(navigation image)
Home American Libraries | Canadian Libraries | Universal Library | Community Texts | Project Gutenberg | Children's Library | Biodiversity Heritage Library | Additional Collections
Search: Advanced Search
Anonymous User (login or join us)
Upload
See other formats

Full text of "Ave Maria"




v^^r*^ 



^V9< 






^^r-^^v^ 



<^^-^5t.t<^'^ 



Xa 



/2-w 




Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2007 with funding from 

IVIicrosoft Corporation 



http://www.archive.org/details/avemaria23notruoft 



''O 



X' ^ 



atr iSeatam iMariam Uirsinem. 



(Recordare nostri, Sanctissima Virgo I 



CONTENTS- 




PROSE. 



Advent, 543 

Advocata Nostra. — Mercedes, - - 27* 

Advantages of the Holy Rosary, - - 375 
Alberto il Beato. — Octavia Hensei, • - 76 
Ancient Liturgies, The Blessed Virgin's 

Place in 385 

Ancient Miraculous Picture (An) of the 

Blessed Virgin, - . . - i^^ 
Annual Miracle (An) in a Village of the 

Apennines, .... 265 

Another Recent Cure at Lourdes, - 351 

Apostles — Where the Apostles Rest, - 591 
Apparitions of the Blessed Virgin, - - 591 
Art, The Influence of the Church on ,- 73 
Assumption (The) in kx\.— Eliza Allen Starr,\ti() 
Aspiring Shepherds (The)— A Kerry Legend. 

— T. F. Galwey, - 531, 555, 586 

"Ave Bell," The - - - - 207 

Beautiful Customs of a Catholic Land, 256 

Blessed Virgin (The) Some Titles of - 325 

Blessed Virgin (The), A Prayer of St. Ber- 
nard to - - - - - 207 
Blessed Virgin (The), An Ancient Miraculous 

Picture of 193 

Blessed Virgin (Devotion to the) in Ireland, 97 
Black Gown's Prophecy, The - 484, 510 
Blessed Virgin's Place (The) in Ancient Lit- 
urgies, 385 

Blessed Night, Tht—Eltza Allen Starr, 608 
Blessed Virgin, Apparitions of the - 591 

Book for Boys, A Notable - - 616 

Brahmin's Christmas, The— ^. L. Dorsey, 603 
Braun (Isabella).—^ S , - - - 583 
Brown Scapular (The) and the " Catholic 

Dictionary," - - , , ^^3 

" Catholic Dictionary " (The) and the Brown 

Scapular, - - . - - 553 
Catholic Total Abstinence Union of America, 

Sixteenth Annual Convention of - 161 
Catholic Poet (A), The Songs of - 337 

Catholic Land (A), Beautiful Customs of 256 
Catholic Notes, 18, 41, 64, 89, 114, 135, 184, 
208, 233, 258, 28r, 306, 328, 353, 378, 400, 
425, 449> 473- 496, 521, 544, 57o, 592, 614 
Charity, The Heroic Act of - - 471 

Church (The) and the Fine Arts, - 588 

Church (The Influence of the) on Art, - 73 
Christmas Day, The Liturgy of - - 601 
Claims of Science and Faith, The - 37 



Conversion of a Freethinker, - - 61 

Conversion (A") by Means of the Rosary, 590 
Corrigan (Archbishop) on the Right of 

Property, 577 

Cure, A Sudden and Extraordinary - 397 

Cure (Another Recent) at Lourdes, - 351 

Cure, A Wondrous - - - - 568 

Day at Einsiedeln, A - - - - 470 
Devotion to the Blessed Virgin in Ireland. 

