^'i \«a 178 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. become justly famous. Tliese remarkable performances are patronized by hun- dreds of ladies of Roman society and the foreign colony, and the'whole scene, on a favorable day, is brilliant and ex- citing in the extreme. Military ballooning has for some years been actively carried on in the environs of Rome, and some very valuable photo- graphs of the excavations in the Roman Forum have been made from high alti- tudes. On June i6th, 1504, an aeron- autic society was organized in Rome to promote scientific research and aerial navigation. The new society was in- augurated by the "Queen Mother," Margherita of Savoy, and has been placed under the royal patronage. The first ascensions were made under the direction of military men, and they will probably superintend the labors of the society until members in civil life acquire the necessary experience and skill in handling balloons. Beyond doubt the most brilliant and popular event on the Campagna is the great annual "Derby" race, run for a prize of nearly five thousand dollars, given by the King, and open to all thor- oughbred, three-year-old colts foaled in Italy. Besides the aristocracy, richly and gaily attired in bright and beautiful colors, thousands of peai-iants, with all their natural gaiety, and prosperous shop- keepers drive out in quaint turnouts, carts, and such vehicles as they can com- mand. The picturesque native costumes of the peasantry are fast disappearing in Italian cities and communities which are largely frequented by foreigners, and are being superseded by cheap, factory-made goods and the all-pervading ready-made garment. Only on state occasions, like Easter Sunday and the Roman Derby- day, will the peasantry don their home- spun and air their treasured relics of a life of simplicity, now forever passed away. The Roman "Derby Day" recalls the days of the Empire, when the Roman populace was called to witness spectacles of a very different character ; when the turbulent mob, content with "bread and the games," found keen delight in the dying agonies of martyred Christians. Sharp, indeed,are the contrasts between the past and the present, and nowhere are these contrasts more pronounced than in Rorne, the Eternal City, the City of the Seven Hills. The Irish Martyrs By ROSALEEN O'NEIL HHE hearts of Irish Catholics were filled with joy when a few months ago His Grace, the Archbishop of Dublin, to whom the task of hplding the preliminary diocesan Court had been entrusted by his brother Bishops of the Irish Church, announced that the cause of the Irish who suffered for the faith from the time of Henry VIII of England down to 1691, had passed the first stage and was about to be submitted to the Roman tribunal. It may naturally be asked why there had been such a long delay in taking the necessary steps for the canonization of those servants of God. It was not for want of a just appreciation of their mer- its. But there were serious difficulties in the way. Few, I dare say, if any, ever seriously doubted that they were put to death for the faith ; but that fact could not for a time be so clearly proved as not to leave the shadow of a doubt that they had not suffered for political reasons. The Roman tribunals are very exacting as regards the nature of the evidence submitted to them. It must be proved to their satisfaction that those for whom the Church's highest honor — the palm of martyrdom — is claimed, have suffered for the faith. To suffer death for one's country is a glorious thing. "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" (It is sweet and glorious to die for one's country), says the poet; but it is not martyr- dom in the sense understood by the Church. To be such one must undergo death, or sufferings which would nat- urally result in death, for the faith of Christ or for some virtue which Christ taught. Now the heretics maintained that the martyrs were put to death not because they were Catholics, but because they were rebels to the state. And as, until comparatively recent times, the offi- cial documents bearing on their trials were as so many sealed books, it was im- possible to conclusively refute their lying statements. Since, however, access has been had to those documents, all doubts however slight as to the cause of mar- tyrdom have vanished. It is quite clear that refusal to deny the spiritual suprem- acy of the Pope was the cause of the per- secution which led to the deprivation of civil rights, imprisonment, transportation across the seas, torture, and in many cases the death of thousands of Irish men and women. Henry VIII had rejected the Pope's authority and established an independ- ent Church in England for some time before he attempted to do the same in Ireland. In 1537 an act was passed by the Irish Parliament declaring him supreme head of the Church in Ireland ; and another act was passed in the same year punish- ing with the penalties of high treason those who refused to take the oath of supremacy. The following are some of the clauses of those acts: "The King, his heirs and successors, kings of England and lords of Ireland, shall be accepted and reputed the only supreme head on earth of the whole Church of Ireland. "Any one who, by writing, preaching, teaching, or by any other act, shall main- tain the authority and jurisdiction of the Bishops of Rome, or their aiders, shall for every such offence incur the penalties of praemunire.* "Any one commanded to take the said oath (the oath of the King's supremacy), obstinately refusing to do so, shall suffer the pains>of death and other penalties in cases of high treason." * Praemunire was a writ calling on a per- son to answer for contempt with which he was charged. If he failed to do so he lost all civil rights, ^ind cow\d \it ^\^vcv Xi-^j "^xcj one with impumty. i8o THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. Henry's agents on the Continent boasted that by these acts the Irish na- tion had renounced the spiritual suprem- acy of Rome. How false this statement was will appear from the following facts : *There were in parliament," writes Cardinal Moran in his **History of the Catholic Archbishops of Dublin Since the Reformation," "two spiritual proc- tors from every diocese; it was their special province *upon such things of learning as should happen in contro- versy,' to declare what was the doctrine agreeable to truth and to the teaching of the Church ; and from time imme- morial they enjoyed the right that noth- ing contrary to their decision should be enacted in parliament." This body had without a dissentient voice opposed the act of supremacy. On account of their opposition an order was made under the great seal of England declaring that they should be allowed no vote in parliament; and that their assent should nowise be requisite for any act of the legislature. To quote again the same writer: "The voice of the spiritual pastors being thus hushed, and many of the Irish chieftains having re- tired in disgust from the parliament, the act of supremacy was passed. * * * Whatever may be deemed the civil re- sult of the act, surely no impartial ob- server will affirm that such an enactment of an English parliament in Ireland, car- ried by despotism, can be in any way referred to the representatives of the Irish nation." Immediately after the passing of the acts the persecution was begun in right earnest. The King's deputy set out from the capital "on a martial course, a victorious circuit round about the whole kingdom." "At Waterford," he says, "we kept sessions, where were put to execution four felons, accompanied with another thief, a friar, whom we commanded to be hanged in his habit, and so to remain upon the gallows for B mirror to all his brethren to live truly." (State Papers, Henry VIII), It may be said without fear of contradiction that in no other country was ever such a fierce and prolonged persecution waged against the Catholic Church. An elab- orate system of legislation, over and above what we have already mentioned, was devised and added to in succeeding reigns, having for its object the total extirpation of the faith in Ireland." To mention only a few of the penal enactments. It was decreed : "i. No one henceforth shall send his children or relations beyond the seas for education. Those who are abroad must return within a year, under penalty of the confiscation of their property. "2. All Papist religious and priests shall forthwith depart from the King- dom, under penalty of being put to death. "3. No Papist shall dare to exercise the office of schoolmaster in the King- dom. "4. Whosoever shall harbor a priest, in town or country, shall forfeit his prop- erty to the Crown. "5. Every one shall be present at our rites, ceremonies, etc., on Sundays and festivals." And bravely, thank God, did the peo- ple resist all the attempts made to force them to abjure the faith. At the very commencement of the so-called Refor- mation the renegade Brown, Archbishop of Dublin, who was an Englishman and a creature of the King s, was forced to confess that "the common people of this isle are more zealous in their blindness than the saints and martyrs were in truth at the beginning of the Gospel." Their refusal to obey iniquitous laws brought upon them a persecution unrivalled for its diabolical ferocity. Writing of it, the Four Masters make the following startling statement: "Al- though great was the persecution of the Roman Emperors against the Church, it is not so probable that so great a per- secution as this ever came upon the world ; so that it is impossible to tell or THE IRISH MARTYRS. i8i narrate its description unless it should be told by one who saw it." O'SuUivan Beare gives a vivid de- scription of the state to which the island was reduced in 1589: "All alarm from the Irish chieftains having ceased," he writes, "the persecution was renewed with all its horrors; a royal order was promulgated that all should renounce the Catholic faith, yield up the priests, receive from the heretical ministers the morality and tenets of the Gosi>el, and assist at their ceremonies on Sundays and holidays ; threats and penalties, and force were to be employed to enforce compliance. * * * The natives every- where refused to be contaminated by the preaching and rites of the heretics. * * * Every effort of the Queen (Elizabeth) and her emissaries was hence directed to despoil the Irish Cath- olics of their property and exterminate them." Peter Lombard, Archbishop of Ar- magh, a contemporary writer, gives a terrible account of the diabolical cruelty exercised by the English soldiery in the province of Munster, of which he was a native: "Unheard of cruelties," he writes, "were committed on the inhab- itants of Munster. Great companies of these natives, men, women and children, were often forced into castles and other houses, which were then set on fire ; and if any of them attempted to escape from the flames, they were shot or stabbed by the soldiers who guarded them. It was a diversion to these monsters of men to take up infants on the points of their spears and whirl them about in their agony, excusing their cruelty by saying that if they were suffered to live they would become Popish rebels. Many of the women, too, were found hanging on trees with their children at their breasts, strangled with their mothers' hair." It is sad to think that the poet Spen- ser, who came to Ireland in the train of Lord Gray, allied himself with the per- secutors, so fai; at least, as to glory in their deeds of blood and suggest means for the extirpation of the people. In cold blood he suggested, be it recorded to his eternal shame, the employment of numerous bands of troops "to tread down all that standeth before them, and lay on the ground all the stiff-necked people of that land ;* and to insure suc- cess, he recommended that the war should be carried on in winter, "for then," he says, "the trees are bare and naked, which used to both clothe and house the kerne ; the ground is cold and wet, which used to be his bedding ; the air is sharp and bitter, to blow through his naked sides and legs; the kine are barren and without milk, which useth to be his only food, neither it they kill them will they yield him flesh, nor if he keep them will they give him food ; besides, being all with calf, they will, through much chasing and driving, cast all their calves and lose their milk, which should relieve him next summer." (State of Ireland, page 161, Dublin Edition, 1809). He had already experience of the success of a like plan. He continues : "The end will be very short, although there should none of them fall by the sword. * * ♦ The proof whereof I saw sufficiently ex- ampled in these late wars in Munster. * * * Out of every corner of the woods and glens they (the people) came creeping forth upon their hands, for their legs could not bear them; they looked like anatomies of death ; they spake like ghosts crying out of their graves ; they did eat the dead carrions, happy where they could find them * * * and if they found a plot of watercresses or shamrocks, there they flocked as to a feast for the time, yet not able to continue there long withal, so that in a short space there were none almost left, and a most populous and plentiful country was suddenly left void of man and beast." An eye-witness (Mooney) of those scenes of misery says Xiv^X so ^^Tv^x'^V^'^Si the devastatiotv ol tVv^ >w\vo\^ x^'^tA^ ^^\. l82 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. "in most parts you would travel forty miles without meeting any human crea- ture or even an animal, except birds and wild beasts." Hallam said that the sufferings of our country "had never been surpassed," not even by those of the Jews in their destruction by Titus. Only on the last day shall it be made known how many thousands died for the faith in Ireland between 1539, when the first of the martyrs suffered, down to 1691, when the profession of the Catholic faith was for the last time punished by death in that country. The acts of three hundred and forty- four have been fully investigated by the Dublin Commission, and sent on, as I have already said, to Rome. One Irishman, the Venerable Father John Travers, O. S. A., had suffered for the faith in England in 1535. His name and that of the Venerable Oliver Plunk- ett, Archbishop of Armagh, are not found in the Irish list, as their causes had already been introduced with other martyrs who suffered in England. The names of Archbishop Creagh and James Dowdall, who also died in that country, are likewise omitted, as their cause has been commenced there. The list of martyrs is, as we have seen, a long one. It comprises Archbishops, Bishops, secular Priests, Augustinians, Carmelites, Cistercians. Dominicans, Franciscans, Jesuits, one Premonstra- tensian, and fifty-six lay men and women. Readers of The Rosary will be glad to learn that the children of St. Dominic hold an honorable place in this glorious bead-roll. The names of one hundred and thirteen, of whom three were Sisters of the Third Order, are inscribed upon it. Various were the forms of death in- flicted upon the martyrs. That of Dr. Dermod 0*Hurley, Archbishop of Cashel, the first on the list, recalls the worst days of Nero and Domitian. The martyr was a distinguished rhetorician and canonist For four years he taught philosophy in Louvain, and later on canon law in Rheims. In 1580 he was appointed to the metropolitan see of Cashel by Gregory XIII. "He was thrown into a dark and loathsome prison in 1583, and kept there bound in chains till the Holy Thursday of the following year. After spurning the offers of eccle- siastical preferment in case he should subscribe the oath of supremacy, he was bound to the trunk of a large tree, with his hands and body chained; his legs were then forced into long boots (reach- ing above the knees) which were filled with salt, butter, oil, turpentine and pitch ; and thus encased, his limbs were stretched on an iron gate under which ^ a fire was kindled, causing a terrible and cruel agony. For an hour he was sub- jected to this torture; as the pitch, oil and other materials boiled, not only did the skin fall off, but the flesh itself melted away; the muscles, veins and arteries were gradually contracted, and when the boots were pulled off, particles of the broiled flesh being torn off with them, not a small portion of the bones was left quite bare, presenting a horrid spectacle which no words can describe. Still the holy martyr, having his mind fixed on God and holy things, never uttered a word of complaint.'' (O'SuUivan, page 124). He was again thrown into a dark and loathsome prison, and after an in- terval of a few days he was, says Stani- hurst. a Dublin citizen who was prob- ably an eye-witness, or at least could learn from eye-witnesses, "hurried to a field not far from Dublin Castle at break of day lest the citizens should crowd to witness such cruelty, and there they hanged the innocent man from the gal- lows with a halter roughly made of twigs that his sufferings might be all the greater.*' At early dawn on Friday, the sixth of May, 1584, being in the sixty- fifth year of his age, he gave up his soul to God. His mangled remains were buried in the old churchyard of St. Kevin. THE IRISH MARTYRS. 183 Six years earlier, Dr. Patrick O'Hely, O. S. F., Bishop of Mayo, and his chap- lain. Father Con. O'Rourke, O. S. F., suffered cruel deaths for the faith. They were arrested soon after landing at Din- gle, in the County Kerry, and brought to Kilmallock, County Limerick, where, after a mock trial before Drury, the President of Munster, having refused to take the oath of supremacy, they were subjected to frightful torture. They were first scourged, then placed on the rack; sharp points and needles were thrust between the nails and the flesh, their fingers were cut off, their arms and feet beaten with hammers, and their thigh-bones broken. Drury again offered them rich benefices and positions of honor if they would take the oath of supremacy. But they only spurned his offers. He then ordered them to be put to death. They were hanged with the girdles which they wore as part of their religious habit, on the twenty-second of August, 1578. It is worthy of note that immediately before he was executed the holy Bishop warned Drury that within a few days he should appear before the judgment seat of God. And so it came to pass. He was seized by a disease which baf- fled the skill erf physicians. He cried aloud in his agony when dying that he was tormented by all the pains of hell. God's justice fell also visibly on some of the other judges who pronounced sen- tence against the Catholics. In the following year Ireland gave a witness to the inviolability of the seal of confession. Father John O'Dowd, O. S. F., be- longed to the Convent of Elphin, County Sligo. He had heard the confessions of some prisoners who were accused of con- spiring against Queen Elizabeth. Being asked by the soldiers to reveal what he had heard in the confessional, he refused. He was then put to a cruel death. The soldiers knotted a cord round his head, and pvtting^ a piece of wood through it. slowly twisted it so tight that his eyes burst from their sockets. His skull was then broken and his brain crushed. All the time he was praying to God and to the Blessed Virgin Mary. He died in 1579. "I have seen and examined ocular witnesses of this fact, who were then serving in that body of English soldiers," writes the famous Father L. Wad- ding, O. S. F. Another of the martyrs, Terence Albert O'Brien, O. P., Bishop of Emly, was in the city of Limerick when it was beseiged by Ireton, Cromwell's son-in- law. He was offered a bribe of forty thousand gold crowns and a pass to any place he pleased if he would quit the city and cease to urge the citizens to resistance — all of which he refused, pre- ferring to give his help to the Catholic people. When the city was taken he was put in chains and executed in the market-place, in the year 165 1. Ireton, his judge, to whom he had foretold the swift vengeance of God, was soon after stricken by the plague, and died exclaim- ing that the murder of the Bishop was the cause of his death. Amongst the laymen who suffered for the faith was John O'Connor. He was seized by the Cromwellian soldiers and publicly hanged in Tralee because he would not abjure his religion. Space will not allow me to give more instances of the martyrs* triumphs. I hope in a future article to g^ve an ac- count of the martyrdom of some of the children of St. Dominic. From what I have written it will be seen how fierce and diabolical on the one side was the conduct of the perse- cutors, and how strenuous and glorious on the other was the struggle made by the children of St. Patrick for liberty of conscience. Irish Catholics and their descendants all the world over have great reason to be proud of the men and women who have handed down to them, pure and unsullied, iVvt. Vv^xxV-^^^ ^S. nJcvr. faith. The QvutcVv \tv \\Oi?i.Tve^ '^vcv^'s. xc^- i84 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. day with brighter lustre than at any other period of its history. It has come forth from the ordeal of blood and fire not only scatheless, but more vigorous than ever. "The blood of martyrs is the seed of Christians." The persecu- tion that swept away every vestige of Catholicity in other lands only served to make our forefathers, if possible, more devoted children of the Church. Let us, then, in the words of Scripture, "praise men of renown, and our fathers in their generation. * * * Good things con- tinue with their seed. Their posterity are a holy inheritance, and their seed hath stood in the covenants. ♦ ♦ * Let the people shew forth their wisdom, and the Church declare their praise." (Eccl. xliv, 14c.) Note — There are three hundred and forty- four names on the list I have before me. But I believe others were subsequently added. Later on I hope to have the complete list and to be able to give the names of all the martyrs. Tuesdays With Friends The Boy From Ne^v York By MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN BHERE were some yellow leaves on the group of beeches at the corner of the lawn; but the locusts were as green as the box hedge, — only a different green. The Lady of the House was busy with a huge glass pitcher of lemonade which the Student and the Boy from New York had demanded in place of tea. "The yellow leaves!" said the Judge, with a sigh, "I hate to see them ; — they mean that the freshness and bloom of the summer are passing, and, symbol- ically, that for men of my age the time is coming when no man can work. When the scent of the locust blossoms goes, then I feel that the youth of summer is past !" "I hate the yellow leaves — " began the Bov from New York. The Judge turned a severe face to- wards him. The Judge belonged to that school which never asked the Boy from New York or any other boy for an opin- ion on any subject ; and even the lioy from New York was for the moment frozen into silence. "What were you saying. Madam ?*' continued the Judge, addressing the Lady of the House with elaborate cour- tesy. The Lady of the House was, by the way, saying nothing. "Oh!" said the Lady of the House, trying to find something to say, "I love the yellow leaves. It seems natural that there should be yellow leaves in August, as there should be red leaves in October, and red fires and open books and pleas- ant hearthside hours." "I hate the yellow leaves," burst fortfi the Boy from New York, determined to hold his own now that the Judge's eye was not on him, "because they remind me that vacation is passing, — and work must begin !" "You evidently hate your books," said the Judge, looking over the Boy's head, "and you do not realize that you have opportunities denied to millions of your fellow citizens, who, while they no ' doubt are as clever as you, can not go to college." "I'd cheerfully give up my oppor- tunities," said the l^:)y from New York, reddening, and then, under his breath, to the Student, "what is he preaching at me for?" TUESDAYS WITH FRIENDS. 185 "You don't mean that," said the Judge, "or if you do, you arc a very worthless person, sir." "Oh, my dear Judge !" interrupted the Lady of the House. "Don't be so very stem ! Of course the Boy does not mean it. All boys talk that way, — ^it does not mean anything." "It is an example of modem flip- pancy," said the Judge. "The world has a right to expect great things from a young man who is taken care of and educated for twenty-one years of his life. He has had so far no more to do with the realities of life than the green burs on that chestnut tree." "That's all he knows," whispered the Boy from New York to the Student. "Your modern boy has nothing to do but to develop. God and the world have a right to expect something from him, You're a Catholic, sir!" "Of course," answered the Boy from New York, reddening again under his sunburn. "What do you take me for?" "Do you realize that you must not only set a good example, but that you must bring all your force to bear for the defence of truth?" "You are asking too much of a boy of twenty, are you not, Judge?" asked the Student. "It is not until one grows older that one realizes one's responsi- bilities." "Our first duty is to teach youth to realize them," said the Judge. "Life is a struggle, and no human being ought to be allowed to live in a fool's paradise — that state of mind in which he sees neither duties nor responsibilities about him. To be the son of a rich man is to be handicapped in the race for good. The rich father to-day — " "I say. Judge," broke in the Boy from New York, "you mustn't say that, — father is all right, if he is rich. You can preach to me all you like, but I don't like to hear dad preached at behind his back I" The Judge was, for the moment, dis- concerted. "I am not personal," he continued, with a look of apology to the hostess. "Oh, be personal !" said the Boy from New York, "I don't mind it — ^just tell me what you think I ought to do. Father thinks I'm the real thing, and lets me alone ; but I know I m not." The Judge looked embarrassed, and filled the pause by sipping a glass of lemonade. "Well," he answered, at length, "the end of life is not amusement, — the end of work is not to supply luxuries. You young people seem to think that amuse- ment should be the regular occupation of life. Don't you?" "You're about right, — fun, after all, makes life worth living." "But there must come pain and sor- row and sacrifice. They must come." "Yes, ' sighed the Lady of the House, "they must come; and we must accept them." "Even to you?" the Boy from New York asked, with sudden interest. "You always seem so bright and cheerful." "Even to me 1" the Lady of the House answered, with a little laugh. "Death and sorrow and sacrifice." "And to you?" The Boy from New York turned to the Student. "Yes," answered the Student, thinking of his father, who was ill far away. "I'd better look out then!" said the Boy from New York. "But how shall I be ready for these things?" he asked the Lady of the House, not noticing the Judge, who was about to speak. The Lady of the House looked upward. And the Boy from New York crossed over to the table and took her hand, as if she were his mother. "Eloquence," said the Student to the Judge, "is vain ; the great appeal, after all, is to the mother." "Yes," said the Judge, reverently^ "the Mother V Syria and Palestine By REV. M. A. QUIRK lEAVING Cairo, which, as I have described it, has become largely modernized, and passing out of Egypt through Port Said, which is entirely modern — ^being the outgrowth of the Suez canal— one night's travel on the steamer El Kahira took us back into the past; when we looked out upon Jaffa in the morning, the twentieth century had been left be- hind and we were lying to before the ancient Joppe, where, it is said, Noah built the Ark. It looks it. Aside from the railroad which leads to Jerusa- lem, few changes or additions have been made in this ancient town since the days of Simon the Tanner, whose house, where St. Peter lodged, looks as if it had been untouched since the days of the Prince of the Apostles. Nearly all the tourists left the boat at Jaffa for Jerusalem ; but Father O'Reilly and the writer (who had arranged a tour "per- sonally conducted," not by Cook or Clark, but by ourselves), returned to the boat after a very interesting day in Jaffa. We had figured out that by reversing the usual trip made by tourists we might visit Beirut, Baalbec and Damascus, re- turning overland to Jerusalem in time for Holy Week two weeks later. We made the trip not without some hard- ship, but satisfactorily to ourselves and at a reasonable cost. The steamer El Kahira (the Cairo), one of the best we met with in the East, is a mixture of the Orient and the Occident. Owned in Egypt, it is manned by Bedouins, its dining-room and salon staff are Ital- ians and its captain is an Irishman, Maurice McMahon of Liverpool. We had the pleasure of sailing several times with Capt. McMahon and found him to be a bright, intelligent and whole-souled gentleman. On landing at Beirut we had a whole day in which to visit that interesting city before starting for Baalbec and Damas- cus. The site of this city of over one hundred thousand people is among the finest on the Mediterranean, but, here as all too frequently elsewhere, man has nearly ruined nature's gift. While Only a handful of the population are Christians, Beirut has three of the finest Christian institutions in the world. St Joseph's Jesuit University is an immense institu- tion and is doing great work in Biblical study, oriental languages and medicine; the Sisters of Charity have a very large academy and hospital, while the Amer- ican Protestant College has a fine gproup of buildings and is doing good work for sacred and natural sciences. The two institutions for boys have each about one thousand students, most of them Mohammedans, who, strange to say, are little affected by the Christian influencet around them. The journey by rail from Beirut to Baalbec and Damascus can scarcely be excelled, unless it be in an autonurfMle between the same cities over a road which is perfect. The first part of the journey as the road winds up and through the hills of Syria gives the traT- ellers glimpses of the mountains of Lebanon to the north, Mounts Hermon and Tabor to the south, while the Med- iterranean, which quickly disappears as- we leave the city, reappears so frequently and unexpectedly as we rise above it that we seem to make no progress at all. The first day's journey is so tortuous and SYRIA AND PALESTINE. i8r difficult that an all-day ride is required to penetrate seventy-five miles into the interior. The hillsides ol Syria are ter- raced by the natives into small plots of ground, which are kept from being washed away into the valleys by stone walls whose superficial area is fre- quently greater than the plot which they retain. Often these gardens are so narrow that only one animal can be used to plough them. From such hillsides have these people literally wrested a bare living for centuries unnumbered. One incident of that day's journey will never be forgotten. At a small station we noticed an unusually large crowd. We noticed, also, that they were all in tears. Mothers and fathers were bid- ding good-bye to sons; big, stalwart, uncouth looking fellows were embracing each other with all the display and twice the sincerity of schoolgirls parting. We learned that a company of the village youth had been drafted by the Sultan's agents and was being sent into the army of Turkey. The few weeks just past had not given us a very favorable impression of the inhabitants of these Eastern countries, but here was the one touch of nature which makes the whole world kin, and our hearts went out in sympathy to our Syrian brethren in their sorrow. Baalbec, our first stop after leaving Beirut, is one of the world's greatest mysteries. Here in a small village, which apparently was never much of a town, is an immense pagan temple, built out of place, and out of time, because paganism was dead or dying about the Mediterranean when it was erected. Con- staniinc. indeed, himself recently con- verted to Christianity, stopped work upon it before it was completed, and the THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. TRIUMPHAL ARCH, DAMASCUS. spots where the tools of the carvers struck their last blows can be easily dis- tinguished on the unfinished frieze, en- tablature and cornice. In immensity, the temple, or temples, rather, have no rival except at Karnak, and even Karnak is in some ways sur- passed. Three stones in the building are the largest ever quarried. Tliey arc sixty-five feet long and over twelve feet square. One, still in the quarry, is sixty- nine feet long, fifteen feet and ten inches high, and thirteen feet, ten inches wide. It weighs nine hundred and fifteen tons. Besides these monsters, there are sev- eral red granite colunms twenty feet in circumference and over forty feet high which were quarried at Assouan, Egypt, s/x hundred miles up the Nile, brought down to the coast and along it to Beirut or some place in that vicinity, and then transported overland across the snow-capped LebaooD moan- tains. Here again arise the questions: How did they do it and why? The tem^ pic at Baalbec also excels Karnak in carving. But this can be easily ex- plained, since Baalbec was erected later and after the Greeks had taught the world the art of carving ; and nat- urally the pupils outdid their mas- ters. So we find at Baalbec ceil- ings, cornices and friezes surpass- ing any in Greece. A magnificent doorway whose keystone had falleti sev- eral feet roused the admiration and pity of Kaiser Wilhelm when he visited Baal- bec. He had the door\vay restored and SYRIA AND PALESTINE. arranged for restorations, now in prog- ress, in all parts of the ruins. Constantine built a great basilica in the very center of the temple of Jupiter. The Moors destroyed it, and turned the whole area into a fortress, which is now also a ruin. The greatest ruin, to my mind, at Baaibec is the ruin of the hu- man race. Here, as at Kainak, humanity seems to have sunk the lowest. Around the foundations of Baaibec are hovels filthy beyond description. Among them we saw a flour-mill. The millstones, man- aged by a man, were turned by water from a little stream as clear as crystal. The flour, as it poured out on the earthen floor, was gathered into a heap by the man's wife, whose only utensils were her bare feet 1 It was another case of "Where every prospect pleases And only man is vile." From Baaibec to Damascus is only a few hours' run. We had time before sun- down to ascend the adjacent hills and en- joy the view of the oldest city now exist- ing in the world. It is on the dividing line between the desert and the caravan and the railroad, steamboat and modem civilization. The natives of the desert — which stretches out eastward and south- ward, from Damascus to Arabia, In- dia and Persia — bring their produce to Damascus to exchange for their few necessities. But this centuries-old cus- tom will soon be a thing of the past. A railroad is even now building between Damascus and Mecca and the time is not far distant when Damascus will begin to take on modern airs. At present, this city of two hundred ant) fifty thousand people is without gas, THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. M'H-NT T.MIOR. electric light, fire protection, telephones or telegraph : yes, without bookstore or newspaper. Nevertheless, it is a great city. Its bazaars are among the finest in the world. Its inlaid work and mo- saic are hard to equal. lis metal work- ers, many of them mere ehildrcn. inlay gold and silver on backgrounds of cop- per or brass in designs that are very beaiitifnl. The pictures they work out in metal have a perspective which it would seem impossible to produce in tint metal. With tools the most primitive, they proiluce results than any artisan nn'ght envy. A stranger place than Damascus for two Irish -.Americans to spend St. Pat- rick's Day could scarcely be found ; yet there, where St. Patrick and, in fact, ail Christian saints arc iiniinown, where green ribbon could not be had.snd where no compatriot as far as we knew was any- where within reach, we «pent March i/th, 1904. Even the church calendar did not recognize Ireland's patron, and amid the many toasts chronicled of Latin, (ireek, .Armenian. Maronite, Kopt. schismatics of various kinds, Jews and Mahonnnedans, which make up a calendar fearful and wonderful to rleci]iluT. poor St. I'atrick was omitted fmni them all. (..'omputation of time in those countries reNOTd%\ ''"^qx^n^. 196 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. it n forgive," as the members of the oppos- ing factions ran towards each other and, mingling their tears, fell into each others* arms with such exclamations as : Forgive me, it is I who am to blame." Forgive me, give me your hand; give me the kiss of peace." Women followed suit with each other, and the whole church became a scene of universal reconciliation. The missioners were at first overwhelmed at the sight, and on recovering from their surprise tried to quiet the excitement of the people. When the fervor had calmed down, and each one in turn had knelt beside the image of the Crucified, abjuring all enmity and malice, Giovanni, holding Gavino by the hand, stood up, and turn- ing to those present, said in solemn tones: "Hear me, my friends! I take you all to witness that henceforth Gavino shall be to me in the place of Antioco, my son, and shall marry m)r^nly daugh- ter." Whereupon tears burst out afresh on all sides. Nor were these idle words, for ere the missioners left the village they performed the marriage rite, seal- ing peace in bonds of love, a fitting cli- max to this instance of how, "To err is human, to forgive divine." HeLnd^vriting etnd Forgery By JAMES I. ENNIS. LL. B. I. |T is a curious fact that, amongst the millions of human beings that inhabit this world of ours, it rarely happens that two people look exactly alike. It is true that there have been numerous instances of twins resembling each other so nearly as to mystify their friends and even their closest relatives; and there have been many cases recorded of persons hav- ing doubles who so closely resem- bled them as to cause interesting com- plications; but to the expert physiog- nomist, these resemblances are more fancied than real, as the resemblance is heightened in almost every instance by artificial aids, such as dress, the arrange- ment of the hair or beard. In the case of twins, it not infrequently happens that they dress exactly alike, are necessarily much together, and consequently imitate e^cA others' peculiarities and manner- isjjjs. In the case of celebrated men hav- ing doubles, generally the double prides himself upon the resemblance, and con- sequently apes the great man's style of dress, his gait, and his little personal peculiarities. To the casual observer, the imprint of one person's thumb upon a piece of paper looks exactly like that of an- other thumb of the same size. But, as a matter of fact, the claim is made — and has never been successfully refuted — that no two thumbs have exactly the same configuration. The Bertillon sys- tem of identification is based on the fact that the measurements of no two people have ever been found to exactly agree. Expert thief-catchers, detectives and secret service men can readily pick out the criminal they have run down, even though he be carefully disguised and surrounded by people very closely re- sembling him, but the Bertillon system of measurements makes their judgment a certainty. So, in all cases of "perfect doubles" \t \s A\ffie>3\\. M tvo\. wcv^c^^&'&Aj^ HANDWRITING AND FORGERY. 197 to deceive the expert. To the ordinary" man, in like manner, it is almost impossible for him to distinguish be- tween a diamond and a good paste imitation, but to the lapidary the propo- sition is simplicity itself. A good horse- man can detect the faults of a horse which an ordinary man- would call per- fect. A painter can readily distinguish the spurious copy from the original. An expert on money easily sepa- rates the counterfeit from the gen- uine bills, and so on through the whole field of human endeavor and experience. The point is, that things that seem ex- actly alike to the unskilled may not be so in fact, but appear so only to the un- trained observer. And now we come to the subject of handwriting and its corollary — forgery. It might seem to be an assumption not founded upon fact to state that no two |>eople write exactly alike, but the state- ment may be made broader still by as- serting that no man writes twice exactly the same. To many this statement will seem preposterous and absurd, but it is nevertheless true. In a recent mur- der, case in New York — ^a case celebrated all over the world — the guilt of one of the defendants depended largely on the genuineness of certain checks for large amounts. The most widely known ex- perts on handwriting in the country tes- tified for and against the genuineness of the checks, but upon one basic principle they were united, and that was that whenever two signatures correspond ex- actly, one of them must be a forgery. In other words, if two signatures are so alike that one laid upon the other will coincide with it in every particular, one of them must of necessity be a forgery. So the conclusion is inevitable that a man cannot write his own name twice exactly alike, and with stronger reason two people can not write alike. But it sometimes happens that one person can imitate another's name so skill- fully as to deceive the most expert judge of handwriting. When a person so gifted misdirects his talents and com- mits forgery he becomes a dangerous criminal indeed, especially if he be as conversant with the methods of modern banks as he is skillful with the pen. Forgery is a crime against which the banker must be constantly on guard, and the utmost vigilance and care are exercised to prevent the forger from defrauding the bank. The new bank customer must be introduced to the bank by reliable men of known probity. It will, perhaps, be a matter of surprise to many to learn that in many of our largest commerc^ial banks a stranger will not be allowed to open an account, even by depositing a large amount of cur- rency, unless he be introduced by some patron of the bank or some person of known integrity willing to vouch for his good standing and honorable reputation. The reason for this policy is manifest. No bank wishes to number amongst its customers people who might prove to be counterfeiters, confidence men or forgers. While the first deposit of a stranger might be currency, subsequent deposits might be made up wholly of checks, stolen or forged. The crimin- ally inclined depositor might open an account with five thousand dollars in cur- rency and leave that amount on deposit for a week or more without making any withdrawals, then deposit six or seven thousand dollars in checks on other banks, forged either as to the signature or the endorsement. Then he might is- sue checks to the amount of say ten thousand dollars, which would leave an apparent balance of one or two thousand dollars — and quietly slip away. His profits would be iVve ^vft^x^Tvc^ \i^VsN^^^ his cash deposits ^xvd V\\^ ^*vCcAx'^^'2^s»> I9fi THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. which in the instance just cited would be five thousand dollars. As to what constitutes a forgery, there is a misconception in the minds of the public. Webster defines forgery as "The crime of fraudulently making or altering a writing or signature purporting to be made by another; the false making or material alteration or an addition to a written instrument for the purpose of deceit or fraud." The statutes of most of the states conform pretty closely in general tenor to this definition. But . in the minds of the public a forgery is a close simulation or counterfeit of one person's signature by another. While this latter may be a forgery, it does not necessarily follow that it must be. In order to constitute a forgery the element of fraud must be present. The mere copying of another's signature is not a forgery; but if, in addition to copy- ing the signature to a bank check, a per- son should endeavor to draw money on the check at the bank, or negotiate it to an innocent purchaser, or pass it to a third person and induce him to negotiate it, any one of these acts would consti- tute a forgery. But it is with the professional forger that the public is most interested. As has been stated before, the first care of the banker is to prevent the forger, or rather forgers, as they gener- ally operate in gangs, from gaining an entrance into his institution as depos- itors. But he must also guard against paying checks fraudulently drawn, purporting to be signed by cus- tomers of his bank and presented either over the counter at the paying tel- ler's window or through the clearing- house. If the forged check be presented at the paying teller's window, there is a much greater risk to the gang, or at least to the member of the gang present- j'n^ the check, than there is ii the check be sent through the clearing-house. But in order to send the check through the. clearing-house it is necessary for the gang to use some other bank as a de- positary; but for the reasons above stated it is not often that the gang- is enabled to establish the relation- ship of a depositor. Unskilled opera- tors do sometimes forge checks for small amounts and pass them off on storekeepers, saloon keepers, hotel men and small merchants. But the character of these checks is promptly discovered when presented through the clearing- house and they are returned to the various depositors, causing loss to none except the persons foolish enough to cash checks for strangers. The risk of detection and apprehension in presenting the forged check at the payer's window is great, as the payer knows instantly and instinc- tively whether it is genuine or forged. Even if the forgery be perfect, ap- parently, there is a sort of sixth sense developed in the paying teller from long experience and natural aptitude which warns him that something is wrong. Touching a button, he warns the attend- ant policeman to be oh guard while he questions the person presenting the check. He probably asks him if he be ac- quainted with any person in the bank or in the vicinity. If he receives a nega- tive answer, he may properly refuse to pay, or, pursuing his investigation further, may telephone the person whose name is forged and ask him if he issued such a check. The result is ob- vious. The criminal is apprehended and convicted, and the incident, so far as the bank is concerned, is closed. But not infrequently the check presented is made payable to bearer. Even then, if it be made for an amount exceeding one or two hundred dollars, the teller will very properly refuse to pay without an identi- fication . More Aaxv^^TOMs \.o \Jcvfc V^'^sik U CROWNED IMMACULATE— THE TEMPLES. 199 the case where a genuine check is pre- sented bearing the real signature of its drawer but with a forged endorsement of its payer and a forged endorsement of the drawer guaranteeing the genuineness of the payer's identity. In that case the teller is indeed wide-awake if he detects the forgery and apprehends the crimin«ils. This game was worked by the letter- box forgers who operated in the .large cities some ten years ago. Their method of operations was as follows: By pro- curing a key which fitted the mail-boxes at street corners, they were enabled to open* the boxes and abstract the letters. Those containing checks were destroyed. The checks were endorsed, and the en- dorsement was guaranteed by the mak- ers of the checks, forged of course. Tliey were then presented at the banks on which they were drawn. The operations of the gang were quite suc- cessful until they were stopped by a pay- ing teller of a Chicago bank. Crowned Immaculate By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet Sweet Mother of the Babe of Bethlehem, What sanctities thy tranquil brow adorn! Immaculate ! Of Jesse's royal stem, Sinless, yet unto earthly travail born. The angel message found thee set apart In simple duties, waiting good or ill, God's lightest whisper echoing in thy heart, Thine every thought attuned to His will, In Bethlehem town the white December snows. Thy soul still whiter, crowned thee fairest queen ; The May month joys of lily and of rose. For many years a coronal have been. But oh ! unstained by sin, untouched by hate, Thou art in Heaven crowned Immaculate! The Temples By Thomas Walish That Solomon, the Wise King, might behold, The autumn hills raised high their brows of gold ; Cried he, as boasting from his wars he trod, — "My shrine shall shame yc in the eyes of God !" But scarce his lips had framed the haughty word When from the heights the winds' great voice was heard ; The bannered forests roared and irom tVveVt \j\^c^ Swept the dead leaves in scorn against V\\s l^ic^. Th£ Gar. den Bench HH, how glad I am to have es- caped !" The Girl sank into a chair, breathing quickly, her pretty brow disfigured by a frown. "What happened?" we asked anx- iously, for our Girl is usually calm and rather slow in her movements. There was nothing to frighten her in her walk to the post-ofBce, since the owner of a pair of geese had moved, with his auto- cratic fowl, to the country, and the Brown boy had sold hs goat. "Did — did a race-horse break away from the trainer and take after you?" we next questioned, recalling such an experience. "Worse than that!" she replied, with a sharp edge on her tones. "I was as- sailed by Mrs. Grievance-Against-The- World." "Well, dear, she can't help it. She doesn't know any better. Why won't you remember that all selfishness has its root in ignorance!" "You're wholly wrong there," began the Girl, and when she speaks in that determined voice, we have learned to let her talk to the end of her string. "She knows better; she is a woman of good birth and education, and prides herself on her culture. This very morn- ing, in the midst of her complaining, she stopped long enough to say: *I know I ought to be ashamed of myself to pour out my miseries on you, but I feel that I must talk to you; you have such an amount of understanding sympathy.' " "There was a tribute to your higher nature,'' we suggested; "moreover, if it relieved her, you ought not to regret it. Child, we were put here to be of service to one another." "Your theory is all right, honey — as a theory," observed the Girl; "but I ob- ject to its personal application from this particular person on this particular morning. Now I am going to regard St. Paul as a dead-letter, for the time being; so you need not quote his thir- teenth chapter to the Corinthians when I begin to relate some of Mrs. Grievancc- Against-The-World's private history. She didn't tell it to me, so I'm revealing no secret. I learned it from her face, her speech, the atmosphere of her home, and the general impression of concealed irri- tability which her family, taken collec- tively, leaves upon my mind. They live at the four points of the compass." "Can people really help that ? Ought you not to take into consideration the facts ~of difference of temperaments, divergence of views, separateness of in- terests?" asked the third listener of the Girl's recital. "I do take all that into consideration, and yet I maintain that such facts are not, and can never be, an excuse for a divided household," she replied firmly. "Are the people who dwell together in convents, monasteries, and boarding- houses of one temperament? do they hold the same views ? have they the same interests ? By no means ; yet the atmos- phere of those places is pleasant, because each is required by the unwritten law of society to restrain any antagonistic ten- dency and exercise only harmonious qualities. But the laws of society are tabooed in the majority of homes, and the words we vjowld bVws\\ lo s^^y to the THE GARDEN BEXXH. 20I Stranger, we unhesitatingly speak to those we love best. *'In Mrs. Grievance-Against-The- World's home, the members of the fam- ily seem to strive to be cantankerous with one another. The children had the example set them early by their mother and father, especially the former, who strove to excuse herself on the ground of difference of temperament between her and her husband. Knowing that it is not good form for brothers and sisters to be disagreeable among themselves, she tried to palliate their conduct by at- tributing it to their inherited tempera- ment and prenatal influences. "Whv can't she see that bv such state- ments she anounces how weak is the w^ll of herself and family ! If they were per- sons of character they would recognize their difficulties, and then begin to cor- rect them by placing the same restraint upon themselves in the home that they must exercise in the business world and society. It is easy to secure a peaceful atmosphere in the home or elsewhere, and one determined will can bring about the change. If that will be possessed by one in authority, so much the better. All that is necessary is to recognize the rights of others. If Mrs. Grievance- Against-The- World would only use her will to harmonize the temperaments of her family, and pour out an unexacting love on them, she would have fewer troubles, and I could walk to the post- office and back without having my day spoiled in the beginning." "Aren't you as weak and foolish as that woman? Whv let her troubles bother you ?" "The question is, rather, why should that woman empty her mental accumu- lation of worr>', bitterness, discourage- ment, selfishness — caused, I dare sav, bv her own irritable temper — upon me?'' asked the Girl. "I have cares, duties, and sacred obligations which must daily be met, and the meeting of which calls for all my resources. This morning things seemed piled up unusually high against me, and it was onlv bv the exercise of ' mm prayerful purpose that I got the strength to face them with quiet courage. I re- quired every iota of spiritual strength I possess for this day, and I must needs have this dissipated and my time squan- dered by one who has no claim upon the sympathy of others — for she deliberately makes her own unhappiness, and not I nor an angel from Heaven could help her to a place of higher thought. If I had met a hurt dog, I should gladly have given it time and sympathy, knowing that I should have benefited it, and when we benefit 'even the least of these' we are doing Christ's work. But that wo- man ! Now I shall have to go to my room and begin my day all over again, and when I go to the post-office to-mor- row, I shall have to walk three squares out of my way to avoid her !" 4( « * * * « "Really one can't blame the Girl," ob- served the third listener. "Such persons as Mrs. Grievance-Against-The-World are thorns in the flesh of all their serious- minded acquaintances, and it is this sort of people that she and her kind select for victims. If any good were accomplished the victims might make the sacrifice of time and energy willingly, but trying to help them is like carrying water in a sieve. All the words of encouragement that one might speak to such persons from now to the end of their lives are practically wasted. What they want is the sympathy that sits down and weeps with them, tells them that there was never one so afiiicted on earth, and ques- tions the justice of God when such inno- cent persons are thus sorely afiiicted with an untemperamental husband and prenatally influenced children !" What we cannot understand, is the want of proper pride in such persons. Every effect must have its cause, and there is an ever-increasing number of people who positvvelv t<^1\\^^ \o \sNaJax\ft.% 202 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. that come into life. Beginning with themselves, they can clearly trace back the present evil conditions in their own lives to some wrong thought or act in the past; and as evil, like good, either increases or diminishes, ihey understand why a thing perhaps slight in the begin- ning has brought in the end such an accumulation of woes. When one is thus unerringly just and unmerciful in judging one's self, one is not going to seek for palliating circum- stances for the interpretation of the cause of the misery in the lives cf others. The law works the same wav for all. One may admit that he wrought his own misery, if he be open ; or refrain from alluding to it, if he be proud. Not every one can stand up before the world and say: "Behold my misfortunes, which are the fruit of the seed I sowed!" Many, coming to the understanding of the unerring working of the law, remain silent, enduring the consequences of their doings with patience, while striving with undaunted will so to act now that their future may be free from such woe. Every time you unclose your lips in complaint, dear reader, you accuse your- self. If you have an untemperamental husband, you tell us that you did not exercise good judgment in making your choice of a life-partner, or you permitted passion to blind judgment. We should have far more respect for you if we saw you striving to harmonize your uncon- genial temperaments, or at least keep- ing silent about your foolishness. If we see you, dear sir, pointing to the chains that bind you to unpleasant environ- ments, we know that you forged tliem yourself, and were we ever so desirous, we cannot honestly join with you in your railings against God or destiny, nor your questioning as to why God should thus order your life, because we have learned from our own lives that "We are our own Fates; our deeds are our own doomsmen/' and you must not expect us to deal more leniently with you. All the prophets, poets, seers, up to the time of Christ, Christ Himself, and all the prophets, poets, seers since His day, have affirmed in various languages that as a man thinketh in his heart, so he is. If you show us inharmonious, unhappy, sinful conditions, we, instead of behold- ing in them the blindly-given blows of Fate or the unjustly administered pun- ishment of God, see your own inhar- monious, unhappy, sinful thoughts actu- alized, and while we pity you — for often what is reaped in knowledge was sown in ignorance — still we cannot blame God nor man; and we know that neither God nor man can help you while you persist in your present course of action. But if you will turn around, look your troubles in the face, recognize them to your own soul as the legitimate offspring* of your past thoughts and actions, and then resolutely vow to cast these eflPects out of your life by a new and higher line of thought — O my friend! if you will do this, then you will find God and man and the very forces of nature speeding to your assistance. Do this to-day! Say to yourself: ** Never again shall I bewail my lot to the ear of friend or stranger ! My pride will prevent me from thus proclaiming my past folly, and I shall strive to forget it. If I can destroy the wrong condi- tions that I have built around my life, I will do so : if not, I will tike my life out of these conditions. I can do this by right thinking, backed by a determined will." Do not postpone ! Begin to-day ! It is the noblest work to which you can bend your soul — this bringing to earth of tlu* Kingdom of Heaven. 3(e « * 4e 4( 4: While not particularlv observant of persons generally, I was instantly at- tracted by the woman, and I doubt if I shall soon forget the impression she made on me. It was at a public recep- tion where "Fair women and brave men" were decidedly in evidence. Among the crowd I beheld a woman of ample pro- THE GARDEN BENCH. 205 )ns. Her costume I do not recall he impression it left on memory is mething incongruous), all my at- ^n being absorbed by a display of lents that would not have de- ed a barbarian queen. Twisted id her neck and hanging over her a was a rope of jewels ; jewels J in her ears, in her hair, in the lace T gown, on her hands — in short 5ver there was place for a ring or there it was. Of course it was rivilege to wear all these gems, and " one, enter no objection against xercise of that privilege; what I )ject to was the explanation given :r exhibition by one of two men ing behind me. as she no sense ! — to make a jewel- how-window of herself!*' said one. II women would do likewise if thev :he means and were not afraid of ;ondemnation of Dame Fashion," lis companion. "She simply illus- \ woman's natural love of jewelry, 1 in her case is more powerful than >f what people will say." J hear that so often — "Woman's al love of jewelry !" Love of jew- is no more "natural" with woman with man. When we see a man a ring in his nose, rings in his ears, lets on his arms and ankles, and ^s of uncut gems hanging from his we know that the race to which man belongs has still its weary [1 toward civilization to make; we know that we shall not find such nentation on his women folk. As progresses, he casts ofl his decora- of gold and silver and precious s, until we find them reduced to a timepiece, a seal ring and a dia- l shirt-stud. As man began to learn K>lishness of such things and threw aside, woman picked them up; — tless she always admired them on erson of her lord and master, and 3y at being at length permitted to them may account for her having so long entertained a passion for them,, a passion which, you perceive, is not "natural" but acquired. We cannot fail to note that, as woman progresses intellectually and reaches out into the world of affairs, she, too, comes to see the artistic value of plain attire and drops her superfluous ornamenta- tion. The business woman, the profes- sional woman, the journalistic, the liter- ary and artistic woman, never startles an assembly by a barbaric display 6f orna- ments, and we generally find her stock of jewelry reduced to that of the man who dresses in good taste. And women in general wear fewer ornaments when they dress in good taste. But why, it may be asked, is woman's possession of precious stones so fabu- lous, as was recently shown by an east- ern magazine? Usually jewelry is man's gift to woman. Forbidden by his acquired good taste and the stem dic- tates of civilization to bedeck himself after the fashion of his barbarous grand- sire, he indulges the remnant of his an- cestral taste for it by lavishing it upon woman. It rests, therefore, with woman utterly to destroy this heritage from a past period of degradation by declining such gifts. If her father or husband wish to express his love in costly gifts, let her ask that the money expended in a bauble be given to her; then, with it let her go to her husband's factory or mine, where are jewels of priceless worth for her to purchase. Let her bring back life to the consumptive girl by sending her West; let her restore energy and courage to the broken-spirited father by purchasing for him a little cottage in the country, where he and his children may have their share of God's fresh air and sunshine; let her give another Marconi or Emerson to her country by taking the bright, ambitious boy from the treadmill of toil and aflFording him, through educa- tion,an opportunity to develop his genius. O woman ! who can do so icvucVv^ \vyH very little you ^iie Ao\tv^\ Current Comment Catholic Investment in Catliollc Education The Pilot When Catholics read of John D. Rockefeller's gift of $10,000,000 to the general education board of New York State; of the $3,660,000 announced in gifts to Harvard at the commencement attended recently by President Roose- velt; and of the still earlier gift, this season, of three hundred and thirty-six acres of ground to Princeton University, with a $300,000 hall to the same institu- tion, and an addition of $100,000 to its annual income, the first sensation is of discouragement. Though we are at least one-third of the professing Christians of the country, we are in much smaller pro- portion to the total population, and pro- portionately, our millionaires, — to say nothing of our multi-millionaires — are few and far between. Yet, when we realize that, for con- science' sake, the Catholic people of the country are educating more than a mil- lion children in our Catholic public schools, at a saving of about $20,000,000 a year to the general tax-payers, our courage and self-respect revive. Here is an investment from the dollars of the wage-earners surpassing the gifts of Rockfeller and the friends of Harvard and Princeton combined : and from the standpoint of religious and patriotic sac- rifice, it means vastly more to humanity. Rockefeller can be conscious of no per-- sonal deprivation in his ^ift of $10,000.- 000, for his fortune has grown within the past twenty-five years to $300,000,000. and his donation is. after all, a small return to the people out of whose neces- sities he has made his fortune. We have no Carnegie to give another $10,000,000 for teachers' pensions ; but we have our Religious Orders whose members give their services lifelong, asking but food and raiment and shelter. If the worth of the work of these culti- vated men and women were estimated, even on the basis of the modest main- tenance of the great army of secular teachers, it would far surpass this pen- sion fund. When it comes to the higher educa- tion and the wealthier Catholics, we have but to look at the detailed report of the rector of the Catholic University of America, the Rt. Rev. Mgr. D. J. O'Connell, to see that these, as a rule, are in the mind of the Church and helpful to all her interests. The University has within a year got firmly on its feet again after the staggering blow of the Wagga- man failure; and there is hope that much if not all that was lost thereby may be eventually recovered. Here it would be ungrateful not to mention the non- Catholics who contributed to Cardinal Gibbons' private fund — headed with $11,000 from himself, — among them John Pierpont Morgan, $10,000; Sen- ator Aldrich of Rhode Island, $2500; Senators George P. Wetmore of Rhode Island, Winthrop M. Crane of Massa- chusetts. John F. Dryden of New Jer- sey, and the Vice-President of the United States. Charles W. Fairbanks, each of whom contributed $1000. A review of the commencements of our colleges and academies this season sh(nvs a gratifying increase in founda- tions of scholarships, medals, etc. Mrs. Thomas F. Ryan has herself founded a seminary for the Fathers of the Blessed Sacrament. New York ; and a year ago, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas O'Connor of San Francisco endowed Trinity College at Washington with an art gallery worth $50,000. * * * Despite the still unprovided need, which has drawn out from the Rev. CURRENT COMMENT. 205 N. J. McKinnon, S. J., of New York, an urgent plea, endorsed by Archbishop Farley, to clergy and laity for an in- crease in secondary schools for Catholic youth, the heart of the bulk of our peo- ple is sound on the education question ; and in this is our vitality and certainty of the future. ^ CofTBiit Literature The Providence Yisitor Of important significance in the lists of books which are offered for sale by the different publishing houses of the coun- try is the surplus of unorthodox works that are held out at tempting prices to the prospective buyer, and the absence of books which have been written by greac scientists to offset the evil done to the world at large by speculations regarding the origin and destiny of the world, the immortality of man, and the imputability of human actions. The writings of such men as Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, Kant, Fichte and Hegel are exposed first and last by persistent agents in their rounds through the country; and these agents open their eyes in astonishment if asked for a volume of Mivart or Argyle. One of two reasons, or perhaps both, may be responsible for this deluge of in- tellectual poison. It may be that the publishers purposety aim to disseminate false doctrine and for that cause prepare the volumes in neat bindings for a small cost. Doubtless many publishers have no other end in view except, of course, that of making money. We know that only a few years ago one of the leading publishing houses of the country refused to print an impartial history of Catholic •dogma in a great enc)clopedia until forced to do so when the public declined to buy the work. The other reason for the wide-spread publication of dangerous books may be that there is a demand inr them on the part of the public. Unfortunately, when we consider the sale lists ue iearn that popular demand is not only a possible reason, but the real cause of the printing of bad books. There is a disposition in many people of believing anything against the convic- tions of men in general. These people have cultivated the habit of arraying themselves "against the government" under all circumstances. To hear them talk one would imagine that there were no "ideas" in the world until they vouch- safed to inflict their existence upon it. Whatever is immoral, that supplies them with material to argue against the settled beliefs of their friends and acquaintances, that makes them imagine their contem- poraries regard them in the light of supe- rior beings because they differ in opin- ion from everybody else, they seize upon as if they had fallen upon a treasure. They wade through the pages of worth- less tracts until thev have learned the definitions of a few terms, never heard of before, with which they straightway enrich their own volubility. And armed with these deadly weapons, they consider themselves the real deliverers of the hu- man race. Let us cry a halt to these deluded vic- tims of their own conceit. Why not tell them — the man who is able, that he has forgot more about philosophy than these people ever knew, and the man who is not equal to the task, that he prefers to accept the opinions of those who under- stand what they are talking about when they discuss the great problems of life? Dishonesty and Anarchy Iiitor-Ocean All the lies which professional anarch- ists tell about the cruelty of rich men in acquiring their riches — all the lies which they circulate about oppression of the poor by the government — have proved futile in this country. They have been futile because thev have been lies, or malignant perversions of small and unimportanl \.tv\x\\%. "fexxx ^V^yv t^^-^^^ 2o6 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. of society are exposed as brittle to the core — when men whom the people have widely trusted with their fortunes and the future of their famiHes, and have believed in as models of probity and honor, are found to be but whited sepulchres, — then anarchy really gains converts, and the institutions of civiliza- tion are menaced. The revelations in the Equitable scan- dal are making more anarchists to-day than all the anarchist speeches made and literature published in this country in twenty years. They have brought fear and hate into tens of thousands of re- spectable households. They have so shattered confidence in human honesty and decency that tens of thousands of men are driven to the delusion that everything that is, is wrong. And that is the beginning of anarchy. Catholics in Non-Catholic Boarding-Schools London Tablet At the recent conference of Catholic headmasters, held at Stonyhurst, June 7, the following resolution was passed unanimouslv : The members of the Conference of Catholic colleges, assembled in their an- nual meeting at Stonyhurst, beg respect- fully to call the serious attention of their lordships, the Hisho])s of England, to the great increase in the number of Cath- olics attending non-Catholic secondary schools, and suggest that their lordships alone can awake the Catholic bodv to the grave injury to the Church in this countrv which is likelv to result if this course be allowed unchecked. The resolution was dulv forwarded to His Grace, the Archbishop, who has sent the following reply : 'To the Rt. Rev. Mgr. Ward, President of the Conference of Catholic Col- leges : "My Dear President: — I have re- ceived with much concern the resolu- tion oi your conference, bringing to the notice of the Bishops the fact that there is a growing tendency among some Catholics to place their boys in non- Catholic boarding-schools. I will bring the resolution to the notice of the Bishops at the earliest opportunity ; but as we shall not meet for son^e time, and the matter is so serious, it is well that I should at once express my own view, knowing that it will be shared by all my colleagues. **Those who act in the way you deplore must be doing so in ignorance or forget- fulness of the fundamental principles of Catholic teaching and tiadition, which they are violating. The responsibility for the education of children is a parental one, and the most important part of that education is the cultivation of the moral and religious faculties. When parents find themselves unable to give at home the training which their children need, and are obliged to commit them to the care of others, who will take their parental place, they may so commit them only to those who can undertake this religious and moral education in all its hearings. In other words, if a boy is to he removed during his most impression- able years from the Catholic influence of the Catholic home, he has a right — a right no parent can deny or justly refuse — to be placed where that same Catholic influence shall still prevail. A non- Catholic school is certainly not a centre of such influence, or in anv sense a suit- able home for a Catholic boy. Those who forget this parental duty are inflict- ing upon their children a grievous wrong. "But their own children are not the only sufferers, for such parents, by their influence and by their example, are cre- ating a precedent which others will surely follow, quieting their conscience, not by any reasoning, but simply by the fashion which has been set. "Lastly, a fatal blow is being struck by those of whom you speak at the whole CURRENT COMMENT. 