— Jams Keegan, - - - 97 

Dedicating Children, - - - 183 
Devotion of the Holy Rosary, The Origin 

of the - _ _ . . ^QQ 

Devotion (The) of November, - 433 

Duty, Growth and . . - . i 

Einsiedeln, A Day at - - - - 470 

Excellence (The) of the Holy Rosary, 313 

Faith and Science, The Claims of — The 

Rev. R. S. Hawker on - - 37 

Favors of Our Queen, 61, 87, 133, 351, 397, 

448, 568 

Fine Arts (The), The Church and - 588 

Footprints of St. Dominic, - - 62 

Freethinker's Conversion, A - 61 

Genealogy of Mary, The - - 38 

Golden F^te, A— II. MS, - 352 
Growth and Duty. — TheRt.Rev.f: Lancaster 

Spalding, D. D., - - i 

Happy Anniversary in Rome, A — Isadote, 565 

Hardey (Madame), The Late - 17 
Hendricken (Bi-^hop), An Incident in the 

Life of - - - - 16 

" Heroic Act ' ' (The), The Indulgences of 5 20 

Heroic Act of Charity, The - 471 

Holy Man of Tours, The - - 395 

Holy Rosary, Advantages of the - 375 

Holy Water, The Origin and Use of - 145 

Holy Cross (The), Triumph of - - 422 

Holy Rosary (The), The Excellence of - 313 

Holy Name of Mary, The - - 241 

Immaculate Conception (The) in Art. 

Eliza Allen Starr, - ^ r2Q 
Indulgence (The) of the Portiuncula, Origin 

of - - - - III 

Indulgences of the "Heroic Act," - 520 



vt 



Index. 



Incident (An) in the Life of Bishop Hen- 

dricken, ... i6 

Influence ( The) of the Church on Art, - 73 
Ireland, Devotion to the Blessed Virgin in 97 
Iron Crown of Lombardy, The - 489 



Janssen (Johannes), 

Kerry Legend, A 
Knock, A Visit to 



534, 558 

531. 555. 5S6 
303 



Lake Como, Summer Ramblings by - 489 
Late Madame Hardey, The - - 17 

Leaves from Our Portfolio, - 37> 63 

Letter of the Rev. R. S. Hawkins on the 

Claims of Science and Faith, - 37 

Letter from Paris, - - * 39 

Legend ( The) of the Ghostly Mass, - 505 
Leaves from a Missionary's Note- Book, - 541 
Life (The) of Our Lady in the Temple, 

Thoughts on - - - 481 

Liturgy of Christmas Day, The - 601 

Lough Derg, The Pilgrimage of - 376 

Lourdes, Three Days at - 121,155 

Lourdes, Another Recent Cure at - 351 

Lourdes, A Protestant at - - 326 

Madonna del Sasso. — Octavia Hensel, - 29 
Madonna of Landen, VhQ—The Rev. F. 

Bicker staffe Drew, - - - 49 
Martyr's Letter, A - - - 63 

Martyrdoms, Variegated - - - 425 

Mary, The Holy Name of - - 241 

Mary, The Genealogy of - - - 38 

Milan, Souvenirs of - - - - 37^ 

Mission (A) in Mid-Ocean, - - 35 

Miraculous Picture (An Ancient) of the 

Blessed Virgin, - - - 193 

Miraculous Medal, Rosey O' Toole's - 87 
Miracle (An Annual) in a Village of the 

Apennines, .... 265 

Modern St. John Nepomucene, A "374 

Mother of God (The), Thoughts of Protest- 
ant Writers on - - - 112 
Motives of Prayer for the Dead, - - 433 

New Publications, - - 43, 137, 186, 

235, 282, 308, 355. 380 402, 427, 451, 

>T ., ^. * ^^5> 498, 524, 547, 571, 594 
Noble Three, A - - - - 180 

Notable Bjok (A) for Boys, ■- - - 616 

November, The Devotion of - - 433 

Obituary, - - - 19 44 67, 91, 116, 
138, 164, 188, 210, 260 284, 30S, 330. 
380, 403, 452, 475. 499» 548, 572, 595 
On the Mother ot G;d, - - - 112 
Origin of the Indulgence of the Pi)rtiunciila, 1 1 1 
Origin and Use ( Tht ) of Holy Water.— 7'/^<? 