207 work of Catholic education in this coun- try. For long years we have been strug- gling to provide Catholic schools from end to end of England tor the children of the poor, many of whom have made heroic sacrifices for the Catholic educa- tion of little ones. What will be the re- sult upon the public opinion of our peo- ple if it be known that those who have every advantage of this world set at naught the fundamental principles for which so many have fought and denied themselves, and this with none of the ex- cuse that others might have to put forth ? "I trust that all Catholics will steadily withstand the tendency to which you have called the attention of the Bishops, and prevent a most dangerous practice and a false public opinion from gaining any strength among us. "Believe me, my dear president, your devoted servant in Jesus Christ, "X. Francis, "Archbishop of Westminster." Reading The Republic It is not necessary that many books be read. The most experienced teachers discourage the reading of too many books. Unless your reading develops your powers of thought it is a waste of precious time. St. Thomas Aquinas made it a practice to read for a while and then, covering his head with his cowl, he would reflect. After that he contin- ued his reading. The eflPect of this practice was to make him one of the most acute and accurate thinkers that has appeared in the world's history. Hastily devouring vast quantities of mental food leads to a form of dyspepsia. There are those who read widely but not well. They attain the possession of many facts, but they do not collate them nor see the links that connect them. Only those minds that o'ertop the world like a Colossus can bear the bur- den o# much miscellaneous reading. It is said that Lord Rosebtry is the best- read man in England, that his reading extends through whole libraries. Glad- stone was an omnivorous reader. So was the Earl of Beaconsfield. The man who has been educated on the rubbish of the Sunday magazine sec- tion, with its vacuity, flippancy, and sensationalism, cannot be very strong in- tellectually. The reader who follows carefullv the weekly journal that is Catholic, sane, well written, illuminatively ethical, is in a much better position than the man who takes a morning plunge into the daily paper. Qnly the other day, a well-known clergyman told us that he finds difficulty in arousing his parishioners to the value of the Catholic press. Yet those same people wonder why they are so weak in argument when the Catholic Faith is attacked, and why they are at a loss how to proceed when they are referred to as the "mere Irish." Defective Education The Ave Maria Not so many years ago, it was a gen- eral belief, at least among non-Catholics, that education would free the country from crime; and upholders of the little red schoolhouse confidently looked for- ward to a new Utopia where the greatest perfection would reign. It was this chimerical notion which led to the ban- ishment of religion from the public schools. Its necessity was denied. Ex- perience has abundantly proved mean- time that education as a factor in sup- pressing crime, and in uplifting criminals or those criminally inclined, has been a dismal failure. It has been found, more- over, that education, by contributing to the adroitness of the evil-doer and helping him to carry out his intentions, has actually served as a stimulus to crimes from which our country, half a century ago, was covcv^^'^^Xxn^V^ ^\^^. Not only Yvais \.\ve wwrcfe^x oWsax^^^^^ 208 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. criminals increased, but college jjradii- ates are now included among the most ardent defenders of every public abuse. It was no surprise, therefore, to learn that Prof. James, of Harvard, a noted psychologist, has abandoned the hopes once so fondly cherished. In a recent lecture at the University of Chicago, he said : "Fifty years ago schools were sup- posed to free us from crimes and un- happiness. We do not indulge in those sanguine hopes now. The intellect is a servant of the passions, c«nd sometimes education only serves to make men more adroit in carrying out evil intentions. This is shown to be true on every hand.'' We have often remarked that a change of policy and practice in regard to pop- ular education is only a question of time. It is a satisfaction to feel that when the school question does come up for set- tlement, it will be settled right. Men like Prof. James have done much to spread the conviction that the only kind of education calculated to purify morals and to restrain evil passions is that of the heart and soul. As Others See Us ThcNi'W World Not long ago The New World heard a young man who claimed to be a Cath- olic, severely arraigning the Church be- cause, he declared, she always sided with the rich and against every effort made by the people to free themselves. In this coimtry, he asserted, she is fol- lowing the same course. Incjuiry devel- oped the fact that he had been attending Socialist meetings — hence his new inter- pretation of history. Nowadavs, one mav find others like him — young men who go out to hear Haggerty, Dugan, Debs & Company. A writer in l^verybody's Magazine, how- ever, sees things a little more justly. He savs : "I am not a Roman Catholic, but I venture the assertion, without fear of successful contradiction, that the Roman Catholic Church is the only Church in the land into which a poor, raggedy friendless man may go and feel that he is welcome. So far as ot\tward appear- ances go, all are on the same plane in this Church, whether prince or pauper. This is one reason why this great Church has such a hold on the masses of the people, for it has always stood for the people against her oppressors." Lecky, the Rationalist, says pretty much the same thing, and so do Mait- land, Milman. Buckle, Green, Guizot and a dozen more. It is queer one has to quote the natural enemies of the Church against people who claim to be- long to her household. It is a fact, how- ever, that some fair minds outside can see more good in her than can be seen by conceited flawpickers within. Where Are the Foreign Qntften Catholic Uniou and Times It is just a trifle surprising that one scarce ever sees the name of a foreigner among those who are accused of corrup- tion in affairs municipal.* The patriotic American appears to stand alone and su])reme as a grafter. The Philadelphia Press commenting on tb.e subject, says: **ln considering the political condition of l'hila(iel])hia. with its great prepon- (lenince of native ])0])ulation, it does not appocir that nnich of the blame for it can be put uj)i)n the foreigners. The boo- dlers and grafters. tlie respectable corpor- vx'uMx nian.igcrs who do not scruple to Ci^rrnj-t tlio mun:ci])al legislature to at- tain tlicir ends, are nearly all "native and to the manner born." Jt may be l)ecause tnir foreign brothers have not learned our peculiar civilizing methods along governmental lines. Ere they do become cognizant of the wiles of the corruptionist let us hope the graft- ers will all be doing time behind prison bars. For. the Boys and Girls n LEGEND eP THE CReSS Br M. F. N. ft. Cosrlioes, King of the Persians, was a ^eat and mighty lord and his kingdom extended far and wide; but the lust of conquest was in his breast, and he came even unto Jerusalem, carrying away that piece of the true Cross left there by St. Helena. Pride eatered into him and he desired to be worshipped by all men as a God ; so he built a high tower of gold and silver set with wondrous gems, and within he placed images of the sun and stars ; he made slender water-courses to imitate rain, and in the deep cavern be- neath he kept horses drawing mighty chariots, that men might think it thun- dered. Permitting his son to rule the king- dom in his stead, he shut himself within the tower, the Cross of our Lord beside him, and demanded that all men should worship him as King of Kings and Lord of Lords. The Christian Emperor. Heraclius, heard of these wicked doings and with a vast army he came to the River Danube to war against Cosrhoes (or the recov- ery of the Hoi/ Cross. After the manner of the day, it was agreed that the two Princes should fight in single combat for the possession of the holy relic and that the victor should be the ruler of the land. If any man in- terfered in the combat, his arms and legs should be chopped off and his body thrown into the river. Heraclius. having confessed himself and received the Blessed Sacrament, praying devoutly, went to the combat with a stout heart, and having fought long and bitterly he at last overcame the son of Cosrhoes, who fell dead, and im- mediately the whole Persian army be- lieved and were baptized. \o one desired to acquaint Cosrhoes with the news, because he was a cruel man and easily angered, so Heraclius said: "I am in no ways afraid of this wicked and presumptuous man, and I shall as- cend into his evil tower and bring him to justice," so, entering the tower, he found Cosrhoes seated upon his golden throne. "Who art thou?" he demanded of Heraclius. "I am Heraclius, who by the help of the one ttv\e Goi \va.& sX^vu "^QNi.^ ^»^ ■4.'^*i. 2IO THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. conquered your kingdom. Inasmuch as you have honored the Cross of Christ after vour own fashion, vour life will be spared, and your kingdom you may re- tain provided only that you receive baptism. If not, then prepare to die by the sword." '*Know, oh, boastful one/' cried Cosr- hoes in great indignation, "that I will never be baptized." So Heraclius slew him, but because he had been of royal birth and because he had preserved the true Cross, he gave him decent burial. The son of Cosrhoes, a child of ten years, Heraclius baptized and gave the king- dom of his father. Destroying the tower, he divided among his soldiers the silver and gold, but the gems he pre- sented to such churches as had been de- stroyed or injured by the tyrant. Then Heraclius returned to the Holv City, bearing with him the relic of the true Cross. In magnificent altire of purple and gold, mounted upon a white charger all caparisoned in rich array, he sought to enter that gate of the city through which Our Lord had . passed, but the stones of the gate rose up and closed thmselves together like a wall and he could not enter. And lo ! there ap- peared in the sky the angel of the Lord and the sign of the cross in flaming light. **Ileraclius !" he spoke in low, reprov- ing tones. **Is it meet that thou shouldst enter in all the panoply of regal state and pomp, where passed thy Lord seated upon an humble ass?" Then did the Emperor weep aloud ; and alighting from his steed, he flung off his robes, and barefoot, stripped to his shirt, he bore the Cn.)ss of Christ upon his shoulders like the meanest servant, to enter the gate. And innnediately the gate was opened to him by invisible hands, and bearing the Cross, from which there came a delicate odor which re- /rcsJicd all with its swctXntsSf Heraclius entered, and a voice said: "Not to the great nor to kings, but the meek and lowly and humble of heart comes the Lord Christ." And thus was the blessed Cross re- stored to the Holy City and by it were done many miracles: the lame walked, lepers were cleansed and the blind re- ceived their sight. PETER THE MISER By M. P. N. R. There was once, many years ago, a miser named Peter, very rich but so stingy that he scarce would give a crust of bread to the beggar at the door. Everybody knew this and so when two beggars stood together one day, one laughed to the other, saying: "I wager that you cannot get an alms out of Stingy Peter." **ril take your wager," said the other and he stationed himself at Peter's door. Hefore long Peter returned, and the beggar began to whine out his story, plucking the rich man by the sleeve and urging him so that Peter told him : **Ilegone!" "Never will I leave von until I obtain a bit of bread," he answered. At that moment a servant passed through carry- ing a tray of bread, and Peter, furious, snatchotl a loaf and threw it at the beg- gar, striking him in the face. "Thank you," cried the beggaV, run- ning off with the bread, delighted to have won his wager. That night Peter slept and dreamed that he was led to the judgment seat of Ciod. At one side was a host of angels, silvery white and beautiful ; at the other a troop of devils, black and terrible. And the angels sought eagerly to sec if there was any ^ood in Peter's life, while the devils stood eagerly waiting to bear him to hell. FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. 211 And one angel said to another : "Have we no part nor lot in this man ?" and the other replied: "Verily, we have studied long the book of judgment, and we find in all his life no generous deed, save that once he gave a loaf of bread to one of God's poor, but that unwillingly, and with no kind word to turn his g^ft to s:oid." "Take thou the loaf and see which tips the scale, the good or bad," was the command ; and so the angel did, and lo I the bread weighed down the scale so that it barely balanced, yet still the evil of the man's life weighed heavy. Then the Angel of Judgment spoke in grave, sad tones, and his look went through Peter like a knife. "Go, add to this loaf more alms, thou stingy soul, for if thou dost not, be very sure that these black demons shall some day lead thee to the depths of their black pit." Waking, trembling and afraid, Peter said that the vision was of God, and from that time on he became a changed man, humble, pitiful and generous, giving in alms all he possessed, and at the last sell- ing himself that he might g^ve the price to rescue a poor slave for the love of Christ. HOW ARTHDR WENT TO THE By Mary P. Nlzon-Roulct Baby Arthur had the measles. His dear Httle face, .usually so pink and white and dimpled, was so speckled that his father teasingly called him a "little flea- bitten roan." His sunny temper was speckled, too, but the speckles on that were black as ink and the whole family was desperate. Three years old, Arthur was usually such a jolly chap that you had to smile just to look at him, but the poor little fellow was very uncomfort- able. His skin smarted, his eyes burned, he was hot and feverish, and had to be all covered up in bed while his brother Tom was out enjoying himself. So he felt very much injured that he couldn't go out and no one could please him. Mother had sung him every song she could think of. Aunty May had cut lovely pictures out of the magazines, sister had played with him by the hour; but he was tired of all these things and all the family were tired of trying to find something new. Then Tom came in, all fresh and bright from his fun in the beautiful, bright out-doors, and ten-year-old Tom was Arthur's idol. "What's the matter. Bub?" Tom's voice was cheery, and his round, freckled face seemed to shed rays of sunshine all around the darkened room. "Nothing to do? Poor little chap! Let's see, I know a jolly play. You hold on a min- ute and ril fix you fine as a fiddle." Out he went and came back in a minute with his mother's big Japan tray. **Here you are," he cried, one hand in his pocket rattling something which sounded quite exciting. "Now, then! Turn your tray upside down. See that groove around the edge? That's a race track and these are the horses." He pulled a handful of marbles out of his pocket where they had kept company with string, nails, pencils, bits of iron, and many other interesting things. "Now, start your horses around the track. Get up, horses!'* The marbles rolled around the edge of the tray and Arthur squealed with delight. "I bet on the red one — there he's catching up — no, the white's ahead! Hurrah for Snowball ! Now, Midnight's ahead. Now, then, boy, how's that for something to play with ?" Little Arthur was delighted and played all afternoon with the new toy, thinking he had tVv^ Yv\c^^\.\i\^\i\^*^^\ *vet all the woxXd. 212 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. THINGS THAT LITTLE POLKS DO By M. F. N. R. Antoinette is four vears old, and everv morning, as soon as breakfast is over, she puts away her shppers and night- cloihes, and then she dusts all the "low- down things," in the library — that is, the chair-rounds, window-sills, the chil- dren's chairs, their tov-chest, and everv- thing she can reach. Paul is onlv two vears old, but he al- ways brings father's slippers and puts awav his boots when he comes home tired. Pepita is five, but she picks nosegays of violets and pansies from the lovely garden of her Spanish home, and sells them to the travellers who come there to see the wonderful churches and castles of her sunny Spain. Anita is twelve, and she makes doilies of beautiful drawn-work — taught by the nuns in the school which she attends, and which nestles at the foot of the Mex- ican hills. Guiseppi is ten, and every day he drives the old donkev to the market, 9 where are sold the cabbages and arti- chokes which grow in his father's Italian garden. Jean Marie is a little French lad in fair Brittainy, and he brings fresh fish from the shore everv dav — fish which his father has caught by night — to good Madame Bourblaise at the inn where lodge the American and English artists. Henri is Swiss, nine years old, and he lives at beautiful Chamonix, in the shadow of Mont Blanc. He keeps his herd of mountain goats nibbling the grass in safe places, and often Colotte, his little sister of seven, goes with him to the pasture and gathers blue gentian, snowy edelweiss, and woods from which her father carves beautiful things. Ah Win, dear little Chinese boy, eight years old, paddles on bis wooden shoes around the rice fields, helping his father keep the birds from the rice. Cherry Blossom, black-eyed Japanese maiden of six. plucks an iris from the radiant fields of Horikiri and, putting fresh, damp sand in the woven straw basket upon the wall, places in it her flower, and makes the room of her quaint home fragrant and sweet. THE STORY OP eONRAD By M. F. N. R. Conrad was a German noble who lived in a beautiful castle in Thuringia, and his great amusement was hunting. One day while chasing a fine deer, the ani- mal took refuge in a heap of brushwood and would not come out. The Thur- ingian lord grew angry, and cried to his attendants : '*Go, knaves, and fire that brush to drive that creature out!" "But, mv lord — " said one of the men, fearing the fire might spread; but Conrad would not listen, and in- sisted upon the fire being kindled. The wind was very strong and blew in the direction of some ripe corn-fields, which took fire, and from them the fire spread into the neighboring meadows, destroy- ing all in its path. Conrad had rushed on to the hunt, thinking little of the evil which his carelessness had wrought, and it was some time before the magis- trates were able to put out the flames. A peasant, gathering wood in the vicin- ity, was charged with the starting of the fire and was condemned to death. Con- rad's servant, hearing of the affair in the village, related it to his master, who, shocked at his carelessness, rushed to prevent the execution. The innocent man was saved, but Conrad was required to pay the full value of all that had been destroyed. To do this he had to sell his property, and gW^ u^ ^n^yv Vv\^ vivfe'a; FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. - 213 dowry, which made them both pen- niless. It was fortunate for Conrad that his ■wile was one attuned to holiness and piety for, instead of complaining of her lot, she said to him : "See, my dear Lord, now we have the way of learning that God is the only good. He has taken all from us but Himself; let us. then, turn to Him. Permit me to relieve you of any anx- iety about myself by retiring to the con- vent of the Poor Clares, that I may there pray for your welfare." Much aflected, Conrad bade his wits farewell, went upon a long pilgrim- age, and assumed the habit of.St. Francis under the guidance of some holy hermits. From then until he died he led a life of penance and prayer, sleeping upon the ground, with a stone for a pillow, eating only bread and raw herbs. He dwelt for thirty-sik years in solitude, growing so in holiness that people came for miles to seek his advice and benediction. The last years of his life were spent in a tiny hermitage in Pizzoni, Sicily, and his death was attended by angel bands who bore his soul to heaven. WHEN MOTHER'S ILL 8y Ckarlu Haiuon Towne Things all go wrong when mother's ill ! The house seems strange and sad and still. I come from school at three o'clock. Rush in the door without a knock, And Jane stands in the hallway still And says, "Hush! Bob, your mother's ill!' It seems so odd indeed to me That mother dear should ever be As ill as I have sometimes been — Dear me ! it almost seems a sin ! I need her so the whole day long, And when she's ill things are so wrong! When mother's ill, although the day Is fine, I do not care to play ; And when Jane says it's time to dine, .\t table I just peek and pine. And I'm more glad than I can tell When mother once again is well ! f -♦» » It Jt Ik. Confraternity or the Rosary ROSARY MISCELLANY. I. Ill Rosarians no doubt feel a thrill of joy in witnessing or taking part in the monthly Ro- sary processions. These public •demonstrations of affection speak elo- quently of the efficacy of the best loved of devotions to Mary. Gelenius, the his- torian of Cologne, tells us that, when in 1474 the Emperor Charles beseiged the city, the inhabitants flocked to the prior of the Dominican convent, Father Springer, seeking advice. He, after two days of prayer and consideration, preached a sermon in which he asked all to join the Rosary Confraternity after they had made a public procession through the streets of the city. Point- ing to an image of the Rosary Queen, "he assured them that there protection was surely to be found. And so it proved. Emperor Frederic III, in thanksgiving for his victory over Charles, begged to be enrolled in the Confraternity. September 8th was set aside for hjs solemn attestation of Mary's "help. The great procession was com- posed of more than eighty barons, all the dukes of Germany, the royal family, scores of Bishops and Archbishops, and the papal legate, Alexander. After Mass was celebrated by the legate, the Emperor and his consort, EVeanora, and all the nobles, in turn, registered their names in the Confraternity record. From that day Rosary processions in Germany were of common occurrence. IL Art has always loved to represent the Blessed Virgin and her Rosary. In Pom- merania a chalice veil was preserved until within a hundred years ago, on which was embroidered an image ot Mary surrounded by the Rosary. The Protestants refused to surrender this work of art at the time of the Reforma- tion, and clung to it until it disappeared late in the eighteenth century. ■ III. Michael Francisci, a Dominican pro- fessor at Cologne, informs us that the membership of the Confraternity in that city was increased by fifty thousand names in one year. After five years the number was more than five hundred thousand. Germany, to-day, is again showing splendid fidelity to Mary. At Dusseldorf alone, the Confraternity reg- ister contains upwards of forty thousand names. This is surely encouraging and consoling after the long war waged on the Church in that country. IV. About nine hours' walk from Milan, in the rolling country between Lake Como and Lake Lugano, stands the famous '*HoIy Hill of Varese," one of the most frequented shrines of Italy. On a hill stand five beautiful chapels, each of which is surrounded by marble colonnades high enough for a mounted rider 'to pass through. These chapels contain representations of the mysteries of the Rosary, made of variously colored clay and baked like tile. This colossal Rosary in stone was done by the Capu- chin, John Baptist da Monza of the fam- ily of Aguggiari, and tradition credits it to tlie generosity of the Borromeo family. In his infamous ^Table Talk," Luther recounts a legend of a Carthusian who had one day neglected to say his beads. Falling into the hands of banditti, he was about to be killed. In this sore plight he took refuge in the Rosary, and was protected from the fury of the high- waymen by a comely woman who mys- CONFRATERNITY OF THE ROSARY. 215 teriously appeared. The arch-heretic cited th€ story solely to ridicule the Church and her practices. But his Satanic malice and coarse humor could not destroy the German people's deep devotion to the Rosary Queen. THE ASSUMPTION. From a sermon by St. John Dam- ascene : "Eve, who consented to the suggestion of the serpent, was punished by disease and death. Mary, who gave ear to the word of God, was filled with the Holy Ghost, and at the spiritual salutation of an archangel, although she knew not man, conceived the Son of God * * * and consecrated herself to God — how could death conquer her? Could hell receive her? Could corruption destroy that body which had sheltered Life itself? For her is prepared a way, smooth and easy, to the gates of Heaven." THE FIR^T ROSARIAN. On August 4th the Church celebrates the feast of St. Dominic, the first Ro- sarian. This should be a day of special devotion, not only to every Dominican and friend of the Order, but to every client of Mary as well, for it is the feast day of the Saint to whom God's Mother revealed the Rosary. It is difficult for us now to appreciate the position of heretics in the Middle Ages. The Albigenses, for instance, who flourished in Southern France during the first part of the thirteenth century, worked for the destruction of the Church and the subversion of civil government, even as the anarchists of our own day. To reconcile men who have been sons of the Church, but whom passion or prej- udice has separated from Christian unity, is always a most difficult matter. The Albigenses knew Catholic doctrine, but persisted in their heresy partly through pride, partly through sensuality and a mistaken patrioti5/77. It was in the midst of his fatiguing and disheartening labors among these wretched people that St. Dominic received from Heaven's Queen the powerful weapon which brought him victory. Many were converted, and the heresy was eventually entirely extirpated. And may it not have been through the Rosary that St. Dominic received the in- spiration to plan and the grace to ac- complish the foundation of the Order of Friars Preachers? The victories of the Rosary are famil- iar to every Rosarian. That of Le- panto — when the Turks were vanquished and driven from Europe — is, doubtless, the most striking and glorious. But passing over these greater things, what Rosarian, what Catholic is there who can not achieve many victories of the Rosary in his own life?' How often have not Mary's beads comforted us in sorrow, strengthened us in weakness, counseled us in perplexity and filled our hearts with holy joy; raising us out of ourselves, above the trials and discour- agements of life, into the sunshine of God's peace and love ? Would it be too much to ask every Rosarian to receive Holy Communion once during this month in thanksgiving for that gift which St. Dominic and his sons have spread throughout Christen- dom—the Holy Rosary. INDULGENCES FOR AUGUST. August 4 — Feast of St. Dominic: Plenary indulgence for all the faithful on the usual conditions of confession, com- munion and prayers for the Pope's in- tention in Rosary chapel. August 6 — First Sunday of the month : Plenary indulgence; confession, com- munion, prayers for the Pope and attend- ance at Rosary procession. August 15 — Assumption: Plenary in- dulgence ; conditions as on August 4th. August 30 — Feast of St. Rose of Lima : Plenary indulgence as on Aug- ust 4lh. With The E^ditor. The special glory of August is the beautiful feast of our Lady's Assump- tion, one of the greatest feasts which the Church celebrates in honor of Marv Immaculate. Assuredly her lifting up. the assumption into heaven of her pure and stainless soul and bod v, was a worth v climax to her blessed earthly life, a fitting crown of all the "great things" which God had done for her. Although the Assumption of the J]le>sed \'irgin is not a defined dogma of the Church, it is universally accepted and believed by Catholics. The doctrine of the As- sumption is founded in strongest reason and is supported by the uniform and constant tradition of the Church. That Mary, the sinless one — preserved by anticipation of Christ's infinite merits, immaculate even in her concei)tion, and \vho alone was found worthy to become God's Mother — should suffer the conse- quences of death, is repugnant at once to reason and to every Catholic instinct. Clients of Mary, and Rosarians especially, should honor their Queen in her glori- ous Assumption, and beg of her, their sweet and powerful advocate, all graces and particularly those of purity and hatred of sin. Elsewhere in this number we publish the reply of His Grace, the Archbishop of Westminster, to the resolutions of the Conference of Catholic Colleges sub- mitted to him by the president of that bodv. There is matter for serious thought both in the resolutions them- selves and in the Archbishop's response. The dangers alluded to are undeniably present in America, and are no less grave and alarming here than in England. It is, unfortunately, a fact that many Cath- olic parents send their children to non- CathoVic boarding-schools and colleges. believing that in so doing they are not only not wronging them but really fur- thering their best interests. But these parents are pitiably short-sighted, and their logic is as weak as their faith. Thev contend — and this in the face oi the most abundant and conclu- sive proof to the contrary — that such schools are more efficient than Catholic schools. Thev contend further, and persistently, that non-Catholic col- leges, with honorable name and worthy record — such as Yale or Harvard — invest their graduates with certain qualities of distinction and superiority that no Cath- olic college whatever can possibly con- fer, and that the diploma of such insti- tutions is a ready passport into the realms of earthly success. But even if this were true — which it is not — the fact should not be forgotten that there are more important and higher things in this world than mere temporal achievement and success; and it should be remem- bered, further, and never for a moment lost sight of, that God's Kingdom should first be sought, and that the possession of the whole world profiteth a man nothing if he suffer the loss of his immortal soul. And yet there are Catholic parents who, turning a deaf ear to the Church and her authority, deliberately jeopardize the faith of their sons and daughters, or sell their priceless birthright for a mess of pottage ! Terrible, indeed, shall be their arraignment and judgment when called before the bar of Internal Justice to ren- der an account of their stewardship, and to answer for the souls committed to their charge. The frequency and the character of '*accidents" nowadavs in our navv. in the operation of railways, steamship lines and corporate and private business T •■ WITH THE EDITOR. 217 enterprises, make it clearly evident to even the casual observer that human life to-day is lightly regarded, and ap- praised, in certain quarters, at a value disgracefully cheap. We read almost daily of some appalling catastrophe — the burning or sinking of an excursion boat, the blowing up of a man-of-war by the explosion of a defective boiler, the burning of a theatre or hotel, the wreck of a mine by exploding gas, the demoli- tion of a flying express train. Investi- gations more or less "rigid" are reg- ularly instituted after these frightful dis- asters with a view to discovering their exact causes, fixing the responsibility and punishing the offenders. But in the vast majority of cases the responsibility remains unfixed and no punishment is meted out to the guilty. It is true that accidents will happen in spite of the greatest care and keenest foresight ; but it is true also that most of the catastro- phies that shock the country and the world from time to time are avoidable. The fact is that the greed of employers and the negligence of the employed are largely responsible for the present con- ditions of things. Until employers ap- preciate their • duty and obligation to those in their service; until employees learn their duty to those for whom they^ labor; until men generally learn prac- tically the lessons of unselfishness and Christian charity, misfortune and suffer- ing and untimely death shall be the portion of many. On the fourth of this month we cele- brate the feast of the great St. Dominic, Founder of the Order of Preachers, the Order of Truth. St. Dominic it was who received from Heaven's Queen the Rosary, and made it known to the world. With good reason, therefore, may Mary's clients, and Rosarians especially, welcome the feast day of this servant of God, illustrious alike for his sanctity, learning and wisdom. The predom- inant virtues of St Dominic were charity and humility; these were the source, the foundation of his greatness — and without them no man can be truly great, truly Christ-like. Let Rosarians, Tertiaries, and all Christians, indeed, strive earnestly to acquire, and labor seriously to cultivate the virtues that shone so brilliantly in the soul of St. Dominic ; and, like him, let them imitate and love the Rosary Queen and conform themselves to the image and the likeness of the Master. Apologetic and half-hearted Cathohcs everywhere can learn a useful and im- pressive lesson in Christian etiquette from the Catholic King of Spain, now travelling in Europe. Entering Notre Dame recently, in company with Presi- dent Loubet, he reverently took holy water, made the Sign of the Cross, kissed the ring of the Cardinal, whom he hap- pened to meet, and otherwise conformed to correct Catholic usage. These were small things in themselves ; and the King's conduct on that occasion, in pres- ence of infidels and scoffers, is note- worthy only in so far as it affords a grat- ifying contrast to the attitude of not a few Catholics in humbler station, who seem at times to be positively ashamed of their faith and always indifferent as to its manifestation. The Catholic who would deny or conceal his faith for tem- poral gain, or through motives of shame or expediency, is worthy only of pity or contempt. At a time when the acceptance by pub- lic officials of substantial gifts from great corporations is so common, this from the Hon. Charles J. Bonaparte, Secre- tary of the Navy, declining tendered favors, is decidedly refreshing and hope- ful, and richly deserving of applause : "My declining to avail myself of the free passes sent me was not intended in any wise as a reflection either on the rail- roads, whose officers tendered me this courtesy, or otv oW\^x ^\3J^\v:. ^^'SjksiSaSs. 2l8 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. whose opinions on this subject may differ from mine. I recognize fully that many highly estimable and altogether upright men in public life can see no objection to the acceptance of free passes. I think otherwise, and, without criticising others, must act for myself on my own convic- tions. "I do not care to discuss the subject further, except to say that I have always thought it was wise and right for a pub- lic man in a government like ours to seek the approval of public opinion when it does not contradict the promptings of his own conscience, and I believe public opinion approves the course I have taken in this respect." The Pennsylvania Railroad Company has rendered a valuable service to the travelling public, and to the youth of the country, especially, by its ruling against the sale of trashy and sensational liter- ature on its trains and at all news-stands under its control. Wc can not with cer- taintv determine the motive of their rad- ical and sweeping order ; but we strongly suspect that considerations of self-interest largely inlluenced the com- pany in promulgating it. Railroad offi- cials understand perfectly well that many crimes against property and person are ins])ired by sensational detective stories and blood-curdling tales of villainy and human depravity, either real or imagin- ary ; they know that not a few train rob- beries and hold-ups are directly charge- able to them. The removal of these causes, therefore, is an efficient and prac- tical measure, even though it be not a complete remedy. It is to be sincerely hoped that other railroad companies — that all of them, indeed — ^will follow the example of the Pennsylvania in this mat- ter; it is to be ho(>ed, further, that all right-minded persons who have at heart the best interests of religion and home and country will oppose to the utmost of their ability the production and dissemination of the vile and mere- tricious and criminal "literature" in all its forms which so seriously menaces the moral and social well-being of our people. All true friends of honest toilers will rejoice that the Chicago strike has at last been settled, and they will feel no regret that it has been lost to the strikers. The failure of the strike, the sufferings and hardships and deaths occasioned by it, the startling revelations elicited by legal investigation — all these things and count- less other incidents of the bitter struggle will doubtless teach a much needed les- son to the rank and file of the hosts of labor, and open their eyes to the peculiar methods of professional labor agitators and leaders. It is high time that honest men and women who labor for their daily bread, realized that they are shamefully imposed upon by a crowd of criminal and inconij)etent and self-seeking "lead- ers." so-called. If the senseless and farcical strike just closed brings this in- disputable and notorious fact clearly home to the t<.>iling masses, it will not have been in vain. BOOKS DAUGHTERS OF THE FAITH; SERIOUS THOUGHTS FOR CATHOLIC WOMEN. By Eliza O'B. LummU. New York: Tbe Knickerbocker Press, 1905. pp. 155. A few years ago the organization known as the Daughters of the Faith was called into being by certain Cath- olic ladies of station for the sole object of offsetting the baneful influence which js beings exercised by the members of the u])j)er strata of s«>ciety — the Four Hun- dred, as tliev are called. Miss Lummis, the antlior nf the- manna! under present consideraticMi. was the first to conceive the idea of the organization, and has suc- ceeded in im])arting her enthusiasm to a goodly number of ladies of her class, and in order to awaken still greater interest in the organization she has put this little WITH THE EDITOR. 219 manual before the public. It is full of interesting and wholesoiTie reading, some of the chapters, notably the one on divorce, being particularly strong. A preamble, entitled, "A Few Words About the Daughters of the Faith," gives clearly and succinctly the object and aim of the organization. From it we quote the following : **The Society of Daughters of the Faith has received a new impetus through the Brief df Approbation lately received from the Holy Father, Pius X. His Holiness has given in this Brief a clear and definite expression of his wishes that Catholic women, not only in America, but throughout the world, may be led to assert more positively and unitedly the spirit and teachings of their faith in opposition to Naturalism, that is the underlying cause of widely prevalent social evils." OEORQB EA5TMO^f^: WANDERER. By Joha Law. Loadon: Bonis & Gates. New York: Benzis^er Bros., 1905. 8vo, pp. 243. $1.10 net. We have here a piece of fiction which is disappointing in several ways. First of all, it is a problem novel, but the finis is reached and the problem is still un- solved ; and, again, the march of events is brought to such a sudden close that the reader quite loses his breath by the shock of the abruptness, and he is left to speculate upon the probable outcome of some of the most important incidents of the story. All of which tends to lessen the value of the book, for it is not the office of a novelist to fill the mind of his reader with perplexing speculations as to the fate of his hero or heroine. Frank Stockton, a decade ago, agitated the minds of readers of summer fiction with the fate of his lady in the ever-interesting short story, "The Lady or the Tiger;" and when he put the full stop to the story he added a huge interrogation point, the answer to which could only come from one who had made exhaustive studies in psychology and who knew well that inexplicable mystery — a wo- man's heart. But evidently Stockton did all this with malice aforethought, and the quandary of the reader was the thing for the attainment of which he wrote the stoty. But when a writer writes upon a theme as important and serious as Socialism, one has the right to expect the inculcation of a beneficial lesson, and will hardly accept in lieu thereof gro- tesque situations and startling finales. George Eastmont, the hero of the non- descript creation, was a man of gentle lineage, who, strangely enough, had to learn by a series of harrowing misfor- tunes a lesson which most persons of his class seem to get by intuition — namely, that while to your sorrow you may jump over the lines that are drawn between the dasses, you can not obliterate these lines any more than you can bleach the swarthy skin of a Georgia cotton-picker by bringing your own fair complexion in dose proximity to his black one. The chief sin lies in the conception of the plot, for, regarded merely from a literary point of view, there is much to com- mend in the descriptions and dialogue; so that we truly believe the author would succeed well enough in ventures that are less ambitious. Let us hope that he may see this, for a small success is ever preferable to a huge failure. THE CHRISTIAN MAIDEN. Translated from the German of Rev. ilattheas Von Bremscheid Omiap, by a member of the Young Ladies' Sodality, Holy Trinity Church, Boston, Mass. Boston: Angel Guardian Press. 16mo, pp. 118. This valuable little work, so very pop- ular in the original German, should be eagerly welcomed by American girls. It is an excellent monitor for every Christian maiden, and will furnish edify- ing reading for moments of leisure. The booklet is handsomely bound in fteKvble morocco. HOW TO BBeOMB A ROSARIAN 1. Have your name enrolled by a priest authorized to receive you. — If the Confra- ternity be not established where you reside, jou may send your name to some church where it is established. Our readers may send their names to the Editor of Tub Ros- AMY, and he will enroll them. Be sure to give the baptismal name and the family name. 2. Have your beads blessed with the Do- minican blessing. — ^To accommodate those who may not have an opportunity of receiv- ing this blessing otherwise, the Editor of Tbi Rosa&y will bless all Beads sent to him, and will return them. Postage for this must be enclosed. 3. The fifteen decades must be said during the course of the week — from Sunday to Sunday. — These decades may be divided in any way found convenient, provided that at least one decade at a time be said. It is a pious practice of Rosarians to say five decades each day. HOW TO SAY THE ROSARY. In the usual "make up" of the Beads we ind one large bead and three smaller beads immediately following the crucifix or cross. It is a practice of some to recite on the cross the Apostles' Creed; on the large bead, an Our Father; and on the small beads, three Hail Marys. In reality they do not belong to the Rosary. They are merely a custom, but sot authorized by the Church. For simple- minded people who . ir.not medi.ate, a devout recitation is all that is asked. The method of saying the Rosary practised by the Do- minicans is as follows: In the name of the Father, etc. V. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. R. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb — ^Jesus. V. Thou, O Lord, wilt ooen my lips. R. And my tongue shall announce Ihy praise. V. Incline unto my aid, O God. R. O Lord, make haste to help me. Glory be to the Father, etc. Alleluia. (From Septuagesima to Easter, instead of Alleluia, say Praise be to Thee, O Lord, King of eternal glory.) Then announce either "the first part of the holy Rosary, the five joyful mysteries," or •*Uie second part of the holy Rosary, the Tivt sorrowful mysteries," or "the third part of the holy Rosary, the five glorious mysteries." Then the first mystery, "the Annunciation," etc., and "Our Father" once, "Hail Mary" ten times, "Glory be to the Father" once; in the meantime meditating on the mystery. After reciting five decades, the "Hail, holy Queen" is said, followed by V. Queen of the most holy Rosary, pray for us. R. That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ LET us PRAY. O God, whose only begotten Son, by His iffi^ dejith Mad reMurrection, lias purchased for us the rewards of eternal life, srant* beseech Thee, that meditating on these a _ teries of the most holy Rosary of the BlesM4' Virgin Mary, we may imitate what they con' tain and obtain what they promise. Throng the same Christ our Lord. Amen. It is not prescribed, but a pious castim assigns the different parts of the Rosary tm different days of the week, as follows: 1. The joyful mysteries are honored am Mondays and Thursdays throughout the and on all Sundays from the first of to the first of Lent. 2. The sorrowful mysteries are honored Tuesdays and Fridays throughout the and on the Sundays of Lent. 3.^ The glorious mysteries are honored Wednesdays and Saturdays throughout year, and on all Sundays from Easter to A4» vent .ROSARY INDULGENCES. 1. The usual conditions for gaining plc^ ary indulgences are Confession, Commmiiqa^ and prayers for the Pope's intentions, special work enjoined, such as a risit. Confession and Communion suffices for the indulgences during the week except for Rosary Sunday. In Calendar C C« means Confession and Communion. 2. Prayer: for intentions of the Ho|f Father, viz., the welfare of the Holy Stc; the spread of the Catholic faith; the ejitirpa tion of heresy; peace among nations. It it not necessary to mention these intentions fas detail. Five Our Fathers and Hail Maryg will suffice for the prayers. 3. On the first Sunday of every montl^ tl.ree plenary indulgences miy be gained bgr Rosarians. C, C, prayers. (a) By those vho visit a Rosar>' cliapeL (I; By those who are present a* the Ros- ary procession and make a distinct visit to the Rosary chapel. (c) By those who are present at the sition of the Blessed Sacrament (t. g.t Benediction), in a Confraternity cfatirch. 4. On any day chosen at will, a plenarr fas* duigence may be gained once each monUl bgr Rosarians who daily spend at least a qaaitw of an hour in meditation. C, C, prayer. 5. The many indulgences attaching to tlio recitation of the fifteen mysteries, may also be gained by Rosarians who celebrate or hear the privileged Rosary Mass, "Salvo Radix." 6. On the last Sunday of each month a plenary indulgence mav be gained by all the faithful who have been accustomed to saj five decades of the Beads three times a week in common, C C visit to church, prayers. 7. Many partial indulgences may be gained every day, for the recitation of the Rosary. 8. Many other indulgences may be gained on certain feast days. A list of these is pub- lished monthly in The Rosary. 9. All the indulgences of the Rosary arc applicable to the souls of the faithful de- parted. SEPTEMBER, 1905 ^£ ROSARY MAGAZINE r THE I^osARY Magazine PUBLISHED MOI^HLY BY THE DOMINICAN FATHERS. COINTBINTS. Most Rev. Archbishop Placide Louis Ctaapeiie Frontispiece The Delis of Wisconsin. Illusirated Mart Richards Orat 22S Ciarisse de Somershem Mart E. Mah kix 229 Chicago's Under-Worid— A Qenerai View Rev. J. £. Copus, 8. J. 286 The 5oDg of Mary. Poem Charlib Hakbon Towns 240 Something About the Saints Ida Matson 241 «« Mater Admlrabllis " Alio Edna Wright 248 The Vocation of Philip. V) Gborgina Prll Curtis 246 The Rubaiyat of the Pen tent. Poem J. L. O'O. 256 The Rosary. Poem Chas. J. Phillips 266 The Habitant People *. William J. Fischxr 267 Tuesdays With Friends— In Various Lights Maurics Francis Egan 268 Was Hamlet the Son of an Irish King? John Malonr 266 That Boy Gerald (IX) Bkv. J. E. Copus, 8. J. 269 Rosa Bonheur, Her Life, Work and Personality. .Ublen O^Sullivan Dixon 277 The Unexpected Quest Rhodes Campbbll 289 Servia and Its Rulers Bbn Hurst 296 Japan*s Greatest Victory Alfred de Roulbt, M. D. 298 Useless Things. From the French of Emile Ftiiivestre Gkacb Tamagko 802 Father Bonaventura, O. P. Illustrated Mmb. Von FuKKsrENSEho 807 The Garden Bench 810 Current Comment 814 For the Boys and Girls 819 Confraternity of the Holy Rosary 824 With the Editor 856 SabscfiptioB, $3.00 per year in advance. Single Copies, 20 cents BOrrORIAL ROOMS AND BUSINESS OFPICB5 SOMBRSBT, OHIO PubUiheri by the Rotary Prtst^ Somenei, O. Entered at Pottoffice^ 8omer»ett O. tufd eUuM mmtttr. MOST. REV. ARCHBtSHCS* PLAODE LOUIS CHAPELLE, LATE ARCHBISHOP OF NEW ORLEANS At New Orleauu, on the . Sth day of August of thli jt*r, Archbbbop Chapelk died of yellow fever, thus adding; Another to the many proofs that death b no respecter of persons. Hb Grace wis a man of high culture and the most refined instinctsi qualities by virtue of which he graced the high places which it was hb destiny to filL While in a long career he wrought many things of conspicuous value, they all pale before the last act of zeal for souls, an act performed in obedience to the heroic impulse which prompted him to hasten to hb stricken flock, and like a true shepherd abide with them, even though it meant death for him to do so. Finb coronat opus. THE ROSARY MAG J Vol. XXVn. SEPTEMBER, 1906 ■ t- jfe m^Mms^^r-^-^^^^ v^-'^HHU fH LONE ROCK, The Dells of Wisconsin By MARY RICHARDS GRAY HHE main topographical feature of Central Wisconsin is the picturesque Wisconsin River. Taking its beginning in the Lac , Vieux Desert to the north, it winds down through the central part of the state to the Mississippi. Three hundred or more miles from its source, as it "nears the boundary of Adams and Juneau Coun- ties, the high ground which Hmits the sand plain on the west curving to the . southeastward finally reaches the edge of the stream, which by its southeasterly course for the last twentv miles has ap- proached the high ground to the east. The two ridges thus 'closing in on the river have caused it to cut a gorge." Here, for seven and one-half miles of its course compressed between sandstone walls from fifteen to eightv feet in height, • erosion and weathering have worn the rocks into curious forms. This, one of the most picturesque regions in Amer- ica, is known as the Delis of the Wis- consin, < )n either side are tributary streams, old river channels. These, too, are worn into curious fonns and blocked by t;and bars, Aho\e \Ut ^.fi^^.'i V'^'^ \'\n<« THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. FAT VAN S MISERY, WATER CANYON, IN THE WITCHES GULCH. is from tw6 hundred feet to a third of a mile in width, and at times so low that one can scarcely float a canoe on it, while in the gorge it is forty or more feet in depth. The banks are wooded to the very edge sin^ his friends against all iiossihle and impossible back- up inn'is. t )ne lliere was. a Dutch- man, wlii> made Fourth of July mis- eralile for himself and others, just "vating for a picture." lie rushed from '"'J'he Witches' Gulch," — having there Inisied himself with a time expo- his efloi THE DELLS OF WISCOXSIX. sure — and planted liis tri- pod in ihe mud on the bank of the river ni the hope of snapping three of his friends who were out in a rowboat. Arranging the pose, he put the dark cloth over his head. Hardly had he done so when the final "toot! toot!" of the steamer disturbed his nerves, and he discovered that the branch of a tree occupied the entire fore- ground of the view he wanted. Waving his hands frantically in an effort to stop the steamer and catch the moving picture of his friends, who were rowing away, he called, "Vate a minute! Vate a minute!" The boat did not "vate." With his hair waving in the breeze and his camera flying open in a manner alarming to behold, he ran and caught on the steamer, then pulled himself up. Hurriedly he tried again for the coveted snap-shot, but the scenery would not "vate." All down the river on the return trip he bemoaned what he had lost, in picturesque English. and found himself each time he tried just too late for the scenes along the stream. In the afternoon he was at the station to take the Chicago express. Again he was in trouble. Just as he had posed the three friends of rowboat memorj' against the trucks loaded with bagjiagi.-, the porters decided lo drag them out on the platform as the down train was due. 1 H! ^1 1 ® 4HR b^ ^■^■p ^^ THE SL'G.'VB BOWL. iviir.nv: vniL ^w.wa.unn-^ -f.^--i--\. THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. THE N'AVY YARD. "\';iic a iiiLmile! \'ate a niiniile!"lic cried afi^iiii. I'Ui iiorsiiasion failed to makt tlifin "vatc a iiiiiniti- !" Again lie lost a shot ; however, he did not lose ihe tr.dn. Ifrliorc him away with memories fresh in his mind r>f things winch wonid rmt "vate." 'Hie h'oiirth o day at The Dell: "tripper.'" hnt al pcoj.U- living wit or fifteen iinles. loves best ftructed in such numbers, and [irs are not so numerous as to rob place of its wild, rural character. ■: in the heart of Wisconsin is nature. inched by man's art. natural and bright c asi in Ih de which i- Th n- I..I. the which i: ev n.tk I. rw; with k. ■ni- t plea I..nk, an, in a eh. Inlv. 1 ulh nee tl are I. e 1; nn.l wa de ah. in , h Idis-Mill m ,-,„i-;i-i ]ii> rNce].t the ali-al -..rl Clarisse de Somergheni Translated From the French by MARY E. MANNIX I. PI TURING the reign of Henry V of mJ I England, London was not the city of to-day, spreading over its immense territory a popula- tion always seething with the fever of traffic; it had not yet gathered into its magnificent docks the wealth of the uni- verse ; nor opened to the world its mag- nificent streets, in which beautiful pal- aces stand side by side with ugliness and misery in their most repulsive forms. But then, as now, it possessed three things which have through the centuries called forth the admiration of visitors: its noble river, its historic Tower, and the Westminster Cathedral, rearing its pin- nacles to the sky. Not far from it the royal palace overlooked this consecrated spot, in which the kings of England also found sepulchre; from the long, nar- row windows of this magnificent dwell- ing-place, reigning royalty could look down upon the aisles where they had been crowned and would eventually lie, placed like their predecessors — to crum- ble in the dust. The King was seated in his cabinet, a long table stretched out before him, filled with charts and papers, the con- tents of which seemed to have caused him some impatience. In one hand he held a piece of parchment, which he read with contracted brow and flashing eyes. When he finished reading it he threw it aside, exclaiming angrily : "Ah! cursed Gascon, if I ever catch you in England, you will have plenty of time to make verses in the Tower. Bertrand de Born, as you call yourself, with what pleasure would I not see you swallow your short, sarcastic verses, as I thrust them down your throat." Approaching the window in front of his writing-table, he observed a group of courtiers on the terrace below. Taking a silver whistle from his belt, he blew it loudly and long. Presently a page ap- peared, of whom the King inquired : **Is some one awaiting an audience?" "Yes, Your Majesty, Mile, de Somer- ghem is here." "Show her in." The King had hardly spoken when the curtain was lifted and two women en- tered. One, quite elderly, took her posi- tion near the door; but the other, young and beautiful, walked respectfully but confidently towards the King, who advanced to meet her. Greeting her with a low bow, which she returned gracefully, he took her hand, and leading her to a chair in the middle of the room, seated himself beside her. The face upon which he gazed was one so rarely beau- tiful, so filled with power and sweetness, so gentle yet so firm in all its outlines, that the mere contemplation of it seemed to smooth the wrinkles trom his brow. ''Mile, de Somerghem," he inquired, **have vou any idea of the reason which caused me to send for you?" **Xo. Sire, I have not, but this I know, that your intentions can only have been kind, because when I lost my honored lord and father you became my guar- dian. I deem it an honor beyond price. Sire, to have been chosen as the ward of England's mighty Kltv^" 230 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. ''What less could I have done for the daughter of my faithful triend and ser- vant, Hugues de Somerghem ?'' replied the King. "He came of a race who had loyally served me and mine ; his grand- father left Flanders to cross the sea with William the Conqueror; his father fought for mine; he was himself my companion-at-arms and constant friend. When I became your guardian, Mile. Clarisse, I only began to pay in part the accumulated debts of more than a cen- tury. But a portion of it still remains undischarged. Can you guess what it is. Mile?" "I can not, Sire." The King smiled. "Are your thoughts and hopes so different, then, from those of other maidens of your age and rank, Mile? Have you never dreamed of a brave young husband — one of rich and noble lineage, who would be glad to accept the guardianship I must needs some day lay down?" Clarisse de Somergbem remained silent. A shadow of surprise crossed the countenance of the King. "My beautiful goddaughter," he con- tinued, "I know my obligations towards you ; moreover, I have never forgotten my promise to your father. Your hus- band is already chosen. What do you think of it?" "I do not know of whom you are speaking. Sire?" "I am speaking of the richest and most worthy cavalier of this court — one whom I esteem more highly than any other — the son of Gilbert a*Becket." "Sire, I have no words with which to express my surprise," replied the girl. "And wiiv so?" "Is not Thomas a'Becket destined for the Church, Sire?" "Perhaps, but he is not bound. That will be an easy matter. I have resolved that Thomas a'Becket shall wear the helmet instead of the mitre ; that he shall carry the sword attd not the cross. In him your possessions in Flanders and England will have a competent guar- dian ; vou w^ill be the wife of a noble husband, and both shall be the chosen friends of Henry. What would you more ?" "My Lord and King, it can not be?" "What is that, Mile?" cried the King. "You jest, no doubt, but by the light of Xotre Dame, as my grandfather used to say, the moment is ill-chosen." ''Sire, I do not jest, and have no desire to do so." "What, then, do you mean when you say this marriage can not take place?" "I can not be the wife of a man who is already set apart for the service of God. It is not for me to turn his steps aside from the way he has chosen." "What way is that, my child? Mark him, as he walks about yonder, on the terrace. Has he a frowning brow, a sanctimonious smile, an indrawn lip? Is there aught of the churchman in the gait and bearing of Thomas a'Becket? Who is more fleet of foot, more quick in speech, in argument, in repartee? Who smiles more open, or laughs more cheerily ? ' "So much the better for that, Sire I By so much more should he then out- distance in holiness and good works those who have not his happy soul and buayaiit spirits. He will make a model priest." "Tut, tut! You must change your views. You must meet him half-way at least, Mile." "It would be sacrilege, my Lord and King. Know you not that great things have been predicted of that young man since his cradle? God has special designs upon him. Far be it from me ever to become an obstacle to the glory that awaits him." CLARISSE DE SOMERGHEM. 231 «' AAOiat glory?" That of martyrdom I" The King laughed aloud. "SiUy girl !" he cried. "When did you meet the soothsayer ? Becket a martyr I Ha, ha, young Cassandra of Troy, we shall prove you a false prophetess." The girl looked at him fearlessly, her eyes shining. "It matters not. Sire!" she replied. "Your incredulity will not hinder the designs of Heaven!" "A truce to such nonsense, Mile. Tell me, once and for all, do you refuse to wed Thomas a'Becket?" "I do. Sire. And in order that you may the better understand my own in- tentions, I ask you, here and now, per- mission to retire to a convent in Flan- ders, where I shall, God willing, take the veil of a religious. The Lord shall be my portion and my inheritance. I request only that you further the ac- complishment of my desire." "You mean what you say?" cried the King, beginning to pace rapidly up and down the long apartment. "I made my decision long ago. Your Majesty." "You absolutely refuse this alliance which 1 propose?" "I refuse it absolutely. I have chosen one more noble." You decline to obey me ?" Only because I wish to obey the call of a greater King." "Have you ever reflected that I have the power of confiscating your property. Mile?" "What are the riches of this world to one who is vowed to poverty?" "Go!" cried the King, angrily strid- ing towards her. "Go, I want nothing more to say to you, but I shall not for- get this day on which you have rebelled against me." "And, on my part, I shall never forget the kindness I have received from Your (C III Majesty, but shall always remember you with gratitude and affection before the throne of the Almighty." The King, turning his back upon her, did not see the graceful obeisance with which she left the room, followed swiftly and silently by her elderly companion. When she had gone, Henry once more approached the window which over- looked the terrace. "Between them they have outwitted me!" he murmured. "It. is strange, and not pleasant, to be thus set aside when I meant only good for both. He will not, and she will not — ingrates both. But I can do nothing more, though it was be- cause I loved them that I would fain have united them. If the girl had been less stubborn, I can not think a'Becket would have dared to refuse the alliance. By my faith, I can not bear to be flouted thus I" At that moment he caught the eye of a'Becket and crooked his finger. The young man left the terrace, and soon his steps were heard advancing along the corridor. "Friend Thomas," said the King, as he entered, *1 am not in joyous mood just now. The beautiful Clarisse has proven as stubborn as yourself. I had hoped by her compliance with my wishes to bring you to your senses, for you never could have had the audacity to re- fuse her after she had accepted my pro- posals in your behalf. But she has ab- solutely declined." The face of the young man, which had been clouded, now grew radiant. "I thank you from my heart for this news, Sire," he replied. "As you say, it would have seemed churlish both to my King and the young lady to have declined the honor of her hand, but — " *'You would have done it?" "I am afraid so, Your Majesty. In- deed, I am sure of it. I do not wish you 232 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. to think there was the slightest chance of my having done otherwise, lest — " *'Lest I might have looked elsewhere for a wife for you, friend Thomas?" **You have surmised rightly, Your Majesty/' ''Perhaps you may like to know one of the reasons whv the fair Clarisse de- clined the honor of your hand?" con- tinued the King. "As you please. Your Majesty." '^Although you are so indifferent, I can not refrain from telling you," Henry went on. "She says that not only are you destmed for the Church, but that there is also a prediction you are one day to be a martyr. And she did not wish to deprive you of that glory!" "A martyr !" echoed a'Becket, incredu- lously. Then the smile disappeared from his countenance, his eyes were upHfted and with an expression of extreme gravity he continued: "Such an honor were too great for such as I, Your Majesty. I would never be worthy of it." •*I do not know," replied Ilcnry. "You are stubborn enough for it, God knows. But there is still another reason con- nected with the refusal cf Clarisse, my recreant goddaughter. Shall I tell it to vou?" "If Your Majesty wishes." "She, too, would consecrate her life to the service of the Lord — in the cloister." "A noble sacrifice for one so young and rich and lovely," answered a'Becket. "Look you," cried Henry, laying his hand upon the young man's shoulder. "I have striven to be angry with you but I can not, though you have most incontinentlv defied me. Since the broad English acres and flat Flanders meadows of Clarisse de Somerghem can not seduce you, any more than her beauty and sweetness, I swear to you that, if ^vou carry out the purpose of your soul and become a priest, I shall see to it that you are made Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of all England." "Do nothing rash, Your Majesty," re- plied a'Becket, laughingly. "And, above all, take no oath upon it. For I fear me greatly that, should it come to pass, you might regret the promotion to which you had contributed. Right well you know how opposite are our views concerning Church prerogatives and dignities, and unless you should moderate your own^ or I — God forbid— change mine, I fear me that were I to become Archbishop of Canterbury, we should not long be friends." '*And then I would take off your head, maybe," laughed the King. "There goes the prophecy, for then there are those who would call you a martyr. Verily, you are bold and brave enough for it, a'Becket," he continued, turning the young man towards the door in token of dismissal. A'Becket did not rejoin the group upon the terrace, but slowly and thoughtfully directed his footsteps to the chapel. H. More than twenty years had elapsed. It was a stormy evening in the town of Bourljuurg, in Flanders, and the inhab- itants had sought the shelter of their firesides earlier than usual. The wind howled throiigli the gloomy, deserted streets. Ten o'clock had just struck from the tower of the abbey Notre Dame, situated on the edge of the city limits. The Sisters had retired to their cells, some to sleep, others to pray. The cloisters were silent and dark, lighted only by two lamps, one of which burned before the image of Our Saviour, while the other lighted up the obscurity at the shrine of His Blessed Mother. In the CLARISSE DE SOMERGHEM. 