Rev. A. A. Lambing, LL Z?., - 145 
Origin ( The) of the Devotion of ihe Holy 

Rosary, - - , . 409 



Our Lady's Birthday, Thoughts on - 217 
Our Unseen Guardians, - - 361 

Our Queen, Pavors of - 61,87, 133.351,397,448 
Our Lady in the Temple, Tnougais on me 

Lile of - - - - 481 

Palms (Concluded). — Anna Hanson Do? sey, 

13' 32, 57, 82, 105, 128, 158, 177, 204, 

231, 251, 275, 297, 322, 347. 369, 

411, 443. 466, 492, 516, 538, 561, 579 

Papal Infallioility, Mr. Proctor on - 1J3 

Paris, Letter from - - "39 

Patriotism, True - - - 255 

Philip's Restitution. — Christian Reid, 10, 25, 

54, 78, 100, 124, 151, 173, 200, 224, 243, 

268, 289. 316, 341, -^^i. 383, 419, 436, 457 

Pilgrimage of Lough Derg, Tne - 376 

Portiuncula (The Indulgence of the) Origin 

of • III 

Pope (The) at Home, - - - 398 

Proctor (Mr.) on Papal Infallibility, - 113 
Protestant Writers ( Thoughts of) on the 

Mother of God, - - - - 112 
Prayer (A) of St. Bernard to the Blessed Vir- 
gin, - - - - 207 
Predestination, A Sign of - - - 132 
Protestant (A) at Lourdes, - - - 326 
Prayer for the Dead, Motives of - 433 
Property (The Right of), Archbishop Corri- 

gan on 577 



508 



Republic (The) of the Sacred Heart, 
Relics ( The) of St. Anne, 

Rescue, A - 

Rif^ht of Property (The), Archbishop Corri 

gan on - - - - - 577 
Rosary (Holy), Origin ot the Devotion of the 408 

Rosary ( The), A Conversion by Means of 561 

Rome, A Happy Anniversary in - - 565 

Rosey O' Toole's Miraculous Medal, - 87 

Sacred Heart (The), The Republic of - 508 

Saintly Convict, A - - - - 37 

Saint (A), Perhaps, 60 

Science and F ith, The Rev. R S. Hawker 

on the Claims of - - - - 37 
Sermon by the Rev. Father Conaty at the 
Annual Convention of the C. T. A. U. 
of America, - - - - 161 
Sign (A) of Predestination, - - - 132 
Singular Grace, A. - - - - 448 
Singinp Rose of Erin, The — Eleanor C. Don- 
nelly, 220 

Sister L /uise, 610 

Sixteenth Annual Convention of the C. T. 

A U of America, - - - 161 

Soeur Ganrielle's Chaplet.- ^. V. N y 301 

S )ngs (Thf) of a Catholic P..et, - - 337 

'$iOwv^mx^K)iyi\\2iX\.- Octavia Hensel, - 372 

St John Nepomucene, A Modern - 374 

St. Anne, The Relics of - - ^ Zd 



Index. 



vit 



St. Dominic, Footprints of - - - 
St. Catherine's Well.—/ /. McG., 
St, Hubert of Bretigny, - 

• St. Bernard (.\ Prayer of) to the Blessed 
Virgin, 
Summer Ramblings by Lake Como. — 

Odavia Hensel, . . . 

Sudden and Extraordinary Cure, A - - 



62 
182 
446 

207 

489 
397 



I 
I 



Thoughts on the Life of Our Lady in the 

Temple, - - - 481 

Thoughts of Protestant Writers on the 

Mother of God, - - 112 

Three Days at Lourdes. — A Benedictine Abbot, 

i2i» 155 

Thoughts on Our Lady's Birthday. — Edmund 



of the Heart of Mary, C. P., 



217 



Titles (Some) of the Blessed Virgin, 
Tours, The Holy Man of - - 

Triumph (The) of the Holy Cross. — From 

the Spanish, - , . 

True Patriotism. — Paul Feval, 

Value of a Good Book, The 

Variegated Martyrdoms, 

Visit to Knock, A - - - . 



325 

395 

422 
255 

425 
303 



108 

591 
609 



What the Contents of a Casket Recalled, 

Where the Apostles Rest, 

White Cornet, The 

With Staff and Scrip. —C^^r/^j Warren 

Stoddard, - 196, 227, 249, 271, 293, 320 
34S» 366, 391, 416, 440, 461, 486, 514 

Wondrous Cure, A - - - 568 



POETRY. 



Ad Beatam Virginem Mariam. — 

Leo FP XIII., 
Agnes Violet — Eliza Allen Starr, 
AUSaints'.— M J/.^., 
All We Need to Know is Plain. — Samuel H. 