233 chapel, beneath the pale flame of. the sanctuary lamp, knelt a sister, either praying or absorbed in deep meditation. The wind swept by in its impetuous fury ; dark clouds scudding across the face of the moon betokened a coming storm, as that pallid luminary of the night rose and fell beneath them like a tiny boat towed upon a tempestuous ocean. Very soon the heavy rain began to dash against the windows and to fall with the noise of cannon-balls upon the massive roof, but the silent worshipper prayed on ; either she did not hear or would not heed them. Absorbed in God, her Divine Spouse, she knelt in the shadow of the tabernacle where He had His dwelling, evening her heart to Him, revealing to Him its every need. Hers was a life singularly beautiful and un- selfish, even among those who, like her- self, were vowed to poverty, chastity and charity to others. The wings of her sublime Companion were large enough to enfold all kinds of misery and suffer- ing no matter how great their extent, no matter how degrading their origin. During the busy hours of daylight it was her constant duty and never-tiring joy to visit the bedsides of the sick and dy- ing, to alleviate their pains, to prepare them for their last hour. But when the shades of night alike enveloped the world she despised and the cloister she loved, it was her custom to seek the quiet chapel and, still further unfolding the pinions of her charity, to gather in all the kingdoms of the earth in the sup- plications she poured forth at the feet of her God and Saviour. If during these wrapt moments an unseen listener had caught the impassioned words which fell from her lips, he would have heard peti- tions like this, oft-repeated, bom in tears and anguish : "O Lord, come to the help of your Church, and her faithful children. Have mercy, O God, have mercy upon us, for we are bowed low with humiliations. We are the disdain of the proud, and the laughing-stock of the haughty. Scatter them, O Lord, and come to our relief, and remember Eng- land. Christ Jesus, Who didst die upon the cross — remember England." Sud- denly, before her eyes, as though float- ing in the air, she saw these words of the Psalmist: "We have escaped them, like the bird from the fowler." At that moment, through the noise of the tempest, which she had not noticed, there came to her ears the sound of the door-bell, pulled by a vigorous hand — something very un- usual at that hour of the night. Unde- cided whether to attribute it to the call of necessity or the prank of some drunken roysterer, she arose from her knees and stepped down into the aisle. She had only gone a few steps when she saw the sister-portress approaching, carrying a light in her hand. "Reverend Mother," said the latter, "some one is ringing very hard at the outer door? Shall we open it? Shall I call the porter?" "Yes, Sister Martha. Here are the keys," replied the Superior, detaching them from her girdle. "If it be some belated traveller asking shelter, tell our good Hans to show him to one of the guest-rooms, and if he be hungry, see that he is s.erved before retiring." The sister left the chapel and the Abbess returned to her devotions. "O God, have mercy upon all travel- lers this stormy night," she prayed. "Open to them a port of salvation as well as rest, as Thou wilt open to us all upon leaving this stormy world a haven of peace and salvation." Again she heard a step in the long aisle, and the portress, advancing to- waids her, said : "Reverend Mother, the traveller wishes to know if he may speak with vou. f* m THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. *I will follow you/' said the Abbess. Throwing the hood of the cloak which enveloped her over her head, she left the chapel. Crossing the long cloisters, paved with marble tiles, their deep arches making grotesque shadows as the lamp threw its dim radiance ahead, the two sisters reached the front of the courtyard, having at its four cor- ners the statues of St. Michael, St. Bertha, St. Margaret, and St. Clara, standing in their sculptured beauty like guardians of the consecrated souls who had elected to make the abbey their earthly home as a preparation for that of Heaven. After traversing this court- yard, the sisters arrived at the outer building appropriated to the accommo- dation of whatever guests Providence might send them. Tlirough the half- open door they could see a man seated close to the cheerful fire which the por- ter had made upon his arrival. A brightly burnished copper lamp of the exquisite old Roman pattern stood upon the table. The traveller had hardly passed middle age, but care and anxiety had left their deep im])ress upon his countenance. He was tall and broad-shouldered ; his piercing eyes retained the imlomitable fire of youth, and one might have thought him a man high in authority were it not that his clothes were of the coarsest and commonest kind. His heavy cloak was lying tcside the fire; and the Prioress noted that it was of the kind usuallv worn bv mendicants. From the sandalled feet he held to the blaze, little clouds of steam were ascending. On the hearth, close to the fire, sat an- other man, his companion, the Abbess supposed, and this person seemed en- tirely exhausted with fatigue and loss of sleep. As held his hands forward to the grateful heat, his head slowly began to oscillate from side to side, his eyelids closed heavily, he was on the very edge of imperative slumber. ''God be with you/' said the Prioress, advancing to the middle of the room. The traveller turned towards her, causing the light of the lamp to fall upon his features, and before he could rise, she fell upon her knees in front of him. "Is it possible!" she cried, "that the Primate of England has chosen our dwelling for his lodging this night ? Am I mistaken, or is it really the Archbishop of Canterbury ?" "Arise, my friend/' he replied. "Yes, it is really I — ^Thomas a'Becket — ^who craves the hospitality which Clarisse de Somerghem will never deny to a pro- scribed and wandering man." "You are welcome in the name of God," answered the Abbess, whom a peremptory gesture from the guest had again brought to her feet. "We had heard of the persecutions to which you have been subjected, and my sisters and I have prayed fervently that God might release you from the snares of your enemies and bring you again to vour own. But we never dreamed of being thus honored, my Lord and Bishop." '*The honor is with me," replied the Archbishop, with emotion. "On my side, rest assured that I have never for- gotten to pray for her whose firmness and piety were potent influences in keeping me on the road of the cross when every effort was being made by the highest authority to lure me from it," The Abbess was silent and the Arch- bishop continued : '*! shall never forget the day when the King, half in jest, half in earnest, said to me, 'Go and be Archbishop of Canterbury — Primate of England/ and how I answered him.'' "What did you say?" inquired the Abbess. "I told him that I feared if such should ever be the case our friendship might be broken, as he and I thought not alike CLARISSE DE SOMERGHEM. 235 tain matters, as events have I was made Primate of all Eng- id our ways have long lain apart." , yes, I know it all," said the Ab- 'You were brave enough to pro- rights of the Church against his :hments." I, who knew him so well, can understand how any resistance uthority would anger this jealous ipulsive Henry. He wished to the English Church ; with all my I protested that he should not. nate of England, I was its keeper •ender. Duty spoke louder than nory of old friendship, old favors, so often pressed, a cup so often bread partaken of so often at al table. Of what use to tell the You know it alreadv. I am a and proscribed. For some days ered in disguise about the coun- I was kindly transported by the of a small boat to this coast of "s. I at once directed my steps To-morrow I must be away but for to-night I crave your lity." V joyfully it is yours !" exclaimed )ess. "But I see your companion .usted; you both need rest. I ire and leave you to snatch a few sleep." two sisters knelt at his feet as led Archbishop, making the sign cross above their heads, begged bless and protect them. iix o'clock next morning the ; of England ascended the altar F the chapel of Our Lady to say or the assembled nuns. Two ater he took leave of them, in- upon them the gratitude of the and the peace of the Lord. But g^oing the Abbess presented him beautiful chalice, which she him to accept as a memorial of nastery. He promised to do so, that he would keep it while he In January, 1172, this chalice was re- turned by a special messenger to the monastery, and deposited with great rev- erence in the tabernacle, as a memento of the martyr, Thomas a'Becket, whose cause was proclaimed shortly after his glorious death. Two years had scarcely passed when his country named him her heavenly protector and defender, while the universal Church speedily joined in the acclamations of his own people. As the fame of the illustrious Bishop and martyr extended, so did the house of his persecutor and murderer hasten to its fall. The vengeance of Heaven seemed to follow the race of the Plantaganets. The sons of Henry became his most bit- ter enemies ; in the days of his sorrow and humiliation, he went to cast his afflictions at the feet of the saint whom he had treated so ignominiously and who, we may h6pe and believe, inter- ceded for him before the throne of God. Clarisse de Somerghem did not long survive her guest and friend. She died in 1 173, but the chalice was long after preserved in the monastery of Bour- bourg. Flanders, where the Archbishop took refuge during his exile, was fortunate in possessing relics of the saint and mar- tyr. Auchin and Marcdiennes pre- served some of his pontifical robes. Beaucampsen-Weppes the wooden cup he had received from the hands of a peasant who gave him a drink, and at Lille is shown the house where he lived. It is well known that one of the altars of the chapel of Notre Dame de Tour- vieres is dedicated to the Archbishop of Canterbury, who during his sojourn in Lyons passed one day before this altar, then in course of erection. He asked of the canoness who accompanied him: *To whom do you intend to dedicate this altar?" "To the first martyr who shall give his life for the Church of Jesus Christ," she replied. Thomas a'BecVeX. V4^^ >^v^\. xcsa^xV^x , Chicago^s Under^ World A General View Br REV. J. E. COPV5. 5. J. I. JHICAGO is cosmopolitan. With little difficulty one can see here representatives of every civil- ized nation of the world. It is told of Robert Barr, the novelist, that he once undertook to give a description of the various peoples met with in a jour- ney around the world. He made his admirable descriptions, but his actual travel did not extend farther than from Detroit to London. In that latter citv he found types of every people under the sun. ITie same thing* may be said of Chicago. "J^^vs, Parthians, Medes. and Elamites and dwellers of Mesopotamia," in a certain sense, may be found right at our own doors if we but know in what qujirters to look for them. Of their slow but ultimate assimilation into uur na- tional life there is no question, and it need not be here discussed. There is, however, a large class of peo- ple, native-born, existing in Chicago to-day to which sociologists may profit- ably turn their attention. These people comprise the under-world; not in the sense that they constitute the criminal class — although there are many criminals among them — but they arc the under- world in the social order; men of no home, without family, living a precarious existence from hand to mouth for the most part, regarded by the better classes as pariahs, and whose habitat is the slums. Those who are in a position to know and whose testimony is indisputable, say that these of the under-world, who con- stitute a class bv themselves, number from thirty to forty thousand, with an extra ten thousand during the winter months. Of this vast anny, seventy per cent belong to the class of unskilled labor, twenty per cent are traveling men — or, in other words, simply tramps, for whom Chicago has always been a Mecca — and ten per cent eke out their existence by begging, which, by the way, is not an unlucrative occupation, for the ordinary Chicagoan's purse-strings are never drawn very tightly. As those of the doleful tale and the pitiful whine will tell you, if you should be honored by their confidence, the people of the breczv citv are "easv." These **hoboes" of the under-world form a class bv themselves . and live a peculiar life. How are they housed? Men, many of whom are here to-day and gone to-morrow, could not go to private houses. Thev would not be tolerated there. And yet they are catered for assiduously. Immense caravansaries, which go under the name of "rooming- houses." have been built to accommodate them, and the cheapness of the rates charged brings thousands to the city. In hobodom there are castes. Caste, however, is a variable quantity, and is largely determined by the condition of the ])urse. Let one of the "fraternity" be all but "broke" and he will wend his way to a two-cent **flop house," where he can procure a bed. or rather a bunk, for the cxircnu'ly modest sum of two cents. Inlike the two-cent **barrel houses" of Xew ^'ork. where the customer's pur- chase of a glass of two-cent beer entitles him to sleep in his chair, the Chicago two-cent **flop house" provides a board bunk, where Weary Willie mav at least lie down. A "flop house" on Meridian Street, on the W'est Side, is typical of this class of building. It is an old-time. CHICAGO'S UNDER-WORLD. 237 e-down building, with low rooms, vhole house is bunked with three- rs, made of boards. There is no ise at providing bedclothes. Pay rents and the best bunk is yours. Dedding consists of as many news- s as Mr. Hobo can gather by his industry. With these he makes a endeavor to mitigate the hardness e boards beneath him. On some s during the winter, this particular t accommodates between five and undred patrons. der such conditions sanitation is, urse, non-existent. Municipal ac- las frequently been directed towards [g this particular house, but the ietor claims that it is a religious 3n house, and that he is an ex-prize- ng evangelist, and the city does not able to touch him. Anything in Lgo in the guise of religion seems inc, from Spirit Fruit to Dowieism e Flying Rollers. State Street, near Fourteenth, the ith Day Adventists have a "hotel" 1 is a sight fit for the gods ! These people put out, or refuse to take in, ut real, genuine hoboes, and here ipecies can be seen in all its pristine . The house has rooms and dor- ies. In a spirit of pure philan- y the tramp is compelled to take a and his clothes are fumigated and ed for him. There is a "boil up" day in the week except Saturday, 1 IS the Sabbath of this sect. As all loboes arc generally recognized to crummy" (docs the reader know that means?), it can readily be seen a physical benefit the Seventh Day ntists bestow upon the knights of Dad. ere is a house on Clark Street — not only one in the city — which is nized by none but yegmen. For minitiatcd this word may require nation. A yegman is an imitation Ic. Every morning may be seen in articuJar rooming-house dozens and scores of men preparing themselves for the day's campaign. Here one is bind- ing his arm inside his shirt, that he may show an empty sleeve to the charitable. There one is wrapping yards upon yards of cloth around a foot to have some sem- blance of being lame. Another is care- fully selecting his crutches for the day, . while a fourth is looking for a placard which he wears on his breast, and which bears the legend: "Please help the blind." It may be remarked, "passim," with regard to one yegman — a well-known character — who is in the "blind" busi- ness, that he is sometimes known to overdo the thing. The scene of his oper- ations is on the steps outside the railing of St. Peter's church, an edifice situated right in the heart of the slum district on South Clark Street. This particular operator sits with closed eyes and face to the sky, holding up a tin cup appeal- ingly. As a "yeg." he is quite an artist, and as many take him for the genuine article, small coins often rattle into his tin receptacle. He himself does not believe in all work and no play. It fre- quently happens that when the contribu- tions have been quite liberal, he will, by means of a cane, tap his way to the nearest saloon. Of course he has no need of the stick once the saloon doof is reached and he is hidden from a too critical public gaze. It has happened more than once, when his potations have been deeper than usual, that his exhil- aration has made him forget his vantage ground of the steps near the church door, and he has marched "home" singing a triumphal song, as he waved his tin cup on high, proudly bearing his tin placard on his breast, so drunk that he was ab- solutely reckess of his disguise. This business of "cripples while you wait" is not the only method of securing a living from the charitably disposed public. Not far from the yegmen's rendezvous is ^.tvolVvti loomvcv^-^^six^R.^ which bears tV\e \xmc\M^ dAs>Xxv^'Cv3^ ^ «38 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. being the headquarters of a peculiar grade of beggars who are known to the fraternity as "bindle-bums." Members of this class are usually young men, and ordinarily of very bright minds. The genuine hobo can never be accused of being dull-witted, for it is by his wits that he earns, or at least gets, his bread and butter. With one glance he will read your face, and his diagnosis whether you are charitablv inclined or otherwise is invariably correct. This is the method of procedure of the "bindle-bum** artist. He begs by let- ter. He finds out every charitably in- clined individual in a certain locality. He then sets to work and indites a touch- ing, heart-appealing letter to the in- tended victim. Should the letter be writ- ten in the first person, he signs it with his own name ; if in the third, the letter will bear the signature of some one known by the one to whom it is to be presented. There is a kind of free- masonry of helpful fellowship among this class. "I have seen/' said the proprietor of three large rooming-houses in the slums, to the writer of this sketch, "as many as twenty men interested in and assisting at the writing of one letter. 'That won't do.' 'Better use such an expression.' 'Such a phrase won't strike home,' are expressions one often hears." The stationery required for this "busi- ness"— and it is no small quantity, for scores of young men are engaged in it in Chicago — is supplied by the *'hotel," and is considered as a necessary part of the running ex])enses. It was rather amusing, upon enciuiring from the above mentioned rooming- house proprietor — who declares that during the last twelve years at least a million and a half of "'boes" have passed through his hands — to learn that the "bindle-bum" regards the Catholic clergy of Chicago as his easiest mark. The castes, as has been stated, of the under-world of Chicago are settled by the condition of the purse, much as, "ceteris paribus," they are in the upper world. A little higher grade than the two-cent "flop house," is the five-cent lodging house, of which there are a large number. The accommodation in these houses con- sists, generally,of canvas stretched across wooden frames. These are in tiers, and should it happen he of an upper bed be a restless sleeper, the one immediately beneath is sometimes suddenly aroused from his peaceful slumbers by the half- awake upper man falling upon him. When this happens, the atmosphere is apt to be cerulean until the officer or owner settles the disturbance, some- times with the aid of a '*big stick." The next higher grade of rooming- house beds costs ten cents per night Of this class, the Hudson House, on South Clark, near Van Buren, is a fair type. It has four hundred and fifty beds, all of which, as is the case with every rooming-house in the city, are engaged by six o'clock in the evening every day in the vear. The room consists of a boarded partition just large enough to contain a cot bed and hold one chair — about seven feet bv four and a half. There is a wire-wove bed and a decent three-inch flock mattress, two blankets and a pillow. The compartments arc open at the top and covered with a wire netting to prevent the gentry from steal- ing ench other's valuables. Each sleeper locks his door on the inside. In a ten- cent house, ilie rooms are ready for oc- cupancy by eight o'clock, and may be used up to about six o'clock the follow- ing evening. Everything portable in ordinary hotels is nailed down tight and hard in the lavatory here. There is small danger of the patrons stealing the soap. The law requires four hundred cubic feet of air for each person, but in the Chicago rooming-houses this is not ob- served. Most of the houses of this de- scription were erected before the ordi- CHICAGO'S UNDER-WORLD. ^39 was passed. About two years ago empt was made to enforce the law, s a period of spasmodic municipal ty. The rooming-house owners got ler, and said to the chief of police : >rce this ordinance and we shut our to-night." Carter Harrison, then r, saw the consequences. He I not be responsible for putting the at the mercy of thirty or forty thou- irresponsible and angry men, and ctual enforcement of the law was attempted. The law was not so [ar departed from. In the Hudson e, a fair type, each lodger gets three -ed and forty-five cubic feet of air. the fifteen, twenty and twenty-five- rooming-houses there is no differ- in light and breathing space, but eds improve as the price advances. e numerous "stag" hotels, rooms tnted for twenty-five, thirty-five and cents, but these high-toned prices leyond the reach and beyond the ion of the real hobo. There is a fteen, twenty-five cent hotel on Van a Street which cost $150,000 to , and a year or two ago it was leased ten year lease for $1 1,000 a year. ►w does this army of men find food, vhere do they eat ? Many frequent ree-luncH counters of saloons. It nerally reported that one owner of .St half a dozen saloons in the slum ct has ordered his barkeepers never m a man away hungry, whether he liquor or not. Be this as it may, his would not feed all these thou- >• the demand for cheap lodging has fht into existence the rooming- 's, so the demand for inexpensive r has created a number of unique urants. Along South Clark and many are the eating places which rtise a full meal for five cents. The consists of stew, potatoes, bread, tf vtgetzhies and one-eighth of pie. ih' to presume that both seller and buyer prescind from the question of the antiquity of such fare. At all events quantity is there. There exist also penny lunch rooms. Each article ordered costs a penny, but as a rule the hobo "cuts that out," as he himself says. This mode of living is too expensive. The genuine hobo^ nevertheless, never saves money, nor will he pay for two nights' room rent in advance. He might die, and the extra ten cents be wasted! The bum, the tramp, the hobo are not real products of Chicago. The native tough hangs around the saloons and street corners and finds there his school of crime. He rushes the can, plays craps, is often into much mischief and is an incipient criminal, but he is not the hobo. The genuine hoboes come here from Montreal, New York, Phila- delphia, Boston, Texas and San Fran- cisco. Chicago has long been noted as the Mecca for the gentlemen of the road. There is no restraint put upon them here, and there is but a faint shadow of police supervision over them. They realize this and are duly thankful. The older vagi have habits of wandering that arc inveterate. Of course these will never change their manner of living. Sociolo- gists who have given this Chicago phenomenon some study declare that the great majority of boys from sixteen to twenty — the future yegmen and bin- die-bums — ^are a sheer product of the vellow-back novel. In numberless cases it has been noticed that they arrive in Chicago with their pockets filled with this class of literature. While there is a certain percentage which never leaves the city, and does nothing here, and yet ekes out an existence no one knows how, yet the roamers are, in a certain way, the salvation of the Western farmer. They are found in Michigan in summer in time for the htxx^ '^xA ^TwaJ\ Sxvii>X picking. W\scot\s\Tv ?lTv^ \o^^ ^^^ >^«^ for the baying, ?LtvA \.\v^^ ^x^ vcv. ^ot^ 240 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. and South Dakota, Minnesota and Iowa for the wheat harvest. The IIIincMS broom-corn crop could not be harvested but for them. On their return there is the Illinois and Iowa corn-husking.' It is calculated that there are seventy-five thousand sailors on the lakes, a large percentage of whom are drawn from Chicago's under-world. This class of people largely built the Chicago drain- age canal. In the hll of the year many return to Chicago with from twenty to one hundred dollars. Thousands do this. Once in a while a thrifty individual has been known to bring in as much as three hundred dollars. Last winter as many as fifteen thousand of these men cut ice for the big packing-houses, finding occu- pation from six weeks to two months. The lodging-house kiepers do the banking for many of these Wandering Willies. They contract for a winter's sleeping accommodation, and draw out their money as they want it. These are of the more provident sort. The major- ity are improvident and spend all as they go along, and are soon stony- broke — tlu'ir chronic condition all the winter, Sucb are glad to find any job of shoveling snow or beating carpets in order to be sure of a dime for the next night's bed. It may be asked whether the hobo colony, as it exists in Chicago, is a men- ace to society. The question may be partially answered by pointing out what one hungry man will do. When we realize that there are thousands upon thousands of these men congregated in a congested district covering an area of not more than fifteen city blocks, we can realize that there would be a serious menace to the social order were they ever to become collectively aivused. This is certain ; they are an unorgan- ized body of men. One strong nun could cow a thousand of them. They travel as hunger leads, and, owing to the manner of their living, liquor tajces a quicker and more direful effect upon them than upon others. "Can you give a reason for the exist- ence of such an under-world in Chi- cago?" was asked of one who has made a close study of the phenomenon. "The dime novel and whisky," was the laconic reply. The Song of Mary By CHARLES HANSON TOWNE How wonikriul it is Tills joy has come to mc! (O, little Son within mine arms, Thou shalt crush out the world's alarms. Thrice blest Th; shall he!) ■ name strange, how strange is this — That I should clasp Thee so! (Mine n Redeemer, sweet and mild, le .Saviour of the world — my Child!— My tears of gladness flow !) T!iy ttiKier brow I kiss — How high is my estate! ((> little Son upon my breast. O little Habe the holiest. How matchless Thov\, and gTeai.'.\ Something About the Saints By IDA MATSON HNE reads, here and there, of men and women of various religious views and literary attainments who have been interested in reading the lives of the saints. Many have read because of the beauty of thought and language contained therein. Others come to the perusal of the lives of God's elect to find nothing but a nat- ural expression for every supernatural phenomenon or to discard it altogether. With minds tainted by irreligion, false philosophy, untrue history and a pseudo- science, they detect no difference be- tween the wisdom of an illuminated or devout man and the knowledge ac- quired by the human intellect; neither do they ever realize the saints' direct bearing on life and conduct, their revela- tion of eternal truth or their intellectual and religious convictions. Emerson devoted days to the reading of St. Augustine. George Eliot pro- fessed a cult for St. Teresa, and even M. Renan assures us St, Teresa is admi- rable ; but the sage of Chelsea — true to himself and under the mantle of his egotism — is so completely lost in "the eternities and infinites" that he pays a worship to those who work only for the sake of work. In sharp contrast to these literary ^ants we find such men as Coventry Patmorc and Ernest Hello. Through their submission to the teachings of Holy Mother Church, they came to the study of saintship with the expectation of gaining glimpses into a hitherto un- known world, of revelations of a mys- tical life pure and detached from its ma- terial surroundings, and a recognition of mystery, the very essence of life. They show us lives led by mortal men and women replete with the supernatural ele- ment and separated entirely from ordi- nary people, yet in such a way that one's daily life may derive from it a fresh dig- nity, and a renewed sense of spiritual possibility. They have enveloped them- selves in an atmosphere so saint-like that they not only seem to breathe the air, but to look out into the world with the eyes and the understanding of saints. This is particularly true of Ernest Hello, and in his "Studies of Saintship" he not only reveals the miraculous ele- men in a manner direct and simple, but he delights in every manifestation of divine omnipotence as revealed by man, and pays a most tender reverence to those whom the Church has selected for supreme honor. He walks with hal- lowed tread within the domain of mys- tical theology, clinging with a firm and beautiful faith to the truths to which dogmatic definitions give but an inade- quate expression. He knew because he believed; hence his singularly clear vision and his spiritual interpretation. In an age of mental attainment and utilitarianism the questions may arise: Who are the men and women whom the Churcn bids us venerate ; are they intel- lectual or moral giants? They may be, but not necessarily so; neither igno- rance nor genius makes the saint. With- out doubt they are real men and women of flesh and blood, who can love and who can hate. Of this we may be sure, they are neither lay figures nor legend- ary creations, gentle and ^Uatvt\ V^Nil lovers, valiant Voveis VvVVv n^^Y^tv^ Ocv^'t 242 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. acters and temperaments, loving more passionately and hating more intensely than the ordinary actors in the grand drama ; strong in their hatred of evil — the ^'execration of evil," and sublime in their love of God. It is a comparatively easy thing to con- sider saints in the light of stars — a crea- tion to be admired afar off, yet the handi- work of an Omnipotent Power; but to know them as fellow creatures, creatures of the same race and nature with our- selves, creatures whom we may study and love, whose spirit may be imitated, and whose intercession cne may seek — this belongs to the domain of faith — a livelv faith which combats lovallv ma- • • • lerialism in its \ariou> phases — avarice. intiitterenco. love of luxurv. sloth and the spirit of compromise. In innumerable cases ihev are men typical of their century — cameos cut in hich relief on the ace in »\ hich ihev live. Some were busv with evorvboviv and everv thine. >o :har it wouM iH" -.rr.iv^s- s:b!e :o wriro the history o: :':uir hves w.thvi:: writ in j; x:\:\i o: the who.c world . • • ■ • ■ • ■ '1*. ^ \.....>t^ .'iV Vi....>\. illCi. .ll..«.\.llV,V has cv.c-.ro'.cv: :h.c wv^r'.d anv! '.H^nciratOvi to :h.c v'.cpths o: the c \xstor Th.i'osophy • .»*> .V C v.t(.v..>. »».^v».Ot\ TliCr . ' *- _ ... ... V» Vx«. \. x« >.s\« . XVV.^ >«» x^. _ ". ' ■ • ^ • . x' ..»X •»>^ illV^. i\ , X X., ^ ...« vx .... "» . • ^ \. >x \ \\> .\\\ x> - • • III , •'•. -\ ... ..•...•I,. ••>■.., a^ .,«. ..•.X.> « ^ . V 'V.-.'Xt.t^.- •.•!■ \^ *. X. • ■■•- «..■». » ..x"-*.. « \\ \* •■>>«ii^. . X ,\..- .i....«.X 1^% ■« .* \ V . X . . -X «* . .X « ^« ■ ■ V \ 1 » .x . . ■ « . 1 .» » • • ' X vx • «••• ■ » » XX X'« •,*■■ V * • ' "'X X. XX«^ .X*' » iX^'v XX^^ .X xX . ■ 1 « ^ ..V«»> X '«X X X"\-XX» Xi.i ,« » , x\ « » • ^'V .; '^.^ . "x" X X ■ > ';■■•'»* x^'; ;"v -.^.s^ x*-*; to win a favorable judgment from a ma- terialistic age, yet each having his own hidden recess of sanctity. Here is a page which reveals a life lived almost entirely within itself, re- proached with usclessncss and selfish- ness. Turn the page and find the his- tory of a life spent for others in such a way that the stranger, gazing at it from afar, admires, without having discovered the light which shed its brightness. Some saints had the gift of summing up their century in themselves. Others have been men on the alert, seeking, questioning, ever in quest of truth, that thev mav know more in order that they may love better, and that they may love more that they may teach better. This one has been destined to repair the in- juries done the Church, and to have his name interminably woven into the woof and warp of its history. The goodness of that one remains his most distinctive characteristic ; for him there is no need of conversion : he simply mounts upward, stfp !\v step. Others — it may be the resi:-: o: their o^ti interior passions or c:cr::a'. circumstances — have climbed, weary a::! agitated, and have at last rt aohi\: :h.e:r cv^a! after a series of shocks « '.';:<. V. ::u re are found among them not X :• \ >-.::--.^'e artvi ingenuous natures, but a*>x^ ::\^sc :v.">: Cvrmolicatcdand subtle — r-x" ,;•*.: w.'Vi". versed in divine things ,;:\- >'n ' X ,■. •• !;::v.an affairs, the revered :x.;x -v-v . ■ •v..-.--'sT,^!. Xo less a man '-:fs said, not many :o treat the most h men of the world, n»st mystical of ■ -i-vi guide. .-.e% .^::on and admira- .ind. perhaps, a *'* ooe knows or • X ^ X .» X .^ j^ . ^ ^^ X . . X x . > .V s X X ..x X... x^ c ••< ;\ .V \ • :>\ .* ^x'w • • . . • • • . ^r,Vx \\Nkx\ xN. ^>^ ^VxTxW. qpiddj "MATER ADMIRABILIS. ft 243 catches up a book, of essays or some stray bits of verse for the cedar's shade, and not till the stars appear does he lay it aside to quote or to philosophize. There is the favorite volume for the garden bench, but what of reading in "the garden enclosed" where there is companionship with God's elect? This surely ought to bring a cultivation and appreciation of saintship. M. Hello would say, read the lives of the saints in order to acquire a hearty hatred of mediocrity, for sanctity is the antithesis of mediocrity and vulgarity. May not the words of one, long canon- ized, be used to show the fruit gathered from the garden enclosed: "Read, that the distractions of the mind may disap- pear, that the proud and ambitious thoughts which inflate the heart, the vain and envious thoughts which exalt and disturb it, the timid and malicious thoughts which contract and corrupt it, the luxurious thoughts which defile, and the angry thoughts which dissipate it, may fade away and life itself become transfigured." In turning the leaves of the book, one finds page after page of etudes graded to Parnassus, to which every chord of the human heart has contributed in forming a harmony divine — its domi- nant tone, the love of God; and its strong subdominant, immolation of self. ^^ Mater Admirabilis ft By ALICE EDNA WRIGHT BHE devotion to Mater Admir- abilis is, correctly speaking, the devotion to the first fifteen years of Our Lady's life, twelve of which, according to the tradition of the Church, were passed in the Temple. While Catholics honor Our Blessed Mother in her Immaculate Conception, in her joys, in her sorrows, in her As- sumption in Heaven and her glory there, how few pay their homage to the gentle Maid of the Temple. The devotion to Mater Admirabilis originated in a convent at Rome ; and a pretty little story is related in connec- tion therewith. It appears that one day while several of the religious were con- versing together, the Superior, who had formed one of the party, was called away, and during her absence from the room one sister remarked: "How lovely it would l>c if Our Blessed Mother would appear in our midst and occupy the chair of the convent Mother." The nuns were so impressed by these words that they felt a longing in their hearts to have a portrait of Our Blessed Lady ever present to their view, repre- senting her engaged, like themselves, with prayer, study and work. Hence; a postulant of the Order, in the year 1844, undertook to execute the design on the wall of one of the corri- dors. Owing to the wall being damp, the picture when finished appeared dis- colored and indistmct; but God would not allow the work wrought in His Mother's honor to remain a failure, and in time the artist's hopes were fully realized. The painting represents Our Blessed Lady at the age of fifteen, seated in the Temple with a lily on her right side, the emblem ol V\eT Vmtu^cwV^X.^ ^>\t>!C5 \ -^xA 244 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. on her left is seen her distaff, work- basket and book of Holy Scriptures, tes- tifying her love for labor and for the Inspired Word. The name first given to the picture was the "Madonna del Giglio,'' or, "Our Lady of the Lily." Afterwards it was changed owing to the following circum- stance : A person revered for her piety and her sufferings endured for the faith, visited the convent, and was one day kneeling in prayer before the picture, reciting the Litany of Loretto. When she came to the invocation, "Mother Most Admirable," she heard this title repeated by a voice three times, and from that time the picture has been hon- ored under that title. Arrangements had been made with the chaplain of the house to bless the picture on the second of February, 1846. The day arrived ; the chaplain pre- pared for the ceremony and the proces- sion had formed, when suddenly the priest refused to proceed further, saying that an unaccountable feeling convinced him that this privilege was reserved for some favored soul. On the twentieth of October, of the same year, the Holy Father, Pope Pius IX, visited the convent, where he saw the picture and fulfilled the prediction of the priest, after having been deeply moved by the air of modesty, purity and humility reflected from the angelic fea- tures of Our Blessed Lady. The cure of a missionary priest soon proved to the. world that this was a miraculous shrine. It has recently been converted into a devotional chapel, an object of veneration to pilgrims from all parts of Christendom. Each morning the prayers of the Holy Sacrifice are borne aloft by angel heralds to the throne of the Great King, and on the feast of Mater Admirabilis, October 20, prelates and Cardinals strive for the honor of celebrating the Divine Mysteries in this favored spot. Not only in Rome is Our Lady re- vered as Mater Admirabilis, but in every convent of the Sacred Heart throughout the world, Mary is honored in a special manner under this dtle. The devoted religious, whose pure and prayerful lives serve ever to remind us of Our Mother in the Temple, strive unceasingly to inculcate in the hearts of their children a tender love and de- votion to Our Lady at an age when she seems usually to be forgotten. The life of the Blessed Virgin in the Temple, should appeal not only to those whom God has called to serve Him from the busy world apart. Ah, no! Mary is the model for each and every one of us who claim her as our patroness and ad- vocate. Mary is admirable in her love for us — a constant and tender Mother. The little child approaches her without the least shrinking, and learns at her feet the lesson of perfect obedience ; and by the name of Mary, despair is driven away from the death-bed of the sinner grown old in guilt. All the virtues shine forth in their perfection from this peerless Virgin. What an example Mary has left to every Christian girl and woman of true charity and fidelity to duty. She never despised the lowly, nor scoffed at the weak, nor rejected the poor. Her principle was to seek God alone, to give pain to no one, to do goad to all. Never did Our Lady neglect the duties of her state to seek for heroism in extraordinary actions. May we, who glory in the sweet title of "Children of Our Blessed Mother," learn to fondly cherish the memory of her early life and strive to imitate her virtues, that we may participate in the peace and serenity which seems to sur- round her, and to fill the hearts of those who delight to honor her in the Temple. And may the invocation dearest to the Queen of Heaven be ever on our lips: "Mater Adrnvt^bvUs, Ot3. ^ro nobis.** The Vocation of Philip By GEORGINA PELL CURTIS XV. I BHILIP'S orders on leaving Lon- don were to proceed at once to Ladysmith and join Sir George White, who was in command of the garrison there, his subsequent movements to be decided by the events of a possible war. Reaching Cape Town toward the end of October. Philip had taken the first train along the frontier for East London. From thence he travelled to Pietermar- itzburg, where he caught a train for Estcourt. His journey had been rapid, his orders admitting of no delay, which fact eventually proved to be in his favor as the train he took from Cape Town was one of the last to leave the city be- fore the war began. It was toward evening when he reached Estcourt, a South African town of about three hundred detached houses, all built of stone, with corrugated iron roofs, most of them only one story high. Although a place of no beauty, it was set in a hollow of the hills which rose in green slopes on all sides. The town itself was the centre of a fine agricultural district, and was used as a market and storehouse for dozens of prosperous farms scattered around the country. The lines of communication between Cape Town and the north were being held open by the Natal Field force, some of whom were camped at Estcourt, and Philip's orders were to identify himself with them, en route, until he reached Ladysmith. Walking down one of the broad streets of Elstcourt the morning after his ar- rival, he met one of the Natal Carabin- eers, whose force he knew by repute to be good scouts and reconnoisseurs. A second glance, which seemed instinctive and mutual with both men, brought them both to a sudden halt. "Everdeen !" said the Carabineer, and "Vavasseur!" said Philip, recognizing a friend and classmate of his college days at Donai ; and then the two men shook hands cordially. It did not take long to relate to each other their present duties, and the why and wherefore of their both- being in Estcourt, so far from England. Vavasseur's family had emi- grated from the mother country and set- tled in Durban, the Newport of Africa, where they had prospered. He gave Philip valuable information about the present situation in Africa. "You can proceed to Colenso to-mor- row," he said, "by the armored train; but I doubt if you can get beyond there. I have scouted the country of northern Natal in all directions, and the Boers are closing up all avenues to Ladysmith, fortifying their position as rapidly as possible. Unless more troops arrive from home very soon, the English will practically be in a state of siege." "Is not there a strong force patrolling the railroad line toward the north," inquired Philip. "Practically, yes," answered his friend, "the Imperial Horse, some mounted in- fantry, and the volunteer cyclists; but what are they compared to the compact ranks of the Boers, that are, I believe, daily growing more formidable." Vavasseur took Philip to his tent, which stood just beyond the town where the Natal Field force were encamped, and waited while the latter wrote his despatches for the London paper, and a letter to his uncle, which he hoped to send back to Cape Town by to-morrow's train. The young war correspondent had begun to see that enormous diffi- culties were likely to lie in his path to 246 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE, Ladysmith ; but he was not daunted. "I am going north myself to-morrow," said Vavasseur, "as I have orders to pro- ceed by train to Colenso, and then scout the country beyond the Tugela." "Good/* said Philip, who was pleased at the idea of combining duty and pleas- ure thus early in his journey by having the societv of his 'old comrade as far as Colenso. If he found he could not pro- ceed beyond there in the usual way, he might join his friend in scouting across the country on foot: for reach Ladv- smith in some way he must. The armored train rolled into Estcourt early the ne:tt morning, and the two young Englishmen lost no time in boarding her. A few miles beyond Est- court, they came in sight of the dark, serrated range of the Drakensberg Mountains, and farther on Philip began to notice the beauty of the African veldt. Here and there were farmers* cottages in a setting of palms and mimosa, and occasionally, as the train dashed around some hill thickly wooded with blue-gum trees and pines, the spicy smell was wafted through the cars. The normaL air of the veldt in winter is sad, ^ray and quakerish; but in early autumn it was still brilliant with color, to which was added the intense clearness of an African atmosphere. They passed herds of buck, galloping with their heads down, while here and there an ostrich stalking over the veldt and a flight of Aasvogels (vultures) high up in the sky, added to the charm and novelty of the whole scene for Philip. Whatever they might find when they reached Colenso, no one on the train had any doubt that they could journey thus far in safety; it was, therefore, a sur- prise, amounting almost to a panic, when, some miles below Colenso, their train was flagged, and two Natal Carabineers boarded her with the intelligence that the Boers had cut the wires four miles north oi Colenso, and had followed that up by bringing a heavy gun into action from the hills that dominated the town, obliging the small garrison of infantry volunteers and the naval brigade to evacuate the town and take an armored train which was even now rapidly steam- ing toward them, enroute to Estcourt. The scouts had ridden ahead at all pos- sible speed to carry the intelligence to the other train that was coming toward Colenso. They said, further, that New- castle had been abandoned, and that even Estcourt was threatened. What was to be done? To proceed only meant cap- ture bv the Boers of both train and men, so thev must run back to Estcourt with all possible speed. To go back when he had as yet ac- complished nothing! That Philip knew he could not do. The senior officer was about to give the order to start south when Philip came hurriedly toward him. "Hold," he said, "I am not going back. I shall leave the train here and join my friend and his brother Carabin- eers in scouting across the country." "As you wish, sir," said the officer in command ; "your orders from the paper you serve alone bind .you, and if you think you can reach Ladysmith on foot, we cannot hold you back; but it is a long and dangerous march." "I know it, sir," answered Philip, "but I must make the attempt." He swung himself lightly from the train as bespoke, and joined the little group of Car- abineers. The men cheered as the train began to back, and as he watched it gliding down the rails, and caught the last puff of smoke and steam from the engine, a strange feeling possessed Philip that now indeed war and adventure had begun. On reaching Cape Town he had wisely left all of his luggage at military head- quarters, and had travelled north with only a gripsack. This, in turn, he had left at Estcourt, bringing with him instead an army blanket, and a knapsack in which he had packed such necessities THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 247 as he was most likely to need; so he was in light marching order and no more heavily cumbered than the Cara- bineers. The two new men had orders to remain in that region ; but Vavasseur was going to proceed north beyond the Tugela in the same direction that Philip wanted to take. A map and compass were two of the accessories of his knap- sack; the veldt, or bush, would have to be their bed by night, and for food they counted on whatever they could find. They bade farewell to the Cara- bineers who were going to reconnoitre the country as near Colenso as was prac- ticable. Their own route lay to the right of Colenso through a region of low, rocky hills, and east of Cingelo and Monte Cristo, north of which, in a hol- low basin, lay the town and camp of Ladysmith. That night they slept in a small grove of blue-gum trees, rolled up in their blankets, which they found none too warm in the crisp night air of late autumn. The cooing of some doves and the occasional tap of a woodpecker were the only sounds that broke the silence of the night. Vavaseeur, who was used to these nights spent in the open, slept soundly ; but Philip's rest was broken. He lay on the soft grass that made a broad path through the woods, gazing up through the overarching branches of the trees at the splendor of the South African heavens at night. He thought of his uncle and Natalie, and of Leonard Black- wood, who he knew was at Ladvsmith with Colonel Park's Devon regiment; and then he remembered that, as it was now past midnight, it was All Souls' day. He was up early, and making his toilet at a near-by stream of water, with- drew to a sheltered corner of the woods where he could for a while pray undis- turbed. If he could not be present at Mass, he thought, he could at least as- sist in spirit at the Holy Sacrifice. Com- ing back to their little camp, he found that Vavasseur had disappeared, but be- fore long he returned, walking rapidly. **I am fortunate,' he called out gaily; "as soon as I woke up I went to look for something on which we could breakfast, and I found an abandoned Kaffir Kraal well stocked with mealies. Come with me, Everdeen, and we can pack enough to last us on a several days' march." Coming back half an hour later, the two men speedily kindled a fire and soon had a breakfast that was sufficient to " satisfy their hunger. "If it were not for fear of bringing our Boer friends about our ears, we might bag some game," said Vavasseur; "but I don't dare run the risk." Philip was now stretched full length on the grass. "You are teaching me new things, Vavasseur," he said. "Clearly I could not have taken to the bush and hills without you." "One soon learns," answered the other. "It is part of our training as scouts to learn how to look for food, and how to prepare it." They resumed their march half an hour after breakfasting, and stopping at noon for two hours' rest and sleep, were soon on the way again. About sun- down they entered the hills and began to proceed more cautiously, as there was more danger of meeting the Boers, who had been encamped in these hills, although Vavasseur judged that they must have moved into Colenso as soon as it was abandoned, so as to close that outlet to the north. They slept that night undisturbed, and in the morning from the top of a high hill looked down on the tin roofs of the houses of Colenso. Vavasseur had a field-glass, but they could make out little in the distance at which they stood, so they soon resumed their march. Beyond Colenso they counted on crossing the Tugela. Once safely past that point their route would lie through Pieters and Nelthorpe, after which came Ladysmith. Neither man 248 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. knew that, as a matter of fact, the Lady- smith garrison had been in a state of siege and cut off from the rest of the world for three days. XVI. They were wading across a gully that afternoon when both men heard a sound that caused them to stand still for a mo- ment and then quicken their steps so they could seek the shelter of some long grass that grew on a level at the foot of a near-by hill. The sound was re- peated. *'Vorwarts/* called a powerful voice; parting the long grass and peeping out cautiously, the two young men saw a heavy transport wagon, drawn by oxen and driven by a short, thick-set man whom they both knew must be a Boer farmer. Every other moment he lashed the oxen with a rawhide whip, though it seemed to make little difference in the pace at which the animals were moving along. "I did not know we were so near a road,'' said Philip, in a low voice. "We are approaching the Tugela," answered Vavasseur, "I have been ex- pecting to strike a road for the last half- hour." The wagon passed on, and hearing no further sounds the two men crept cau- tiously along until they reached the ragged, brown road, made of stiff, red clay that had been baked bv the sun until it was as hard as adamant. *'I think we are onlv a few miles south of the Tugela,'' said Vavasseur. "It will not be safe to go any farther by day- light ; we had better wait until dark, and then we will have time to cross one of the wagon bridges over the river and enter the hills beyond, v/here it will be easy to hide, as we have been doing here." "How much farther is it after crossing the Tugela?" asked Philip. "It is twenty miles, but it will seem three times that distance. The country is very much broken up, and rises ridge beyond ridge, kopje above kopje, before you reach Ladysmith. It will be hard walking and difficult climbing before we get through." They had gone back in the long grass while they were talking, as to remain near the open road was attended with too much risk. Philip was absently pick- ing some scarlet buck bean that grew low in the grass. Chrysanthemums, gentians and geraniums grow in clumps on the veldt, but so low in the grass that unless one looks closely they cannot be seen. A breeze seemed to stir the grass on the other side of the road, where it grew as tall and thick as it did in the field where they were lying concealed. Sud- AtpXy Philip felt a hand laid lightly on his lips, and at the same time Vavasseur pointed across to where the grass was waving ba(:k and forth, and whispered: "Hush ! don't move. I think some one is coming toward us over there." A second later the long grass parted ; first a face became visible, and then slowly a man appeared in sight. Vavas- seur was on his feet in an instant. "It is Moggs, of the Carabineers," he said. "A friend, not a foe." At the same moment the newcomer saw him ; waving his cap, he sprang across the road, and in a second's time had dropped in the long grass by their side. **Hello, old fellow," he said to Vavas- seur, under his breath. "I have just escaped a devil of a Kaffir." "And we have just dodged a Boer farmer," answered the other, and then he introduced Philip. "Have you any news?" questioned Vavasseur eagerly, but in the same low tones, after the greetings between Philip and the Carabineer were over. "News!" answered Moggs. "I should think so! Sir George White has been THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 249 driven back on Ladysmith; the Boers have got their big guns on the top of Bulwana hill and are preparing to shell the town until it surrenders. Practically all the troops in Ladysmith are in a state of siege." "By thunder!'* exclaimed Vavasseur, who could scarcely forbear springing to his feet at the startling news. "Ladysmith cut off from the rest of the world," said Philip, "and asked to surrender! She never will. Her troops will starve and die first." "And what in the world is to be done?" questioned Vavasseur, "with nearly all the army in Africa in a state of siege ?" "War has been formally declared," re- plied Moggs. "I overheard some Boers talking near Colenso. They say Sir Redvers Buller landed at Cape Town the very day that Sir George White was driven back on Ladysmith, and that he is preparing to march north as rapidly as possible. He must even now be on the way." "But how?" asked Philip. "Will he come north in this direction, or through the Orange Free State?'* "That I could not find out," answered Moggs, "though I hung around Colenso for several hours in hopes of further news.*' "At any rate," said Philip, "now that the Commander-in-Chief is here, Lady- smith will soon be relieved — if she can hold out a week or two.*' Moggs shook his head. "I know these Boers better than Redvers Buller does,'* he said. "If there is a fight, it is going to be a stubborn and bloody one, and more troops will have to be sent for.** "Meanwhile," said Vavasseur, "what are we to do? Where are you going, Moggs ?** "I shall skirt around Colenso and col- lect all the stray information I can,*' was the answer; "then I am going south until I meet either the armv or one of our men, so I can pass my information on to headquarters.** "My orders,'* said Vavasseur, "are to reconnoitre north of the Tugela — *' "And mine,*' broke in Philip, "are to reach Ladysmith, so we may as well keep on together, Vavasseur.*' "Ladysmith !** exclaimed Moggs. "What good is a war correspondent in a place that is in a state of siege?** "My orders,*' said Philip, "are to go there and join Stevens — therefore I shall go. I may be able to get through the Boer lines as the campaign has only just begun ; and once through I may be able to get out again and send my despatches south through some of you fellows who may be hovering about.** "There speaks the stubborn Briton," said Vavasseur. "Let the skies fall or the earth underfoot heave with an earth- quake before an Englishman will be turned from a purpose or disobey an order." "Sh— h— .** said Moggs. "Don*t make him laugh or we may have Kaffirs and Boers around us, galore.** "Look here, Moggs,** whispered Va- vasseur, "You know this country. Are there any farms in the route we want to follow between here and the Tugela ?** "There is one about, half a mile dis- tant, but not right in your path,** an- swered Moggs. "You will have to start after dark and skirt the farm carefully, especially as I think the Boer who passed you to-day had an inkling that I was near him, and he may be watching for me. I have found one thing.** he con- tinued, "and that is that all Boers sleep between twelve and two at middav. If you must travel by daylight, choose that time no matter how hot it mav be. You will be safer then than earlier or later in the dav." Vavasseur looked at his watch. "It is supper time,** he said, "and then we had better sleep until dark.'* Simultaneously the three men dived into their knapsacks. Philip and Vavas- 250 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. seur produced their mealies, while Moggs had the remains of a wild turkey that he had caught in the bush the pre- ceding day. "This should be the country of tramps," he said. "No one can starve, even on a long march, with game, birds and fruit in such abundance/' The meal over, the three men stretched themselves in the long grass with their blankets wrapped around them and were soon asleep. Several hours later, when the stars were shining overhead', they awoke, and Philip and Vavasseur, bid- ding good-bye to their companion, turned their faces north, the while Moggs set out in the direction of Colenso. XVII. It was a bright moonlight night, which obliged Philip and Vavasseur to proceed slowly and cautiously. They tramped some distance until in the sheltered angle of a hill they saw, in the light of the moon, the massive stone walls and cor- rugated iron roof of the farm that Moggs had spoken of. "We have made a mistake in our bear- ings," whispered Vavasseur, "and have walked a little too far east ; this farm is in the neck between Cingolo and Monte Cristo. We ought to be farther west." "I wish the night was not so bright," said Philip; "it makes our progress much more difficult, especially if the Boer is on the lookout for Moggs." "We had better take to the grass again, and creep along,*' answered the Carabineer. "When we get below this hill, we will at least be out of sight of the house and can walk again." "Suppose the river is patrolled," said Philip. "What then?" "I think Moggs would have known if •it was patrolled," answered his compan- ion. "If there is no bridge, we may be able to ford the river." This conversation took place in whis- pets, the while they were creeping through the long grass that ran dowD the hill below the farm. No sound reached them, not even the bark of a dog, nor any stir of life from the Boer farm. "Blessed sleep of the Dutchman," said Vavasseur; "an Englishman who sus- pected the nearness of an enemy, as our Boer friend suspected Moggs, would have rested with one eye open." The painful creeping was over at last^ and again they were on their feet, speed- ing toward the Tugela. Another two hours and the river appeared in sight. Advancing cautiously, they soon made out that to all appearances there was a bridge that was unguarded. This rivcr^ which farther east became at a later period the scene of the terrible battle of Potgieter's Ferry, was now silent and deserted, making it comparatively easy for the two young Englishmen to cross and commence scaling the heights on the other side. It took an hour of hard climbing to reach the top of the bank^ and as by that time the dawn was break- ing in the east, both Philip and Vavas- seur were ready to roll themselves up in their blankets and seek much needed rest and sleep. Philip awoke with a start some hours later to find that his companion had disappeared. He rolled off his back, and then raising his head looked around and found they were en- camped near a stream of water, along the banks of which grew reeds and water plant's. Swallows were skimming over its surface, while the drowsy hum of flies and bees hovering near smote on his ear. He noticed a small species of greenish fish in the water, and wondered if it would make good eating if Vavasseur found nothing better. The young Cara- bineer was a good hunter, however, and had rarely failed to bring back something during the three days since they had left the armored train. Xor had their pres- ent manner of life lasted long enough to be any tax on their strength, though both men were unshaven and their THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 251 clothes much the worse for crawling through the g^ss and scaling hills. Philip had not yet started to build a fire ; it took only a few moments, and there was as yet no sight or sound of Vavas- seur. They were encamped under a shade of pines, firs and blue-gum trees. The delicious aroma of these trees, to- gether with the delicate flavor of the rich soil and water, and the sun-distilled essences of a thousand herbs, all com- bined to cause drowsiness to steal over the young Englishman, to which he yielded, his mind not being burdened with any active reason why he should get up until his friend's return. He must have slept an hour when he awoke with a start, conscious that some one was looking at him, end at the same moment came the knowledge that that some one was not Vavasseur. "You are my prisoner, sir," said a deep, quiet voice, as Philip started to his feet and saw, confronting him, the same Boer who had passed them on the road the day before. How had he tracked them and caught them at that height from the plain below! For a moment Philip was too bewildered to think clearly or connectedly. He looked around, but saw no sign of Vavasseur ; then his gaze came back to the Boer, who stood silently regarding him, and at the same moment he saw another man under the shade of a tree near the stream. He understood it all. The Boer, after seeing Moggs, had not been so indifferent or lazy as he had thought. In searching for the Carabineer he had no doubt found traces of his and Vavasseur's march, and had followed them. The Boer spoke again. "You are my prisoner, sir," he said, "and I shall have to ask you to come with me." He spoke excellent English, though with a sHght accent. "The chances of war make all fair, monsieur," answered Philip, as he turned to follow the Boer ; but the other smiled, though not unpleasantly, and motioned to him to walk in front. "Ah!" said Philip, "I forgot," and then, half vexed and half amused, he said to himself that his uncle, with his. mili- tary training, would have known better. The Boer gave some orders to his man in Dutch, and waited while he gathered up Philip's knapsack and blanket. These were handed to him, but Philip noticed that Vavasseur's paraphernalia remained on the ground untouched. Then the Boer turned to him, and in the same for- mal, courteous manner as he had spoken before, requested him to begin climbing down the heights above the Tugela. The other man did not follow them, and Philip, looking back, at once compre- hended the plan perfectly: the Boer's brother, assistant, or whatever he was, had orders to remain behind and capture Vavasseur on his return. Whether he would succeed remained to be seen. The walk back to the farm that Philip and the Carabineer had passed the night before was made without any conversa- tion on either side. Whatever the Boer thought of the handsome, well-set-up young Englishman, he knew how to keep silence. Philip found his mind running on such necessities as breakfast. The long walk in the hot African sun, when he had had nothing to eat since before sundown the preceding day, was trying , but with true British stoicism he tramped on without complaint. The sight of the Boer farm was almost welcome. Passing a num- ber of outbuildings, they came at last to a substantial stone house with a wide porch running across the front. The door opened as they drew near and a pleasant-looking woman, past middle age, dressed in a very short calico and carrying a pail, came out of the house. Her husband held a lengthy conversa- tion with her in Dutch ; then he turned to Philip. "You havt tvol bt^^ki^sl^dV Vvft. -^VaA, 252 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. "No," answered Philip, who began to wonder if all Boers were as dignified and thoughtful as this man. "My wife will give you food and clean clothes," said the Boer ; "then I want to talk to you/' He held the door open for PhiHp to enter. Preceded by the Dutch- woman, the young man entered a wide hall that ran through the house, on either side of which opened large rooms. There was a sense of coolness and clean- liness about the place infinitely refresh- ing to the tired traveller. All the while he knew he was being closely watched. The Boer took him to a bedroom and staved with him while his m wife brought clean clothes. Philip uttered no comment when, having washed and dressed, the Boer handed him his watch, but gathering up all his papers, gave them with the knapsack to his wife, who had come back to the door. He knew, of course, that his papers and letters must be read, and his knapsack also searched. His captor led the way to the dining-room, and on the threshold Philip could not forbear an exclamation. He saw before him a long room, surmounted by a low ceiling crossed with heavy beams. A wide, open fireplace was at one end of the room, while some handsome furniture that Philip knew must be very old stood around the room. On the wall was a wide shelf full of old Delft china, and in the centre of the room the massive table was spread at one end with a snowy cloth, on which stood an inviting break- fast. "Do you always treat your prisoners so well, sir?" said Philip, turning to the Boer with a smile. "We treat them as we would be treated," was the answer ; "eat now, and then I would talk to you on the porch." He seated himself near the door as he spoke, and taking a long pipe off the wall, commenced to smoke. The younger man was freed from the embarrassment of having to talk while he ate; but clearly the Boer would take no chances of his making a break for liberty. Philip was both tired and hungry, and the simple but abundant meal was well cooked and appetizing, so he arose at last, verv much refreshed. The Boer also got up from his chair and followed Philip to the porch, where he handed him a chair and sat down. "My name, sir," he said, "is Jan Van Wonter, a farmer of South Natal — and vours ?" **I am Philip Everdeen," was the an- swer, "an Englishman only lately landed at Cape Town. When you captured me I was trying to make my way to Lady- smith, where I had been ordered as war correspondent." **Ah!" said the Boer, "then you are not in the army." He seemed relieved by the knowledge, though why the younger man could not judge. "No," answered Philip, "when I left England war had not been declared. Still we saw it coming, and my uncle, who is a retired army officer, obtained the appointment of war correspondent for me. I got nearly as far as Colenso on the armored train when it was turned back, and I have been making my way on foot for three days, though I heard Ladysmith was in a state of siege." **You were not alone, Mr. Everdeen?'* Philip hesitated ; then he remem- bered Vavasseur's blanket and knapsack lying near his own. To avoid the ques- tion would be useless. **Yes," he answered, "a friend I met at Estcourt was with me." ** Who is he ? what profession does he follow, and what direction is he likely to take?" asked Van Wonter. "That I cannot tell you, sir," said Philip. "I am obliged to answer all questions that touch myself; but I will not make my friend's identity and plans known to vou." The Boer was silent for a few mo- ments, then he arose. THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 253 "Mr. Everdeen," he said, "for the pres- ent I must keep you a prisoner here; later, I shall send you to Colenso to be held for exchange. While here you will have a measure of freedom — ^\'OU may go about the house, and do as vou Hke. Mv Hbrar>% which is quite a good one, is at your disposal. But all the time you will be closely watched. You will have a room to vourself, but I shall lock vou in every night, and even the windows will be guarded. If you try to escape, either I or one of my men will shoot you.*' **I understand, sir," said Philip. The house door opened as he spoke, and a sweet voice called in Dutch : "Father, where are you?" The young man arose to his feet, almost too amazed to conceal his sur- prise. Before him stood a young and beautiful girl not over eighteen. Could she indeed be the child of this plain, elderly couple! XVHI. The early morning service was over in the beautiful Anglican convent chapel on Street. Sister Madeline was at- tending to her duties, which consisted in putting away the books and opening the windows, when^ the portress entered and said in a low voice : "If you please, Sister, Reverend Mother wishes to see you in her private room right after breakfast." "Very well," answered Sister Made- line, and the portress withdrew just as the gong sounded for the morning meal. During breakfast she listened to the usual morning reading, which happened to be a chapter from "Lux Mundi" on the "Problem of Pain." The young sister had never heard this particular sermon before, and was struck bv its peculiar beauty and significance. "It is only," said the writer, "in the light from the Cross, that we can see -why pain should possess * * * power. For in that light we understand how pain unites us to each other, because, as even natural religion dimly felt, it unites us to God, and therefore through Him to those who in Him live and move and have their being. It unites us to God because it purifies us; because it detaches us from earth ; because it quickens our sense of dependence; be- cause it opens our spiritual vision, and, above all, because He, too, as a man, has suffered." Afterwards Madeline Sargent thought that it seemed like a preparation for the news that awaited her that dav. Entering the private office of her Superior half an hour later, she found five other members of the community already assembled there. **My dear Sisters," said the Mother, as Sister Madeline closed the door and sat down next her confreres, "I have news for you that it is both a pleasure and pain for me to tell. You are ordered on the African mission, to take charge of the military hospitals in Natal." **Oh, Reverend Mother!" exclaimed the sisters in a breath. "Your orders are very hurried," pro- ceeded the Superior ; "the steamer sails early to-morrow morning, but, my dear children, I trust you are ready to sacri- fice all for Our Lord." And then, in a voice that frequently trembled and broke, the Mother proceeded to tell them of the various duties before them. "Some of vou have relations in Lon- w don," she concluded. "I will telephone to-day, so that as many of you as pos- sible can say good-bye to your family before vou leave." "Reverend Mother," said Sister Mad- eline, "we are honored. Most of us, I think, have coveted the African mission." Was this the problem of pain, she thought? They had all been accus- tomed to nursing the sick; but to take charge of army ' hospitals, to see the wounded and dying men brought there from the field of battle ; to come in con- tact \v\t\\ \\eaT\.T^tvd\tv^ ^?Ssxv ^\A vaJ&fcx- 254 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. ing and to dress wounds that had been made by modern guns and shells — this was to be something different from any- thing they had seen before ! It was late in December, when Africa ran rivers of blood and when the flower of England's men were falling in the ranks by the hundred, cut down by the deadly fire from the guns of the splen- didly trained Boers. The need of nurses, Catholic or Protestant, trained or un- trained, was urgent. Hence the haste with which the order for SiSter Madeline and her co-workers, had come. There was little time to stop and think. The Sisters drove away from the convent early the next morning, after taking a tearful farewell of their Superior. Those who were left behind envied their going, notwithstanding the fact that the sea voyage was a long and perilous one. As Sister Madeline passea up the gang- way and walked across the deck on her way to the staterooms allotted to the Sisters, she suddenly came face to face with a gentleman who started and paused on seeing her. "Sister Madeline," he said, removing his hat, and holding out his hand with a frank, almost boyish smile, "this is an unexpected pleasure. Are we to be fel- low voyagers?" The Sister's beautiful ces were almost mournful in their sombre intensity. "I did not expect to meet you here, Henri," she answered; and then, with a slight hesitation, she added : "You have had news of Anita?" "No," answered the Due, quietly; but I am going to find her, and if pos- sible bring her home." "I am on my way to Natal as a nurse in one of the military hospitals," con- tinued the Sister. "My orders only came yesterday, and I sent you a telegram; but it must have missed you. One of my greatest joys in going on this mis- sion is the hope of meeting Anita." The Due looked his pleasure. He and h]s sister-in-law had become good friends since his marriage with Anita and her desertion of him. In repose there were lines of care on his handsome face, and he looked ten years older than he had done a year ago. In marrying him when she still cared for Gerald Wynville, whether she knew it or not, Anita Sargent had taken on herself a heavier burden than she knew. His very devotion wearied her. Day after day and week after week, spent alone with him in his chateau about fifty miles from Paris, had completed her dis- gust and ennui. The Due, a cultivated man of irreproachable character, gave her no cause for complaint. Perhaps if he had, the element of resistance in Anita's character might have made her try to hold and captivate him. The Due perceived her coldness and unrest, and thinking that a trip to Paris might in- terest her, had proposed it a few months after their marriage. Anita assented, and for a week even seemed pleased by the gaiety of the capital. At the Opera the Due's friends eagerly sought an in- troduction to the beautiful woman to- ward whom all eyes were turned. The Due was pleased, and Anita was not in- different to the sensation she created, though even adulation from the world, added to her husband's devotion, -could not ease the gnawing at her heart. , "I do not want to go back to the chateau," she had said one morning at breakfast. "Can't we travel? I have never really seen Italy." The Due hesitated. His mother, who had been in failing health for some time, was alone at the chateau, and he had already been obliged to leave her to her- self a great deal in the past year. Anita saw the hesitation and understood. "Oh ! your mother, I suppose," she said, with something Hke a sneer. "I did not know she came before vour wife." "No," said the Due quietly, "never- theless, I will not leave her just now. You can have all the company and gaiety at the chateau that you want, THE VOCATION OF PHILIP. 