Derbey, 31 

An Hour with St. Anne. — Angelique de Lande, 104 
Assumption of Our Lady, The — The Rev. 

R. Belaney, M. A., 
Ave Maria (Music), 



217 

588 
433 



151 
624 



Better Part, T\it—From the French ofS.F., 
C. S a, by M. E. M., 



553 



Cecilia.--^. H., .... 

Christmas Hymn. — M. A , 
Claudia's Monument. — EleanorC. Donnelly, 48 
Completion (The) of Gilding the Dome. — 

Arthur J. Stace, 
Consolatrix Afflictorura. — Angelique de 

Lande, .... 
Cbr Purissimum. — M. R., - 
Dowry of Mary, The— J/. G R., 



519 
607 



3-^^ 



344 
289 
469 



Enough Remains. — B. I. D , - - 172 

Feast of Gladness, T\it-^ Marion Muir, ~ 9 
Fool's Prayer, The - - . 564 

Golden October.— J/. A., - - 361 

God Keeps His Own. — Angelique de Lande, 388 
Growing Older. — Angelique de Lande, - 53 

Hostages. — M EM, 

Hymn to the Sacred Heart.— J/. A., 

In Memory.—^. /. Durward, 
Irish Lamp (The) at \.0Vixd.^%.— Eleanor C. 
Donnelly, 



25 
243 

529 
319 



Light and Heat. — From the German of Schiller, 



by J. P. R., 

M.z.ry.— John B. Tabb, 
Master's Lesson, ThQ — Angelique de Lande, 
Mater Dolorosa. — Thomas J. Kernan, 
Month of the Dead, The — Angelique de 

Lande, 
My Father's Promise. — E. P. Ryder, 



203 

61 

195 
419 

508 
'3 



O Dulcis Virgo Maria ! — Albert H. Hardy, 182 
Office Divine, The — Mercedes, - 394 

On Christ's Nativity. — Margs ret H. Lawless, 60 1 
Opportunity. — The Author of ' 'Deirdre, ' ' 495 

Sailor's Song, The — Morwenna P. Hawker, 248 
September Sonnet, A — JV. D. Kelly, - 227 
Sonnet (A) to Our Blessed Lady — Vittoria 

Colonna, - - . 278 

St. Anne. — M. A., - . - 75 

St. Germain at Nanterre. — Margaret E. 

Jordan, - - - - 127 

St. Joseph's Chapel. — Edna Proctor Clarke, 157 

Thought (A) for a Friend.— »S>/w^ Hunting, 457 
Through the Shadows.— C. W. S., - 583 
To the Blessed Virgin MsLry.— Pope Leo XIIL, 



Translation by W. IV. Fitzmaurice, 
To a Crimson Cactus Flower. — Mercedes, 
To B. I. Durward. — Eliza Allen Starr, - 
Trust, - - - . . 

Two Flowers. — Edmund of the Heart of 

Mary, C. P., - - - 

Vas Insigne Devotionis, 

Virgin Immaculate. — Angelique de Lande, 

Vivam in Dies. — E. P. Ryder, 

Within the Fold.— y^. D. L , - 
Wreath (The^ and the Flower. — Edmund 
of the Heart of Mary , C. P., 



397 

296 

^6 



537 

369 

577 
97 

415 
368 



vttt 



Index, 



Youth's Department. 



PROSE. 



Adventure (An) in the Thuringian Forest. 

—M R, 
Almsgiving, The Reward of 

Birds of Heaven, The 

Bodger; or, How it Happened. — E.L.D. 



164 



525 
504 

284 

I Eg 
312 

264 
47 

456 
116 
621 

432 

68, 92 



550 
1O8 

384 

72 

67 



70, 
142 



Blessed Virgin, Pictures of 

Blessed Virgin (The), A Lover of - 

Bridget. — A Prison Story, 

Caliph (The), The Judge and 
Charity, A Lesson of - 
Christmas Eve in Holland, - 
Confession and Restitution, 
Cross (The), A Victory of 

Emperor (The) and the Minstrel. — Z. M. 
Episode (An) of the Reign of Terror, 
Example (An) of Honesty, 