255 Anita ; but for other reasons besides my mother. I shall have to stay home at present." He arose as he spoke, as if to end the subject, and later went out to keep an engagement with an old friend who had invited him for a spin in his auto. Left alone, Anita had taken up an English paper, and one of the first things she saw was an announcement to the effect that the regiment commanded by Captain Gerald Wvnville had been ordered to proceed at once to South Africa to join Sir Redvers Buller. She threw down the paper and walked to the window, then paced back and forth through the room. Again temptation had seized her, as it did on the Nile boat over a vear ago ; but she had yielded too often now to the whisper of the tempter to oppose any strong moral resistance. She was sick to death of her present e^vistence. Life at the chateau, even with guests for a diversion, meant the constant presence of her husband and of her mother-in- law, whose devout Catholicism found no response in Anita's soul. Both mother and son were too high- minded, and too much alike in their strong domestic and rural tastes, to be congenial companions for a woman of Anita's type. Africa! How wide was the world! What travel and adventure lay in the thought; and the Due would not even journey to Switzerland or Italy! Suddenly an idea came to her, and she paused and clasped her hands. Her gray eyes were now iashing and scintil- lating with a thousand evil passions and suggestions. .She looked at her watch, then walked to a chiffonier and took out her purse. The Due had that morning given her a large sum of money in bank- notes and gold to buy some jewels that she had seen on the Avenue de TOpera and particularly admired. Yes, she would go. The Due had said he would not be back until tvemng. She had time to catch an express train for Calais, where she could cross at once to England and take passage on a steamer that sailed the next day for the Cape. She would go as a volunteer nurse. It mattered not what privations she might meet with if only she were free and could see Gerald Wynville again. Anita rang the bell for her maid, who appeared immediately. **Marie/' she said, "I want you to take back that new silk that Madame Roland sent home last night and tell her it is too loose in the belt. Wait there till it is done and bring it home, so I can wear it to-night. Never mind how long Ro- land keeps you. If she offers to send it back, tell her it is my wish you should wait for it.'' **Oui, Madame," said Marie, nothing loath to be sent out. She was gone in a few moments, and free of the maid's presence, Anita hastily dressed herself and packed a small bag. It took her only a few minutes to write a note to her husband; this done, she locked the door of their salon, and leav- ing the key with the porter left the hotel on foot. Reaching the Avenue Fried- land, she hailed a coupe and was driven rapidly to the Gara du Nord. Every- thing fell out as she had planned, and before embarking for Africa the next day she had sent another and longer let- ter to her husband, telling him plainly she was leaving him deliberately and where she was going, and that he need not seek her. After the first crushing blow the Due had acquiesced. He understood that his wife had n^ver loved him, and his con- science acquitted him of leaving any- thing undone to make her happy. He returned to his estate and settled down with his mother, but the iron had entered into his soul apd he was a changed riian from that day. Not long after Anita \elt, X\\t Aov^^^^x T>'sxOcv^'!»'5»€^ 256 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. indisposition took a serious turn, and in a few weeks she died. After that the Due was practically alone until the date when he and Sister Madehne met on the steamer, whither the Due had come, un- able any longer to bear the strain and uncertainty, and determined to go him- self to Africa and make an effort to win his wife back. All this Madeline knew, and her heart ached with sympathy for her brother-in- law, and with grief over her sister's way- ward conduct. During the long sea voyage, which fortunately passed without any untoward incident, she was often with the Due on deck, and together they planned what course he should take when Anita was found. Difficult as it all seemed, the Due was not without hope. (To be continued.) The Rubaiyat of the Penitent By J. L. O'G. As falls the night-dew on the drooping flower, Upon his troubled soul at such an hour Fell God's sweet grace, and Hke the tender plant, He, drooping too. awoke to feel its power. His sleeping conscience roused itself to find The soul-eyes of the prodigal gone blind. And, in the sinful labyrinth of lust, He staggered on with many of his kind. Oh, sorry pHght! In all its wakefulness How oft' had this same conscience known distress ; And now — "Be quick !'* it cried. 'Til guide thee back, And in the paths of penance seek redress." *To feel, O God, this stained soul exposed ! To know the naked truths therein disclosed !" He bowed his head and took the proffered grace, The grace he had before, were he disposed. Adown he sank upon the earthen floor. Nor knew he that an angel, bending o'er. His bitter grief had come to share, until A voice he heard, "Arise and sin no more." The Rosary By Chas. J. Phillips O magic chain, our Rosary Queen, That binds our hearts so close to thee in Heaven, Surely the prayers we count upon thy links. By Mary's pleading, special grace are given ! The Habitant People' By WILLIAM J. FISCHER HHO has not heard of the Habi- tant people and their charming, peaceful homes down by the mighty and majestic St. Law- rence? They are an interesting people, this French-Canadian race, and they carry in their hearts a sweet simplicity; the threads of poetry and romance are so interwoven with their human, un- eventful lives that they are the posses- sors of a golden, God-given heritage. The humble Habitants are not to be found in the large cities ; one must look for them out on the open fields and hills of God. They are the peasants — on the farmi, on the village street, always bright and cheerful — their days filled with that genuine spirit of peace and contentment that comes as a cherished boon to so few of us here below. Tillers of the soil, hunters in the woods, and sailors on the rivers and seas, most of their time is spent in the healthy, quick- ening out-of-doors, and their feelings must necessarily then go out in their own simple but impressive way to every beautiful thing in nature's vast and com- plex organism. The birds in the air, the flowers in the sun, the voices of little children at play — and where the Habi- tant lives there are always plenty of chil- dren— the cries of the wild beasts in their lairs, the songs of the rivers and seas, the lordly piles of gjeen, summer foliage and the miles and miles of winter's vel- vet snow — all, all unconsciously seem to draw their hearts nearer heaven, and through the natural they get a glimpse of the higher, supernatural life. ♦ "The Voyageur,** by William Henry Dnimmond. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York and London. The Habitants are a deeply religious people ; their faith is everything to them and their devotion to church and priest is most edifying. One need not wade through Pastor Wagner's chapters to become enthused on "the Simple Life." Go to any small French-Canadian vil- lage and enter the home of the humblest Habitant farmer; gaze upon the proud faces of parents and children, seated at the evening meal, listen to the prayer of thanksgiving that falls from their lips; go and press very close to their heart's door, speak to them, joke and laugh and cry with them — and fancy will paint you as sweet a picture of "The Simple Life" as your own heart could wish ! There is a charming, soul-satisfying simplicity to everything the Habitants say and do. Their home life is simple, their dialect is simple; there are deep undertones of pathos and love and forti- tude in their simple lives. They, also, have their trials, their victories, their shattered ideals and bitter disappoint- ments; but, when one really wants to see something exceptionally beautiful, it is down to the common plane of the "simple" one must come — and the Hab- itant is the living example of all this. And the Habitant mother ! God bless her! for she is pure in heart, and there is much room in her love for blue-eyed, white-souled little children! In these days of "race suicide" cry, the French- Canadian mother is teaching the sinful, wicked world at large a necessary, in- spiring lesson. If the poet wishes to extol the sorrows and joys of mother- hood, let him draw all his inspiration from the humble Habitant mother. Sur- rounded bv her sturds %^\. ol s^ats:^ -^sA ^S8 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. daughters, she is queen of the home in every sense, feeding the hungry mouths of her little ones and directing their foot- steps along the paths of love and virtue — happiest when she can sit by her cradle and sing her liltin.ij berceuse — for *'It's never feelin* lonesome w'ile de familee is growin', An* de cradle seldom empty, an' she got so moclie to do." But a few years ago, the world at large knew nothing of the Habitant. To-day he is known equally as well in the United States and on the Continent as in his own Canada. In Montreal there was a middle-aged man, an Irishman by birth, a good, genial fellow well-met. On his rounds of mercy amongst the sick — for he was a physician — his kindly heart felt the quickening touch of this interesting, all-absorbing Habitant life about him. He went out into the coun- try and lived with the humble settlers, and he grew to love them. Their mu- sical patois sang itself into his ears and, being naturally gifted in the art of verse- writing, and endowed with all the finer feelings that are so vital in the making of a genuine poet, he set to work to write down the lives of this people — their shadows and sunshines — in the quaint dialect of the country-folk them- selves. Some of the poems appeared in the press and created a sensation. Burns sang of the people of Scotland, Tennyson of the people of England, and here was a new writer picturing new characters and new scenes — his hand upon the hearts of a distinctive Canadian people. There wa$ such a delicious vein of humor and such a newness in concep- tion in his lines that, over night almost, the world's praises rang in his ears and he woke to find himself — famous. Dr. William Henrv Drummond — for he is the man — stands all by himself in quite ^ un/gue and enviable position as the poet of the Habitant. "It is not the clever manipulation of the patois alone," writes one, "that has brought him popularity. He knows the kindly, simple people that speak it to the core ; he is master of a telling minor touch of pathos, he has humor, and a wide sympathy with the French country-folk of the Dominion. He has worthily earned a place in the literature of Canada. He has the hu- man touch.'' Dr. Drummond does not look at all seriously upon his work, but it has brought him position in the world's concert-hall of singers, and, what is more desirable, — gold. No living Amer- ican poet, with probably the exception of James Whitcomb Riley, has had so kindly a reception at a publisher's hands. He has published the following volumes : "Johnnie Courteau," *The Habitant," and "Phil-o-Rum's Canoe'' — and manv will be surprised to learn that over fifty thousand copies of these volumes have been sold. His poetry sold much better than the leading, current novels. In these days of poetry book-making, it is interesting and consoling to learn that the coveted "pot of gold at the end of the rainbow" falls to the lot of at least a cherished few of the devotees at the shrine of the Muses.. Personally, Dr. Drummond is the in- carnation of humility and kindness, and, in his beautiful home on Dorchester Street, Montreal, he meets the litterati of many lands. It is also not generally known that his wife, the daughter of Dr. Octavius Charles Harvey, of Jamaica, is the direct descendant oi that renowned English physician, William Harvey, who lives today after the lapse of several centuries as the discoverer of the circu- lation of the blood through the human heart. To-day Dr. Drummond makes an- other appeal to his vast audience in THE HABITANT PEOPLE. 259 America and Europe through a fourth volume of Habitant lines. Just off the press of G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, the book is already creating a sensation. "The Voyageur" is the graceful title of the volume so beautifully illustrated with full-page drawings from life by that clever Canadian artist, Frederick Simp- son Coburn. We read a very fine criti- cism recently in the Outlook of this new volume. **Dr. Drummond," the reviewer writes, **in his former volumes of verse has interpreted for us the sim- ple life of the Canadian folk. In the present volume the same theme is pur- sued, but there is endless variety. The merit of the book in the last analysis rests in the sympathetic and wholesome interpretation of the tragedies and the pleasures of the simple lives depicted. The volume is not overladen with tech- nicalities, but one is convinced that the author saw the places that he describes, laughed with his characters, mourned with them, but, above all, that he loved them and took a virile joy in their lives and in making them his companions." The author dedicates the volume to a friend — William Henry Parker, Lac la Pechie. "Philosopher of many parts. Beloved of all true honest hearts, A man who laughs at every ill Because 'there's corn in Egypt still.* " There are thirty-four poems covering one hundred and forty-two pages in the book, some long, some short, but all perfect gems, scintillating with brilliant flashes of genuine wit and humor. There are touching verses as well — lines that nip at the heart-strings and cause the tears to flow. From the opening poem, "The Voyageur" — from which the book takes its name — we quote below some of the verses. The poem gives us a glimpse of the hardy, reckless, but honest voy- ageur in his red woolen shirt and "de red ceinture*' (sash) — in his heart a strong, abiding love for the living things in the hardy north-woods and in the rivers and seas. The poem begins: "Dere's something stirrin' ma blood to-night. On de night of de young new year,. • Wile de camp is warm an' de fire is bright. An' de bottle is close at han*. — Out on de reever de nort' win' blow, Down on de valley is pile de snow, But w'at do we care so long we know We're safe on de log cabane? '*Drink to de healt' of your wife an' girl, Anoder wan for your frien', Den gcev' me a chance, for on all de worl' I've not many frien' to spare. — I'm born w'ere de mountain scrape de sky An' oone of ma fader an' moder lie, So I fill de glass an' I raise it high An' drink to de *Voyagcur.' **For dis is de night of de gour de I'an,* Wen de man of de Grand Nor' Wes' T'ink of hees home on de St. Laurent, An' frien* he may never see. — Gone he is now an' de beeg canoe No more you'll see wit' de red-shirt crew, But long as he leev' he was alway true, So we'll drink to hees memory. "Ax heem, de nort' win', w'at he see Of the Voyageur long ago, An' he 11 say to you w'at he say to me. So lissen hees story well — *I see de track of hees botte sauvage+ On many a hill an' long portage Far, far away from htes own vill-age An' soun* of de parish bell.' " One of the prettiest little poems in the book is his "Dieudonne," which means — God-given. "If I sole ma ole blind trotter for fifty dollars cash, Or win de beeges' prize on lotterie. If some good frien' die an' lef me fines' house on St. Eustache, You t'ink I feel more happy dan I be? * New Year's day. t Indian bool. 2/6o THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. 41 No, sir! An' I can tole you, if you never know before, W'y de kettle on de stove mak' such a fuss, W'y de roDin stop hees singing' an* come peekin' t'roo de door • For learn about de nice t'ing's come to us — **An' w'en he see de baby lyin' dere upon de bed, Lak leetle Son of Mary on de ole tam' long ago — Wit de sunshine an' de shadder makin' ring aroun' hees head. No wonder M'sieu Robin wissle low. "An' we can't help feelin' glad, too, so we call heem Dieudonne; An* he never cry. dat baby, w'en he's chrissen by de pries'; All de sam' I bet you dollar he'll waken up some day, An' be as bad as leetle boy Bateese." How the Habitant heart throbs and exults in the music that steals through the doors of childhood's kingdom! Another poem which takes our thoughts right into the Habitant heart is 'The Family Laramie.*' It is so beau- tiful. and there is such a gHmpse of latent sadness about the picture that the poet paints so perfectly, that we must quote in full : "Hssh! look at ba-bee on de leetle blue chair. Wat you t'ink he's tryin* to do? Wit' pole on de han' lak de lumber man A'shovin' along canoe. Dere's purty strong current behin' de stove Were it's passin' de chimlcy-stone. But he'll come 'roun' yet, if he don't upset. So long he was Icf alone. "Dat's way ev'ry boy on de house begin No sooner he's twelve mont' ole; He'll paddle canoe up an' tlown de Soo, An' paddle an' push de pole, Den haul de log all about de place. Till dcy're fillin' up mos' de room, An' say it's all right, for de storm las' night Was carry away de boom. **Mebbc you sec heem, de young loon bird, Wit' half of de shell hangin' on, Tak' heese firse slide to de waterside An' off on de lak he's gone. Out of de cradle dey're goin' sam* way On reever an' lake an' sea; For born to de trade, dat's how dey're made, De familee Laramie. "An' de reever, she's lyin' so handy dere On foot of de hill below, Dancin' along an* singin* de song As away to de sea she go: Xo wonder I never can lak dat song. For soon it is comin', w'en Dey'll lissen de call, leetle Pierre an' Paul, An* w'ere will de moder be den? "She'll sit by de shore w'en de evenin's come, An' spik to de reever too: *0 reever, you know how dey love you so, Since ever dey're seein* you. For sake of dat love bring de leetle boy home Once more to de moder's knee!' An* mebbe de prayer I be makin' dere Will help bring dem back to me." *'The Last Partage" touches our finest feelings. There is such a wealth of pathos underneath all the writing, and the poet sings truly, even though it is in a minor note. His singing sounds at his best in such a kev: <• r * I'm sleepin' las' night w'en I dream a dream An* a wonderful wan it seem — For Tm off on de road I never was see Too long an* hard for a man lak me, So ole he can only wait de call Is sooner or later come to all. **De night is dark an' de partage dere Got plaintee o' log lyin' ev'ry w'ere, Blackbush aroun' on de right an' lef A step from dt* road an' you los' you'se'f; De moon an' de star above is gone. Yet somet'ing tell me 1 nius' go on. "An' off in front of me as I go. Light as a drcef of de fallin' snow — Who is dat leetle boy dancin' dere. Can see hees w'iie dress an' curly hair. An' almc)>' touch heem, so near to me In an' out dere anions: de tree? "An' den I'm hcarin' a voice is sav: *Come along, fader, don't niin' de way, De boss on de camp he sen' for you So your leetle boy's goinj? to guide you t'roo. It's easy for me, for de road I know, 'Cos I travel it many long year ago.* THE HABITANT PEOPLE. 261 "An' oh! mon Dieu! w'en he turn hecs head I*m seein de face of ma boy is dead — Dead wit' de young blood in hees vein — An' dere he's comin' wance more again Wit' de curly hair an* dark blue eye, So lak de blue of de summer sky. **An' now no more for de road I care An' slippery log lyin' ev'ry w'ere — De swamp on de valley, de mountain too. But climb it jus' as I used to do — Don't stop on de road, for I need no res' So long as I see de leetle Vite dress. "An* I foller it on, an* wance in a w'ile He turn again wit' de baby smile, An' say: "Dear fader, I'm here you see. We're bote togeder jus' you an' me — Very dark to you, but to me it's light, De road we travel so far to-night. **De Boss on de camp w'ere I alway stay Since ever de tam' I was go away, He welcome de poores* man dat call, But love de leetle wan bes* of all, So dat*s de reason *I spik for you. An' come to-night for to bring you t'roo.' "Lak de young Jesu w'en He's here below De face of ma leetle son look jus* so — Den off beyon*, on the bush I see De w'ite dress fadin* among de tree — Was it a dream I dream las' night, Is goin' away on de morning light?" There are many who think Dr. Drum- mond is a Catholic, and one could hardlv imagine a Catholic writing better and more dynamic lines than his "Cure of Calumette" — which probably is his best liked poem to-day. even though it appeared several years ago — but to most readers it will be a surprise to learn that Dr. Drummond is a Protestant. He respects deeply the picturesque faith of the Habitant, and when he touches upon the little things of love, so dear to the peasant's simple heart, it is always with truth and reverence. No Catholic poet could sing more sweetly of things Cath- olic than this Canadian singer. Take away the faith from this simple, country folk of the Dominion and you rob the character of all its inherent beauty. In his poem, "The ' Holy Island," Dr. Drummond tells the story of good "Fader Jerome, de pries' of Salvador." It is a pretty legend and well worth quoting : /'Dey call it de Holy Islan' W'ere de lighthouse stan' alone Lookin* across w'er: de breakers toss, Over de beeg, gray stone: Dey call it de Holy Islan* For wance, on de day gone by, A holy man from a far-off Ian' Is leevin* dere, till \ e die. "Down from de ole, ole people Scatter upon de shore, De story come of Fader Jerome, De pries' of Salvador Makin' hees leetle house dere Wit' only hees own two han', Workin' alon? an' singrin' de song Nobody understan*. It I All for de ship an* sailor Out on de stormy sea. I mak' ma home,* say Fader Jerome, 'Were de rock an' de beeg wave be. Da good God up on de Heaven Is answer me on de prayer. An' bring me here, so 1*11 never fear. But foller Heem ev*ryw*ere!' **Lonely it was, dat islan', Seven league from de coas* An' only de cry, so loud an' high, Of de poor drown' sailors* ghos' You hear, wit' de screamin' sea-g^ll; But de man of God he go An' anchor dere, an* say hees prayer For ev'ry wan here below. ****** ^ "Night on de ocean's fallin'. Deep is de fog an' black, As on dey come to deir islan' home Dc sea-bird hurryin' back; W'at is it mak* dem double An' stop for a minute dere, As if in fear of a roun* dey hear Meetin' dem on de air? "Sweeter dey never lissen, Magic it seem to be, Hangin' aroun' dat wonderful ioun' CalUu across de sev, 262 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. Music of bells widin it An' foller it on dc go Hii?h on de air, till de islan' derc Of Salvador lie below. "Dat's w'ere de bell's a-ringin' Over de ocean track, Troo fog an' rain an' hurricane An' w'enever de night is black; Kipin' de vow he's makin', Dat's w'at he's workin' for, Ringin' de bell, an' he do it well, De Fader of Salvador! "An' de years go by an' quickly. An' many a sailor's wife She's prayin' long, an' she's prayin strong Dat God He will spare de life Of de good, de holy Fader Off w'ere de breakers roar, Only de sea for hees companie Alone on Salvador. »»♦♦♦♦* "Summer upon de islan'. Quiet de sea an' air. But no bell ring, an' de small bird sing. For summer is ev'ry w'ere; A ship comin' in an* on it De wickedes' capitaine Was never sail on de storm^ or gale From here to de worl's en'! " *Gecv' me dat bell a-ringin' For not'inif at all, mon pere; Can't sleep at night, w'en de moon is bright. For noise she was makin' dcre. I'm sure she was never chrissen. An' we want no heretic bell; W'ere is de book? For you mus' look An' see if I chrissen it well!' "Leevin' heem broken-hearted For Fader Jerome is done, He sail away wit' de bell dat day Capitaine Malcouronne; An' down w'ere dead man's lyin', Down on de ocean deep, He sink it dere, w'ile he curse an' swear An' tole it to go to sleep. "An' t'ree more year is passin'. An' now it's a winter night; Poor Salvador, so bles' before. Is sittin' among de fight Of breaker, an' sea-bird yellin'. An' noise of a t'ousan' gun, W'en t'roo de fog, lak a dreefin' log Come Capitaine Malcouronne! "Gropin* along de sea dere, Wonderin' w'ere he be, Prayin' out loud, before all de crowd Of sailor man on hees knee; Callin' upon dc devil, •Help! or I'm gone!' he shout, 'Dat bell it go to you down below So now you can ring mc out — " To de open sea, an* affer I promise you w'at I do, Yass, ev'ry day I'll alway pray To you, an* only to you — Kip me in here no longer, On de shore I won't see again!' T'ink of de prayer he's makin' dere, Dat wicked ole capitaine! "An' bell it commence a-ringin', Quiet at firse, an' den Lak* tonder crash, de ship go smash An' w'ere is de capitaine? An' de bell kip ringin', ringin', Drownin' de breakers' roar. An* dere she lie, w*ile de sea-birds cry. On de rock of Salvador." The Habitant's love of nature is ex- emplified in the poem, "Charmette." An old settler sits at the door of his "leetle log cabane*' (cabin) and recounts to a friend the priceless treasures about his home — his dear Charmette. The clos- ing lines read : "Ha! ha! you got it. Ma dear Charmette. Dere's many fine place, dat's true, If you travel aroun' de worl* but yet Were is de place lak you? Open de door, don't kip it close — Wat's air of de mornin' for? Would you fassen de door on de win' dat blows Over God's own boulevard? "You see dat lake? Wall! I alway hate To brag— but she> full of trout, So full dey can't jump togeder, but wait An' tak' deir chance, turn about — An' if you be campin' up dere above De mountain would be so high. Very oflFen dc camp you'd have to move. Or how can de moon pass by? "It's wonderful place for sure, Charmette, And ev'ry wan say to me — I got all de pleasure de man can get 'Cept dc wife an' de familee — But somebody else can marry ma wife, Have de familee, too, also, W'at more do I want, so long ma life Was Sparc to me here below? "For we can't be happier dan we been Over twenty year, no siree! An' if ever de stranger come between De leetle Charmette an' me, TUESDAYS WITH FRIENDS. 263 Den all I can say is kip out de way. For dynamite sure Til get, An' affer dat you can hunt all day For me and ma dear Charmette." There is much to quote in the charm- ing book — the poems are all so good, and so different from the rhyming we are so used to. For genuine comfort and pleasure these hot, summer days, hie away to the seashore with a copy of "The Voyageur" and sit down in some quiet, shady nook and read Dr. Drum- mond's pleasant Habitant lines. And for weeks after you will see "dc otter slidin' into de pool below" and, in fancy, watch "de loon w'en de breeze is Ketch heem, shakin' heese'f as he cock de eye" — out there somewhere on Lac Souci. Tuesdays With Friends In Various Lights By MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN HHE Student and the Boy carried the low table out under the oaks. The Lady of the House, glancing at the westering sun, saw a figure coming up the lane. "It's the Judge," she said ; "he wants his tea." "Tea," the Boy said, blowing a Lady Bug from the sleeve of his tennis shirt. **Tea's no good at this hour. It simply spoils your appetite for supper — but Tm not so much against it when there is lots of cake." "Tea at this hour," so id the Young Teacher, who had come to the moun- tains for her vacation, "reminds me of an English novel ; — but 1 rather like it ; if the boarding-house people give you only prunes and pickles for supper after- wards, you're not quite desolate." The Judge came toiling up the stony lane. The yellow handkerchief he affected was much in evidence. The day was hot. "Ah, these Maryland mountains! You have to struggle for every step you take. I'm glad, as you had .to leave Washington, that you've come here. Two lumps of sugar^ — thanks, — or, rather, thank you, — I hate 'thanks.' It's amazing how the modern slang gets into one's speech, — and how one's pronun- ciation becomes vitiated, too. I find my- self pronouncing — oh, what were you saying?" "Nothing," said the Boy, "only if you are not using the cake plate, just put it over here on the grass. This is the jolli- est hour of the day !" "It would be," said the Young Teacher, "if people hadn't spoiled the day. Now, you know, I'm a convert — " "That's the tenth time you've told me to-day. I'd think you'd be used to it by this time," murmured the Boy, with his mouth full. "Even converts ought to take a beating at tennis without squeal- ing about it." The Mother, — who is at home the Lady of the House, — seemed shocked. The Young Teacher flushed. "Oh, I hope you don't think I mind a trifle Hke that! No! But the Student,— he's looking for his tennis racquet now, — said this morning that Rossini's 'Stabat Mater' was trash, — musical trash ; — why, it was hearing it beautifully sung in Lent that brought me into the Church. It helped to spoil my day, to have a Cath- olic talk that wav." "Holy Mose^ !'"' said the Boy. "I beg pardon, mother, I forgot!" The Young Teacher looked offended. 