Faithful Guide, A - - - 

Feast (The) of la Sainte Enfance, 
Francis and Francesco. — Flora L. Stanfield, 476 
From Tipperary to Texa*?. — The Adventures 
of Tibby Butler. — T. F.Galwey, 20, 44 

93> "9> 

Guardian Angel (What a Boy's) Did, - 330 
Guilt, Innocence and - - 360 

Haydn's Answer, - - - 456 

Heaven, The Birds of - - 284 

Honesty, An Eximple of - - 384 

How Theodoret's Mother was Cured of 

Vanity, - - - - 312 

How Jean Bart Saved the Beacon-Tower, 499 

How a Priest Took Revenge, - 551 

Innocence and Guilt, - - - 360 

Ivan's Story, - - - - 309 

Jet, the War-Mule ; or, Five Days with 

Kilpatrick.— ^. Z. Z>., - 332, 356, 381, 

405, 428, 452, 477, 502, 526 

Judge (The) and the Caliph, - - 456 

Lesson (A) of Charity, - - 116 

Lesson (The) the Water- Drops Taught, - 575 



Little Margaret, - - - 191 

Little Boy (A) but a Great Heart, - 211 

Little Paul, the C hristmas Child. — M.S.M , 617 
Lover (A) of the Blessed Virgin, - 264 

Madonna of the Chair (The), A Story of 404, 430 
Minnie's Composition, - - 595 

" Miss Discontent." — M.J. B., - 238 

Mother's Prayer, A - - - 599 

Mozart's Prayer, - - - 600 

Norine's Promise, - - 236, 260 

"OMary! O My Mother!" 

One Father's Course, 

One of the Benevolent Deeds of Pius IX., 

Order of the Garter, The 

Our Lady's Care of a Wayward Child. — 

E.V. N, 
Our Lady's Orphan, - . . 

Pictures of the Blessed Virgin, 

Pius IX., One of the Benevolent Deeds of 

Prison Story, A - - - 



144 

96 

263 

24 

572 
213 



312 
263 
47 
168 
432 
504 



Reign of Terror (The), An Episode of 
Restitution, Confession and 
Reward of Almsgiving, The 

Sainte Enfance (la), The Feast of - 67 

Saved by a White Owl, - - 576 

Short Life (The) Fulfilling a Long Time. — 

Eliza Allen Starr^ - - 287 

Sistine Madonna (The) A Pretty Story of 288 
Speedy Reward, A - - - 384 

Story (A Pretty) of the Sistine Madonna, 288 
Story (.\) of the Madonna of the Chair, 404, 430 
Story (The) Mother Told between Day and 
Dark — How Jean Bart Saved the Beacon- 
Tower. — M, E. Jordan, - 499 
Story of Little Mathilde, The— 6*. H., 548 

"This One is Mine," - - - 528 

Victory (A) of the Cxq's&. — Elizabeth 

King, - - - - 68, 92 

What a Boy's Guardian Angel Did. — T/ie 

Rev. Father Lambing, - - 330 



POETRY. 



All Souls' Day.— 7?. V.R., 

Bear and Forbear. — R. H., 

Christmas Eve, 

Claudia before the Emperor. 

Little Deeds, 



M.A.. 



- 452 
572 

- 617 
356 

116 



Noble Deeds. — Asbury, - - 284 

Our Lady's Lilies.—^. ^. 5., - - 138 
Unknown Martyr, The— G^;^^ Weatherly, 260 
Woodland Carol, A — Mercedes, - - 20 




Vol. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, JULY 3, 1886. 



No. I. 



C 



[Copyright :— Rrr. D. K. Hudtoh, O. 8. C.] 



Growth and Duty.* 



BY THE RT. REV. J. I^ANCAvSTER SPALDING, D. D. 




HAT life is in itself we do not know, 
any more than we know what mat- 
ter is in itself; but we know some- 
thing of the properties of matter, and we 
also have some knowledge of the laws of 
life. Here it is sufficient to call attention 
to the law of growth, through which the 
living receive the power of self-develop- 
ment — of bringing their endowments into 
act, of building up the being which they are. 
Whatever living thing is strong or beauti- 
ful has been made so by growth, since life 
begins in darkness and impotence. To grow 
is to be fresh and joyous. Hence the Spring 
is the glad time; for the earth itself then 
seems to renew its youth, and enter on a 
fairer life. The growing grass, the bud- 
ding leaves, the sprouting corn, coming as 
with unheard shout from regions of the 
dead, fill us with happy thoughts, because 
in them we behold the vigor of life, bring- 
ing promise of higher things. 