264 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. answered, "how can you be sure that Rossini's 'Stabat Mater' converted you? And, if you are sure, how can you blame the Student for not liking it. Many per- sons think it theatrical." **It's almost a sacrilege to say so," ex- claimed the Young Teacher, "and when I told him so he laughed. Catholics are so different from what I expected them to be. Tm disappointed ; they don't all think the same way. I adore the long- est Solemn High Mass; but he said that long musical Masses bored him, and that he liked short devotions. I asked him if many Catholics wore hair shirts now, and he said that, in the commercial reports, they were not quoted at all, as far as he could see. It's flippant — down- right flippancy. I know Catholics who seem to want to avoid the subject of religion in conversation. I must say I am disappointed. There's so much divi- sion among Catholics." The Judge smiled. "They make up for believing so firmly in the essentials by holding all sorts of opinions in non- essentials. You'll have to get used to that, my dear. You seem to think that you're obliged to practice all the devo- tions you hear about. I'm afraid that you'll find religion will be a drudgery, if you try that." "Never!" said the Young Teacher, fervently. "Catholics are so lax, — I mean born Catholics. They do not seem to value their privileges." "You are right," said the Lady of the House, gravely, "we do not, I am afraid. We take everything too easily. We are so accustomed to living in a jewelled palace, that the diamonds and the sap- phires about us are as common things." "I don't think; however, that the Church requires me to believe in the 'Stabat Mater* of Rossini," the Student murmured, seizing the piece of cake which the Boy had reserved for himself. "I don't like it, and I won't like it,— but J'}} trv,ii our amiable and beautiful friend thinks that it Ought to be a dogma." "You are certainly very flippant for a Catholic," the Young Teacher said, with dignity, "I am as much surprised by the culture of the Catholics I meet as I am pained by their want of seriousness." "Oh, we carry our culture on our sleeves for daws to peck at," said the Student, "but not our seriousness. You can't expect a man to wear his scapular outside his coat." "I am not sure that it would be a bad thing. It would be a rebuke to the cold- ness, the indifference, the unsymbolical faith of many!" exclaimed the Young Teacher. **rm not in the rebuking business," said the Student. "Why can't you take your religion more easily? There are some converts that slip, like the dew- drop, into the silver sea without a ripple, — you see I've had some time during vacation to read a little poetry, — others are always nagging you about your duties. Oh, I'm not personal! There is the Young Lady from V^irginia — she used to be scandalized because old Father Confert always read his office walking on the lawn in front of his house. She thought that he ought to go into *a quiet room and raise his hands in prayer apart from the world!' And another friend of mine raised a row be- cause he suspected that there weren't enough wax candles among the sperm ones on the altar of a poor little church in North Carolina." "We expect so much," said the Young Teacher, with a sigh. "I expected to find ignorance among Catholics; but I do not find ignorance, I find a painful lack of zeal." "Pardon me, if I utter a hollow laugh," said the Student. "Pardon me," said the Boy, "if you take the last muffin, vou'll utter a hollow groan." The Young Teacher, grieved, looked appealingly at the Judge. "I am afraid, my dear," he said, "that WAS HAMLET THE SON OF AN IRISH KING? ^5 you are in a state of mind in which you look on converts as a class apart." "So they are," said the Young Teacher; "their sympathies, their train- ing, their whole point of view, make them so." The Judge shook his head. "Then don't you think that they are just a little rash jn trying — without sym- pathy— to analyze the motives of those whose training has been so different? The Church has its own appeal to every heart. You admit that you were shocked beyond measure when an Italian peasant woman hung a statue of St. Joseph by a cord from her window until St. Joseph prayed that her husband should be better." "I was horrified!" "I," said the Student, "was edified by the old woman's simple faith, — St. Jos- eph is an old friend of hers, — he must be good to her, because he will be pained to know that she turns his statue out. That will bring him to terms I" "It seems," said the Young Teacher, sarcastically directing her glance at the Student, "that there are many points of view among Catholics. I can't expect to sympathize with them all." **I trust not," said the Student; "you could never mind your own business if you did." The Young Teacher rose from the rustic bench. "I must go," she said. The Lady of the House followed her to the gate, and kissed her. "Come soon again, — and don't forget that our Mother the Church feeds all hearts according to their needs." "I believe that," answered the Young Teacher, **but it's hard for a convert to understand some things. All the same," she added, with a slight frown, "I'd like to get even with the Student." u- Was Hamlet the Son of an Irish King By JOHN MALONE HHAT prince of Denmark, to whom Shakespeare attributes particular reverence for Saint Patrick, was called Amlethus in the Latin text of Saxo Cramaticus. Did the great player intend a subtle flash of his knowledge of the origin of his hero's name? When the Teuton of medieval times went to the schools of his turbulent country he found them supplied with Irish books, scribes and tutors. He read the Latin of Virgil and committed to memory the songs of his own minne- singers from manuscripts written in Irish characters. In the sixth centurv Columbanus, and in the seventh, Gall of Bangor, set up their free academies in I^mbardy and the Swiss Alps. Feargal became Bishop of Salzbi;rg and Dugall taught astronomy in Paris before the end of the tenth, and before the close of the eleventh century. Marianus, or, as he was known in his own land, Murough of Donegal, founded the University of Ratisbonn. Zeuss, in his "Grammatica Celtica/* testifies in the fullest to the in- dustry and influence of these Irish teach- ers: '^We must believe that this form (rhyme) was introduced among them (the Germans) by the Irish, as were the arts of writing and the painting and or- namentation of manuscripts'* — Gram. Celt. p. 846. The Gothic and early Ger- man character as represented in the printer's case differs but little from that which was used in old Irish manuscripts. The old Irish scribes indicated the name *'C)laf" bv the letters A-m-1-a-i-b-h and "Ok'' b^ K-mA-^-\-^-V^« T^^'^^ 266 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. names survive to-day amongst the Irish and Scotic clans as "Auliffe," "Auley" or "Hawley." With the prefix, "Mac," they mean "the son of" or "descendant of" Olaf. The "h" is required before the name because it begins with a vowel, whenever it is preceded by a word end- ing with a vowel. The earliest authority for the name "Hamlet" is an Irish song, "The Complaint of Queen Gormly for Niall Black-knee," composed by Gormly, the widow of that High-king of Ireland, A. D. 904. This sad love song, the music of which is also Gormly's own, has been always tenderly beloved of the Gael and is still sung by them on the western shore, in the Highlands, the Orkneys and in Iceland. Gormly said : "Evil to me the affinity Of the two Danes who slew Niall and Carroll! Carroll was killed by Hulb, a great feat, Niall Black-knee by h'Amlaidbe." In the original Gaelic the last line of this quatrain is: t* Niall Glundubh le h'Amlaidbe." It is easy to understand how, to an eye ignorant of the rules of Irish euphony, this spelling of the name "Ole" became "Amlethus" and "Hamlet." It is not to be told here that Gormly means "the princely lady of the blue eyes" or that she was the daughter of Flann of the Shannon, over-king of Ireland, once betrothed to the holy Cormac, king- bishop of Cashel, married when Cormac became a priest to Carroll, king of Lein- ster and, on his death, to Niall Black- knee, who was elected over-king after the passing of Flann. Though Shakespeare may not have had knowing of the Gaelic form of "Olaf," any one of the six "Hamlets" who were kings of Dublin between 868 and 1050 may have left the name to local tradition in Arden woodland on the trail from Avon to Trent, a short cut horn the Irish sea to the Danish king- doni of Northumbria, Ont of these Irish Hamlets met King Eadmund at Leicester in 943 and was confirmed in the sovereignty of all England north of Watling Street. That was the year in which Eadmund gave Glastonbury to Saint Dunstan. The name of Turkill of Warwick, Shakespeare's maternal an- cestor, was Norse not Saxon. It was the same as that of the great Dane, gen- erally identified with Ragnor-Lodbrog, who usurped the sovereignty of Erin and the seat of Patrick for manv bitter years, until Malachy, the High-king, strangled him in the waters of Lough Owel. Thor-gil, "servant of Thor," he was called. He came to Ireland in 832 and found death there thirteen years afterward. Called "Loch-lannach," "lake-robber." because he made his stronghold on an island in one of the midland lakes, of the Shannon, the peo- ple gave that sobriquet to all northmen who came a-pirating to Ireland. The name Hamlet, (let us give Shake- speare precedence!) passes through many forms in the songs and chronicles of Ireland, England, Wales, France, Denmark and Iceland, such as "Am- laidhe." "Amlaibh," "Aulaf," "Anlaf," (note O. F. branle, a musical instrument, pronounced "brawl") "Unlaf," "Onlaf," "Olave." "Awlot," "Hanloc," "Have- loc," "Abroc" and "Abroyc," but always means "Olaf" or "Ole." Olaf Treg- geveson is called "Haveloc" in Ritson's "Metrical Romances," (ii, 330), and the King of Denmark is given the same name in the ballad of Guy and Cole- brand, (Percy mss, ii 528). This last reference brings us very close to Shake- speare, for the champion who fought and overthrew "Colbrand, the giant, that same mighty man," was the very Guido from whom the Ardens claim descent; the combat was held at Leicester, next door to Warwick, and Haveloc, the Den- mark king, was Olaf Cuaran, "Olaf of the Brogue," king of Dublin, who be- foretime fought the battle of Braunan- brugh. WAS HAMLET THE SON OF AN IRISH KING? 267 The Icelandic "Amlodi" must be treated by itself because it is quoted as a Norse root instead of a derivative of Hamlet. The tenth century poem from •which the word is quoted in Vigtusion's dictionary, in calling the sea "Amlodi's flour bin/' confirms the Irish form of Olaf. Gormly's song was well known in Iceland in the tenth century ; witness the pathetic tale of the daughter of Mur- carthach of the leather cloaks. She, while pretending to be dumb, taught her Icelandic son,* Olaf Paa, the songs and speech of Ireland, that he might be wel- come amongst her father's rememberers. Shakespeare's account of the terms of the conquest of Norway by the elder Hamlet is curiously reminiscent of the conditions of the combat between Guy and Colebrand as set forth in the bal- lad of Guy of Warwick. As if to pre- pare us for memories of the Irish king, whose nickname was "Kvaran the rattle," in Flateyebok, and "Cuaran" in the Irish Chronicles, Horatio gives us, immediately after the first visit of the Ghost, a synopsis of the articles of com- bat between Norway and old Hamlet. They are singularly remindful of those which governed the holmgang of Guy and Colebrand: «i 'Our last king, Whose image even now appeared to us, Was. as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto pricked by a most emulate pride. Dared to combat, in the which our valiant Hamlet, — For so this side of our known world es- teemed him — Did slay this Fortinbras, who by a sealed compact. Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit with his life all those his lands Which he stood seized of to the conqueror. Against the which a moiety competent Was gaged by our king, which had returned To the inheritance of Fortinbras Had he been vanquisher, as by the same covenant And carriage of the articles designed. His fell to Hamlet." — Hamlet, Act I. Sc. I, 80-95. Compare the wager of Awlof and Athelstan : "Through the might of one n\an's hand Shall I win or lose my land. — Against a giant shall he fight, In all this world is none so wight. The king Awlof that is now here. He is so sicker of his powere He weeneth there be none Isrvand That may him stand a stroke of hand." — 10484 et scq. Awlof swears : "King Awlof hath first sworn If it be so that his man fail And be convict in that battaile. Into Denmark will he fare And never do England harm mare Nor his heirs from that night Never challenge of England right. Athelstan swears : "Sethen sware King Athelstan If it be so his man be slone Before his Barons everyone There in batle be foredone He shall do Anlof there homage And yield him for his land Trewage." —10575 et seq. Guy of Warwick, English Text Society. Reprint of Caius MS., Cam- bridge Library. The earliest continental record of an Olaf, king of Denmark, is of Olaf III, (Olaf Hunger, son of Knut,) 1086-1095. To find the first and second Olafs we have to rely upon the Irish and Saxon chronicles. The first Olaf was the viking known as "Olaf the White," who came to Ire- land in 850 or 852, left Sidulf or Sitric (his son?) there as his deputy and re- turned to Denmark. This practice of leaving a son or brother as deputy when going on a foray was common to Gael, Saxon and Dane, and is accountable not onlv for the confusion in the lists of kings, but for a great part of the inter- tribal wars of our early history. It is certain that the northmen fol- lowed the custom of naming the eldest son after the g\:^.Tvdi?L\.Vv^\ . Ttv^"" Ktck^ 268 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. of the Four Masters," to which, as well as to other chronicles, references are by years, tell us that in 852 "Olaf, son of the king of the lake-robbers, came to Ire- land and all the northnien of Ireland submitted to him and they exacted rent from the natives." This date should be 856, when Olaf the White came back to fight and put down his deputy, who had set up as a king for himself. Olaf made alliance with his brother, Ivar, whom he had made king of Limerick, and with Lorcan, king of Meath, in 858- 61. He went to Scotland m 865 ; fought against Aella, king of Northumbria, as ally of Constantine. king of Scotland, in 866; married the daughter of Constan- tine in 867 ; went again to Ireland, where he burned Armagh and founded Dubhn (Dubh Linn-Black Pool), in 868, thus becoming the first King of Dublin. He plundered Dumbarton in 869, returned to Dublin with two hundred ships in 871, and died about 873. The next Olaf was Olaf Ceanncarech, (Scabhead, not an unhonorable addition when cutting, slashing and cracking of pates was much in fashion,) who became very busy in the sport of gathering plun- der about 929. The *Tour Masters'* say that no Danes came to Ireland for forty years after the beginning of the reign of Flann of the Shannon, 880. Olaf Scabhead brought a fleet of Danes up the Shannon in 931 and harried the *'black land" of Athlone. He was estab- lished in a fortress on an island in Lough Ree in 934, and is described in the Ulster Chronicle, *'Clarendon Codex," tome 49, as grandson of Ivar. "Olaf, son of Godfrey, lord of the foreigners, came at Lammas from Ath-cliath (Dubhn), and carried off Olaf Ceanncarech from Lough Ree and the foreigners that were with him, after breaking iheir ships. Tlie foreigners of Ath-cliath left their fortress and went to England.'' — "Four Mas- ters," anno 935. The breaking of the ships happened because there was not time to go down the Shannon. "The Danes of Lough Ree arrived at Dublin. Awley, with all the Danes of Dublin and north part of Ireland departed and went^ over seas. The Danes that departed from Dublin arrived in England, and by the help of the Danes of that kingdom they gave battle to the Saxons on the plains of Othlyn, where there was a great slaughter of northnien and Danes." — ** Annals of Clonmacnoise," 931. The battle referred to was the great fight of Brunanbrugh, and is dated 937 in the **Anglo-Saxon Chronicle." Olaf Scabhead disappears from the record after Brunanbrugh. The "Ulster Chronicle" says, "the king escaped, viz. Olaf." He is not named in the lists of killed. The fighting custom of the time kept careful guard upon the person of the king, and it is not likely that either Olaf Scabhead or Olaf Cuaran, who made much ado thereafter, were allowed to peril their lives at Brumby battle. From subsequent affairs it is safe to pre- sume that Olaf Ceanncarech went home to Denmark and left the troublesome estates of Limerick, Dublin and North- umbria to Olaf Cuaran. The latter was never called king of Denmark, though four of his name w^re kings of Dublin after him, and his grandson, "Sitric of the silken beard.'* was the leader of the Danes in the battle of Clontarf in 1014. Olaf Cuaran divided England with King Eadmund by a treaty at Leicester in 943, returned to Dublin, was baptized and died at lona in 981. The "Norwich Chronicle." ("Bartholomy de Cotton,") under 940, says : "At this time Olaf, the king of Ireland, went away, and King Eadmund converted to the faith another Olaf, King of the Danes." It may quite well be that this "Scabhead," grandson of Ivar, was the hero of Saxo's story, for, though Shakespeare neglects that part of his original, Hamlet is brought through many adventures in England and Scotland by the Danish writer. That Boy Gerald By REV. J. E. COPUS. S. J. (cuthbcrt) AatlMr of "ttorry RomsU," ''Saint Cothbert." "Shiidowt LIftod." Btc. XVII. HOW GERALD OCCUPIED HIS TIME. LATCH FORD Darce and John Ig- natius Granville were sitting be- side Gerald's bed in helpless sympathy on the evening of the accident, when Judge Albury came into the room. In the excitement at the Albury home, Mrs. Albury had forgotten to telephone to her husband, who, when he arrived in time for dinner was very much surprised to learn of the occurrences of the day. **Are you angry with me, papa?*' asked Gerald. "My child! No. Why do you think so? You were doing nothing wrong when the accident befell vou. Had vou been in mischief at the time it might be different. Why do you ask ?'* "Because," said the sulTering boy, "I thought it would displease you, and oh ! papa, I had such a great — big — secret for vou next Wednesdav. and it — can't — all — be — now." The disappointed boy was almost in tears. "Never mind, my son. never mind. Do not worry. What you have to tell me will keep, and I shall be all the more pleased by and bye. How did the acci- dent happen?" **I was doing the giant swing — Gee! it was great, pa, and I had almost got round the third time when my arms gave way. I don't remember anything more until the doctor told me my arm was broken; but my leg hurts worse than my arm." "I am very sorry for you. Keep both your arm and your leg as quiet as you can. W'e will try to procure some amusement for you as soon as the pain subsides. Who are these young gen- tlemen ?" "They are Blatch. and Jig, pa. They go to St. Mark's, and Blatch sings bet- ter than I do." **How can vou sav that, Gerald?" said Blatchford Darce. **He does not, and vou know he does not. Gerald," said John Ignatius. "We will not trv to decide this mo- mentous question at present," said the Judge, smiling. "It is very kind of both of you to visit my boy. You are wel- come. We will try to find a way to amuse the three of vou.'* Gerald was confined to his bed for some days, not so much on account of his broken arm as the pain of the wrenched muscles of his leg. Every- body was very kind to him. Even the uncertain William was very thoughtful and attentive. As soon as Gerald was able to hobble around on crutches, he refused to stay in bed. What is a broken arm or a sprained leg, or both, to a lively, healthy bov of twelve or thirteen! Such little things as these were not going to keep him in the house, or at least, in bed. The first time he was allowed to leave his bed, he said to Granville : "Say, Jigsey, do you know what has become of my book%V' 270 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. "Where did vou leave them?" "When I made the giant swing — wasn't it great, though! — I remember I put them on the bench between the lockers and the needle-baths." "All right. I will look for them to- morrow. What do you want books now for? You don't have to go to school now." "I know that, but—" "If you don't have to be in class you won't want your books. Mr. Som-. ers won't call vou for recitation for a w week after you get back." "That's all right, Jig, but when do you think I can get back." "Not for a month, most likely. Guess you are mighty lucky." Whether Granville meant that his friend would be lucky if he were able to get back to college within a month, or that he was lucky that he did not have to go to class for a month, is not quite certain, but most probably he intended the latter. "Not much," said Gerald, "but, say, what did the boys say when I fell?" "They were very sorry for you. They — at least I did — thought that you were killed. My! wasn't I frightened! Everybody thought you were great, though, to do the giant swing the first time trying." "Did they! Guess I'll do it again as soon as my old arm gets all right. What did I want to go and break it for ! ugh !" "I dunno; but why do you bothe? about your books. They are safe some- where." "'Course they are; but if I have to stay at home for a month I am going to get behind bad." "Well? You won't be to blame for that." "Perhaps not, but I don't want to get behind." 'You can't help itr tf "Yes, I can. You bring me my books to-morrow and I'll study at home. I can keep up then." Granville was very much surprised at such a request. He had an undefined notion that his chum must be just a little bit crazy, and wondered whether people with broken arms always acted that way. But that was his view. Gerald looked at it differently. He remembered that he had promised his father to be awful good, and he knew thai to be good meant, in part, to do one's duty, and to do one's duty at college meant to study well. He, therefore, from principle, and not that he liked the task overmuch, de- termined, if possible, to keep up with his class. How many boys in his circum- stances would do likewise? It showed that, madcap as he was, full of tricks and pranks as he was, Gerald Albury was, as boys in their own vernacular would say, "all right." It was arranged that Gerald should be told every night by Granville what the lessons for the following day were, and they were to study for two hours every evening, and Granville was to carry all the written exercises to school. If Gerald had a premeditated design of capturing Mr. Somers' affections, and winning his esteem, he could have selected nothing more likely than this with which to succeed. The professor was so pleased with Gerald's industry under difficulties that on a Thursday he actually paid the astonished Albury a visit, during which the boy discovered a phase of his teacher's character of which he had not, hitherto, the remotest ink- ling. Gerald had known Mr. Somers in the capacity of teacher only, and a very stern teacher too. the boy frequently thought. Now he was kind and as gentle as a woman. Even his voice, which had often given the boy an electric shock THAT BOY GERALD. 271 when it had called him to order across the classroom, was now soft and low and musical. And the stories he told! Gerald wondered why he never told any of them in the classroom sometimes, forgetting that that was not the place for such things except on very rare oc- casions. Mr. Somers' visit changed Gerald's estimate of his teacher, al- though that was not so very surprising. The boy was having many of his views and estimates changed since he had en- tered the new world of college life. It must not be supposed that Gerald had no fun or amusement, and was work- ing hard at his books all the time of his detention from college. His friends oc- casionally enlivened the time for him by jokes and pranks. Here is a speci- men of one conspiracy. One evening Granville and Darce met Willie Albury on the veranda, previous to going to Gerald's room. **I say, Willie," said Darce, "Gran- ville has some candy here, and he has made a bet of his skate straps that Gerrie will refuse candy this evening." **Then Jig is going to lose his straps, sure. Whoever heard of Ger. refusing candy— or any other boy. either?" "Of course Gerald will get some at last," said John Ignatius, "but I bet he will first refuse it." "How are you going to do it?" "Will you help me?" "Sure! It would be the greatest fun to get the laugh on Ger." "All right. This is the way." John Ignatius passed to William a prettily flower^ candy box which he was to put in his inside coat pocket. He was then given instructions. Darce and Granville each had a similar box. All three being well instructed, they went up to Gerald's room. "Hello! Gerrie! how's the arm and the leg?" "Getting along all right. I'll be out soon for sure." ' "There's your lessons for to-morrow.** "Thanks." The three boys sat down around the table. Master Blatchford Darce, with a certain amount of ostentation, placed his candy box in front of him, and his hands over it as if he were guarding it from purloiners. "My! what ye got, Blatch?" asked Gerald, with eyes bulging. "Got some candies? That's great! Mamma gives me all sorts of things and books, but she says candies are not good for a broken arm.** Blatchford did not appear to notice Gerald's insinuated appeal, but talked to the other two boys, and, after a few minutes, removed his hands from the box as if he had forgotten the necessity of guarding it. That was Gerald's chance. He made a grab for the box, and drew it over to his side of the table. With his one available hand, he lifted the Hd with diffi- culty and^ found the box was — empty. "I thought he would make a grab for the empty box," said Willie, according to his instructions. He then put his own box on the table^ and acted as Blatch- ford Darce had previously done. Gerald was sure that the first box had been put there in order to fool him. The second must contain the feast. He watched his brother, and when that young gentleman, following the tactics of Darce, began to keep careless guard of his treasure" Gerald saw his chance and made a grab for box number two. Willie gave a great shout, as if he were losing a fortune, and his brother pro- ceeded to open the captured box, and found that it, also, was empty. There was great laughing at his expense. "You fellows think you are smart, don't ye ?' 2J2 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. "We did not say so," said Blatchford Darce. "I bet vou won't catch him the third time," remarked John Ignatius Gran- ville, in what is known as a stage whis- per, which Gerald heard distinctly. "Indeed, they will not," said young Albury to himself. "What are you bringing empty boxes here for? You fellows think yourselves awfully smart, don't ye?" "We did not sav we were," answered Darce again. "Haw! I don't want anv candies, any way," said Gerald, it must be con- fessed, regretfully. This remark was not literally true, and must be accepted with certain modifications. In the meantime, John Ignatius Gran- ville had placed his box under his hands on the table, or rather had locked his fingers around the box as if afraid it would jurrip away. Gerrie, will vou have some candies?" 'Naw ! thanks ; vou can't fool me a second — I mean a third — time," said the invalid. "Gerrie, will vou have some candies?" "It won't work, Jig. The joke is played out." "Gerrie will you have some candies — third time." asked John Ignatius. "You fellows think I am awfullv m green, don't you ?" and Gerald shook his head very wisely. He was not going to be caught any more. "I guess," said Granville, "I won the skate straps all right." "You certainly did," replied Blatch- ford Darce. Granville began to lift the lid of his box. He tilted it so that the top faced Gerald. The fine quality of candy which came to view when the lace paper was torn away made the eyes of even the other two conspirators bulge and twinkle in anticipation. <- tration or copy. Once at a literary meeting I heard an old artist tell, among ether charming histories, that when Rosa Bonheur sketched in the Louvre, perched peril- ously on her high, backless, oak stool, a lot of raw students poked fun at the little short-haired girl working with such furious energy. She broke her charcoal sticks with both pluck and grit over their unkempt, woolly heads. The father, ever on the wing, moved back of the Pare Monceau; 'twas there, amid the wild scenery, that his little daughter began her first studies of animals. Re- calling those times, Rosa Bonheur once said : "I tried to catch, in my study of animals, their rapid movements, the re- flection of their hides, their tones, the subtleness of their personalities, etc." Whether she caught this strange inner sense of every thing that hath breath — the Ego of the Latin fathers, the "Beast" of Balzac, "das Wesen," or Essence, of Schiller, this intangible, profound, silent, Spirit-Child, divine or satanic, that, very subtle, sleeps inert, like certain chem- icals, listless for years, apparently life- less, until the right outward affinity touches it, makes it catch fire, bum crys- tally luminous — the critic, thinker, an- alyzer, knows. Rosa Bonheur was accorded govern- mental permission to wear men's clothes that she might be freer in, more faithful to, her laborious, dangerous study of animals. Another Frenchwo- man, Madame Dieulafoy, archaeologist, who works by the side of her husband in his travels through the East, obtained the same permission. The slaughter-houses of Paris were the theatre of Rosa Bonheur's most strenuous, most capable labors. She was greatly hampered there by rude men, but as — so runs the old adage — "every cloud has its silver lining,'* she found friends. These friends turned up in the shape of an enormous red butcher and his good lady. Tlie butchers of France, like their comrades, *ics Dames des Ha lies." can't be joked over, as revo- lution and history testify. Their great brute physique alone carries its own weight. Well, this gentleman and his lady, "dresseurs de tete de Veaux," kept eye on the friendless stranger, invited her to share their "pot-au-feu" — ^an ROSA BONHEUR. 279 Irish stew, fragrant with young onion, sweet herb, perhaps a grandmother's solid dumpling — which she shared, being a close chum with hunger. Here, at least, the proverb, "Malheur est bon pour quelque chose," and the little rhyme, "A friend in need, is a friend indeed," held good. The Beaux-Arts bought of Rosa Bon- heur, before she was twenty, a picture. At twenty-five, she bore off a first-class medal for her "Boeufs rouges de Cantal." Two years later, the state acquired the "Labourage Nivernais," for twenty thou- sand francs. From this moneyed suc- cess sprang up a veritable army of adorers ; she was beset by offers of mar- riage by all sorts and kinds of suitors. All know her "Marche aux Chevaux" — a masterpiece of drawmg, movement, action, technique, force, atmosphere. This picture occupies an honored place in New York's Metropolitan Museum. One may be safe to state, in all good- will and courtesy, that France can be excused for being jealous, knowing that one of her greatest art creations, a local study of the first water, found ap- preciative, nay, reverent, home on sister soil. "Longum iter est per praecepta, Breve et efficax per exempla." — Seneca. The "Horse Fair" has moving history. It was painted in Rosa Bonheur's thir- tieth year, and was on exhibition at the Paris Salon right after its completion. France did not consider it worth her buying, although its admirers were many and strong. Rosa Bonheur, deeply wounded, then sent it to her native city, Bordeaux. Here it found no purchaser. It was exhibited at Bor- deaux, offered for sale at the meagre price of twelve thousand francs (twenty- four hundred dollars). Rosa Bonheur hoped ardently— one imagines how this hope was a pathetic, a real longing — for her country, to have this outcome of her grandest inspiration. Still not finding a purchaser, she was offered by Mr. Ernest Gambert, in 1855, forty thou- sand francs. Mr. Gambert obtained the artist's permission to take the painting to England and to have engravings made from it. Rosa Bonheur consented, and painted from the original a smaller picture, from which the engravings were produced, among them one by Thomas Landseer, a quarter size replica. In 1858, the original passed into the hands of Mr. W. P. Wright, of New York, for thirty thousand francs ; from Mr. Wright it went to Mr. Stewart. At the Stewart auction, 1887, it was bought by Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt for $52,500, and by him presented to the New York Metropolitan Museum, where it now is, on honorable line. The quarter size replica, from which the engravings were made, was sold in 1859 to Mr. Jacob Bell, who bequeathed it to the English nation. It is now in the National London Gallery. A few years later, a yet smaller replica was sold in London for four thousand pounds ($20,000): Another drawing, water- color, sold for two thousand, five hun- dred guineas ($12,000), and as treasured heirloom belongs to the town of Mid- dlesborough. "A prophet is not without honor, save in his own country;" and "the heart knoweth its own bitterness." The dignity of Rosa Bonheur's work is due to absence of petty detail. The corner-stone of her foundation was not unstable; her genius put forth bud and blossom and gracious fruit with- out exhausting its primeval root. Her lions are grandiose. One, three-quar- ters to the right, back view, is fine. His sombre mane contrasts with his tawny hide. His head, turned left, has the fore part of the body above the level of its hindquarters. The lion con- templates majestically, immovably, the rising sun. No part of the face is vis- ible. The entire anatomy is felt. It goes with lean, with yo'^^A o\\n^, ^\<3tCi THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. ROSA rtuMIKl'R. the CR'st hetwc-n tlie cars to the lip of the tail, curled slightly, just a touch above (he soil. The solitiiHe of the mighty desert is therein. .Xnother, "Royal Tiger in the JuiiKle." Three quarters to the right, front. His claws grip the gnmnd, his tail creeps the sand. His inuiith is wide; his jaws slahber ferocity, have the gesture of waiting to mangle bone, fibre and flesh, to stitle the last despairing cry. His left leg, rigid as a rock, helps to steady his eye. The long, sinewy grass of the jungle is noiseless, shields him. is friend to his bloody design. ^^"^u^^w Another. Lion's head ^^^H and shoulders, profile. ^|||^B The predominating im- ^V| pression of this work is r I the human, brooding, "^ yet clear-sighted look, riveted with a slight frown before him. The mouth is open, the eye but a speck, smilclcss, half-covered by an up- ward uncurving lid; this eye hides a thou- sand lights. A thick tuft of hair sets out straight from his brow like the mane of a Ro- man quadriga stallion. Another. An old lion- ess. She gazes full at you ; her locks seem sprinkled with gray ashes. Now comes a charm- ing one. Two lion's whelps. The cubs are unhappy. One has slapped his brother, slipped back, his paw yet upraised. His ex- ]>ression is childlike in- nocence. The other has tTirned his back, looks down with the most hu- man. Hie most perplexing wonder; the first brotherly wound, the first quarrel, the first slap, the first soltow. One question speaks: Why did you do it? .-\niong the varied mass of Rosa Bon- heiir's productions, there's one very telling. "The Stag Listening to the I'assing Wind." He is all alone; deep into wuoded foliage. His face fronting, well up, alert, his antlers towering like a branch. A few blossoming plants lie at his feet. The stillness filters forth, stirs you, too, into anxiety. The moss and the trees, the drifting clouds and the atmosphere, the possible danger that ROSA BONHEUR. slcims like a fog the surface of all earthly things gets hold of you. The "svelte," the gracious creature, poised like a breathless yet breathing marble, trem- bles and fears. You suffer, because you ilo not want him killed. Another. A lion's head with open mouth, roaring, forehead, nose and nos- trils splendidly foreshortened. Only mas- ters can foreshorten. The tongue, savage and restless, seems to taste blood, licks the two pointed teeth of the lower jaw. In studying this one recalls these hnes: "The lion did tear in pieces enough for his whelps, and strangled for his lionesses." The catlike ferocity is ably depicted in "Two Royal Tigers." These are three-quarters to the left, right legs at forward, implacable angle ; the hind legs the same, well back. Their ears are flat, their teeth gleam, their eyes sinister and traitor. The muscles of the nose are forbidding, snarling. Their backs are so foreshortened that they make but a short curve. Among her studies of deer, there is one too deliciously delicate to pass ; you, reader, shall share it. The glory of a windless dawn lies over a brook. A young roebuck is drinking. He stands at the extreme tip of a mossy inlet. The right leg's hoof is lost in the water, the left, half bent to the flank. The lips lie on the surface ; they seem to breathe, not drink. The wonder of this picture lies in the hquid shadows of legs, head, mouth. The soul of a pure, an intense sohtude, the chastity of the dawn yet unsoiled by the day, envelopes this poem. Rosa Bonheur had quite a collection of sheep alone, their wool remarkably true to nature. This study is loo short for elaborate analysis of the stupendous results of her labour. She "prayed as if no work could help her; Worked as if no prayer could help her." "This perpetual grappling with diffi- culties Rosa Bonheur did not cease to be acquainted with from the time when, yet a child, she went to copy the An- tiques in the Louvre, up to the moment of her death, when at her forest retreat, in her hermitage at By, she opened her soul to the -most vast inquiries of phy- losophy, asked herself, after having in- THE LONG ROCKS OF FO.VTAINEBLE.VU. 282 THE ROSARY MAGAZINE. terrogated the beasts and things about her, in what Tongue, or in what Silence * * * lies the Eternal Truth?"*— Roger Miles, Atelier Rosa Bonheur Catalogue Analytique. "Sieh das Gute liegt so nah." Rosa Bonheur was a plodder. The keynote of her character was the un- swerving fidelity to the tiling she had to do; that which she did, she did well, leaving its appreciation to those capable of appreciating. If this, ' grappling with difficulties" holds promise of success, honest, not spurious, how could such a powerful lever of the painter, writer, composer, show its lasting, its full tem- per, if the manifestation of his courage, his genius, his despair, his intellectual Hmit, fell right at once into comprehend- ing hands ? The first history of Millet's "An- gelus," is here fruitful illustration. Rosa Bonheur worked for the judgment of her own critical honesty, not the critical honesty of the world. Not a few human wrecks are due to the lack* of this hard "esprit critique ;" a very personal char- acteristic, difficult to sustain when a pos- sible moneyed market is weighed in the balance against the daily meat and bread. She forced her will, though dark was the outlook, up to the very fever point of success — success due to the plucky struggle to give birth to the divine conceptions within her. She was independent of influence; influence is weakening; for should the influence be stronger than that which it influences, unhealthy predominence, broadening into direful possibilities, might be the result. Her talent kept dead ahead, like the ball to the bull's eye; cut loose from every thing that clogged it ; sifted from ♦ Translation from the French, by Doro- thea K)umpke and Helen O'Sullivan Dixon. life's scums and flints their beauteotis grains of gold, brightening them to bril- liant uses. She was not a traveller; she con- tented herself with the immediate things about her — another exception to the saymg that to produce great things one must see great things I She "saw the good that lies so near/' drew from the circuit of her close environment the magnetic sparks that kept alive the cur- rent of her vitality, was strengthened, inspired, hopeful. Her existence was retiring. From 1855, she lived on the outskirts of the forest of Fontainebleau the simple, healthy life of a peasant; rode, hunted, drank in the inspiration of the whisper- ing trees, the breathing earth, the strange dawn and sunset, the mystic twilight with its sweet secrets, the deep, outswelling, symphonic night. She Was a mother to the countrymen during the 1870 Franco-Prussian war, giving them refuge beneath her fearless, protecting roof. She had faith in homely things— of all faiths, the most satisfying. One has but to ponder on the lives of the truly great to know that homely characters hold outrcaching. vital germs;