Nature herself seems to rejoice in this 
vital energy ; for the insects hum, the birds 
sing, the lambs skip, and the very brooks 
give forth a merry sound. Growth leads us 
through Wonderland. It touches the germs 



* An Oration delivered at the forty-second An- 
nual Commencement of the University of Notre 
Dame. 



lying in darkness, and the myriad forms of 
life spring to view; the mists are lifted from 
the valleys of death, and flowers bloom and 
shed fragrance through the air. Only the 
growing — those who each moment are be- 
coming something more than they were 
— feel the worth and joyousness of life. 
Upon the youth nothing palls, for he is 
himself day by day rising into higher and 
wider worlds. To grow is to have faith, hope, 
courage. The boy who has become able to 
do what a while ago was impossible to him, 
easily believes that nothing is impossible; 
and as his powers unfold, his self-confidence 
is nourished; he exults in the conscious- 
ness of increasing strength, and can not in 
any way be made to understand the doubts 
and faint-heartedness of men who have 
ceased to grow. Each hour he puts off some 
impotence, and why shall he not have faith 
in his destiny, and feel that he shall yet 
grow to be poet, orator, hero, or what you 
will that is great and noble ? And as he de- 
lights in life, we take delight in him. 

In the same way a young race of people 
possesses a magic charm. Homer's heroes 
are barbarians, but they are inspiring, be- 
cause they belong to a growing race, and 
we see in them the budding promise of the 
day when Alexander's sword shall conquer 
the world ; when Plato shall teach the phi- 
losophy which all men who think must 
know; and when Pericles shall bid the arts 
blossom in a perfection which is the despair 
of succeeding generations. And so in the 
Middle Age there is barbarism enough, with 



The Ave Maria, 



its lawlessness and ignorance; but there is 
also faith, courage, strength, which tell of 
youth, and point to a time of mature fac- 
ulty and high achievement. There is the 
rich purple dawn, which shall grow into the 
full day of our modern life. 

And here in this New World we are the 
new people, in whose growth what highest 
hopes, what heavenly promises lie! All the 
nations which are moving forward, are 
moving in directions in which we have 
gone before them — to larger political and 
religious liberty; to* wider and more gen- 
eral education; to the destroying of priv- 
ilege, and the disestablishment of State 
churches; to the recognition of the equal 
rights not only of all men, but of all men 
and women. 

We also lead the way in the revolution 
which has been set in motion by the ap- 
plication of science to mechanical purposes, 
one of the results of which is seen in the 
industrial and commercial miracles of the 
present century. It is our vigorous growth 
which makes us the most interesting and 
attractive of the modern peoples. For 
whether men love us, or whether they hate 
us, they find it impossible to ignore us, 
unless they wish to argue themselves un- 
known; and the millions who yearn for 
freedom and opportunity, turn first of all to 
us. 

But observant minds, however much they 
may love America, however great their 
faith in popular government may be, can 
not contemplate our actual condition with- 
out a sense of disquietude; for there are 
aspects of our social evolution which sad- 
den and depress even the most patriotic and 
loyal hearts. It would seem, for instance, 
that with us, while the multitude are made 
comfortable and keen-witted, the individ- 
ual remains commonplace and weak ; so 
that on all sides people are beginning to 
ask themselves what is the good of all this 
money and machinery, if the race of god- 
like men is to die out, or indeed if the re- 
sult is not to be some nobler and better sort 
of man than the one with whom we have 
all along been familiar. Is not the yearn- 



ing for divine men inborn? In the heroic 
ages such men were worshipped as gods, 
and one of the calamities of times of de- 
generacy is the dying out of faith in the 
worth of true manhood through the disap- 
pearance of superior men. Such men alone 
are memorable, and give to history its in- 
spiring and educating power. The ruins of 
Athens and Rome, the cathedrals and cas- 
tles of Europe, uplift and strengthen the 
heart, because they bid us reflect what 
thoughts and hopes were theirs who thus 
could build. How quickly kings and peas- 
ants, millionaires and paupers, become a 
common, undistinguished herd! But the 
hero, the poet, the saint defy the ages, and 
remain luminous and separate, like stars. 
They 

"Waged contention with their time's decay, 
And of the past are all that can not pass away. ' ' 

The soul, which makes man immortal, 
has alone the power to make him beneficent 
and beautiful. 

But in this highest kind of man, in whom 
soul — that is, faith, hope, love, courage, in- 
tellect — is supreme, we Americans, who 
are on the crest of the topmost waves of 
the stream of tendency, are not rich. We 
have our popular heroes ; but so has every 
petty people, every tribe its heroes. The 
dithyrambic prose in which it is the fashion 
to celebrate our conspicuous men has a 
hollow sound, very like cant. A marvel- 
lous development of wealth and numbers 
has taken place in America ; but what 
American — poet, philosopher, scientist, 
warrior, ruler, saint — is there who can take 
his place with the foremost men of all this 
world ? The American people seem still to 
be somewhat in the position of our n:w 
millionaires: their fortune is above them, 
overshadows and oppresses them. They live 
in fine houses, and have common thoughts; 
they have costly libraries, and cheap cult- 
ure; and their rich clothing poorly hides 
their coarse feeling. Nor does the tendency 
seem to be towards a nobler type of man- 
hood. 

The leaders of the Revolution, the fram- 
ers of the Federal Constitution, the men 



b- 



The Ave Maria, 



who contended for State-rights, and still 
more those who led in the great struggle 
for human rights, were of stronger and 
nobler mould than the politicians who now 
crowd the halls of Congress. Were it not 
for the Pension Office, one might cherish 
the belief that in our civilization the soldier 
is doomed to extinction, and that the mil- 
itary hero will be known only to those who 
study the remains of a past geologic era. 
Bven as things are, what a blessed country 
is not this, where generals, not to be idle, 
are reduced to the necessity of fighting 
their battles in the pages of sensational 
magazines — powder magazines being no 
longer needed, except for purposes of blast- 
ing! The promise of a literature which a 
generation ago budded forth in New Eng- 
land was, it appears, delusive. What a sad 
book is not that recently issued from the 
press on the poets of America! It is the 
chapter on snakes in Ireland, which we 
have all read — there are none. And are not 
our literary men whom it is possible to ad- 
mire and love either dead, or old enough 
to die? 

All this, however, need not be cause for 
discouragement, if in the generations which 
are springing up around us, and which are 
soon to enter upon the scene of active life, 
we could discover the boundless confidence, 
the high courage, the noble sentiments, 
which make the faults of youth more at- 
tractive than the formal virtues of a ma- 
turer age. But youth seems about to 
disappear from human life, to leave only 
children and men. For a true youth the 
age of chivalry has not passed, nor has the 
age of faith, nor the age of poetry, nor the 
age of aught that is godlike and ideal. To 
our young men, however, high thoughts 
and heroic sentiments are what they are to 
a railroad president or a bank cashier — 
mere nonsense. Life for them is wholly 
prosaic, and without illusions. They trans- 
form ideas into interests, faith into a specu- 
lation, and love into a financial transaction. 
They have no vague yearnings for what 
can not be; hardly have they any passions. 
They are cold and calculating. They deny 



themselves, and do not believe in self- 
denial; they are active, and do not love 
labor; they are energetic, and have no 
enthusiasm; they approach life with the 
hard, mechanical thoughts with which a 
scientist studies matter. Their one idea is 
success, and success for them is money. 
Money means power, it means leisure, it 
means self-indulgence, it means display; 
it means, in a word, the thousand comforts 
and luxuries which, in their opinion, con- 
stitute the good of life. 

In aristocratic societies, the young have 
had a passion for distinction. They have 
held it to be an excellent thing to belong to 
a noble family, to occupy an elevated posi- 
tion, to wear the glittering badges of birth 
and of office. In ages of religious faith 
they have been smitten with the love 'of 
divine ideals ; they have yearned for God, 
and given all the strength of their hearts to 
make His will prevail. But to our youth, 
distinction of birth is fictitious, and God is 
problematic; and so they are left face to 
face with material aims and ends; and of 
such aims and ends money is the universal 
equivalent. 

Now, it could not ever occur to me to 
think of denying that the basis of human 
life, individual and social, is material. 
Matter is part of our nature ; we are bedded 
in it, and by it are nourished. It is the in- 
strument we must use even when we think 
and love, when we hope and pray. Upon 
this foundation our spiritual being is built: 
upon this foundation our social welfare rests. 
Concern for material interests is one of the 
chief causes of human progress, since noth- 
ing else so stimulates to effort, and effiort is 
the law of growth. The savage, who has 
no conception of money, but is satisfied 
with what nature provides, remains forever 
a savage. Habits of industry, of order, of 
punctuality, of economy and thrift, are, to 
a great extent, the result of our money- 
getting propensities. Our material wants 
are more urgent, more irresistible ; they 
press more constantly upon us than any 
other; and those whom they fail to rouse 
to exertion are, as a rule, hopelessly given 



The Ave Maria. 



over to indolence and sloth. In the stim- 
ulus of these lower needs, then, is found 
the providential impulse which drives man 
to labor, and without labor welfare is not 
possible. 
The poor must work, if they would drink and eat; 

The weak must work, if they in strength would 
grow; 

The ignorant must work, if they would know; 
The sad must work, if they sweet joy would meet. 

The strong must work, if they would shun defeat; 

The rich must work, if they would flee from woe; 

The proud must work, if they would upward go ; 
The brave must work, if they would not retreat. 

So on all men this law of work is lain: 

It gives them food, strength, knowledge, vict'ry, 
peace; 
It makes joy possible, and lessens pain; 

From passion's lawless power it wins release, 
Confirms the heart, and widens reason's reign; 
Makes men like God, whose work can never 

cease. 
Whatever enables man to overcome his 
inborn love of ease is, in so far, the source of 
good. Now, money represents what more 
than any thing " else has this stimulating 
power. It is the equivalent of what we eat 
and drink, of the homes we live in, of the 
comforts with which we surround ourselves ; 
of the independence which makes us free 
to go here or there, to do this or that — to 
spend the Winter where orange blossoms 
perfume the soft air, and the Summer where 
ocean breezes quicken the pulse of life. It 
unlocks for us the treasury of the world, 
opens to our gaze whatever is sublime or 
beautiful ; introduces us to the rhaster-minds, 
who live in their works; it leads us where 
orators declaim, and singers thrill the soul 
with ecstasy. Nay, more, with it we build 
churches, endow schools, and provide hos- 
pitals and asylums for the weak and help- 
less. It is, indeed, like a god of this nether 
world, holding dominion over many spheres 
of life, and receiving the heart- worship of 
millions. 

And yet if we make money and its equiv- 
alents a life-purpose — the aim and end 
of our earthly hopes — our service becomes 
idolatry, and a blight falls upon our nobler 
self. Money is the equivalent of what is 



venal— of all that may be bought or sold; 
but the best, the godlike, the distinctively 
human, can not be bought or sold. A rich 
man can buy a wife, but not a woman's 
love; he can buy books, but not an appre- 
ciative mind; he can buy a pew, but not 
a pure conscience; he can buy men's votes 
and flattery, but not their respect. The 
money-world is visible, material, mechan- 
ical, external ; the world of the soul, of 
the better self, is invisible, spiritual, vital. 
God's kingdom is within. What we have 
is not what we are; and the all-important- 
thing is to be, and not to have. Our pos- 
sessions belong to us only in a mechanical 
way. The poet's soul owns the stars and 
the moonlit heavens, the mountains and 
rivers, the flowers and the birds, more truly 
than a millionaire owns his bonds. What 
I know is mine, and what I love is mine; 
and as my knowledge widens and my love 
deepens, my life is enlarged and intensified. 
But, since all human knowledge is imper- 
fect and narrow, the soul stretches forth 
the tendrils of faith and hope. Looking 
upon shadows, we believe in realities ; pos- 
sessing what is vain and empty, we trust 
to the future to bring what is full and com- 
plete. 

All noble literature and life has its origin 
in regions where the mind sees but darkly; 
where faith is more potent than knowledge; 
where hope is larger than possession, and 
love mightier than sensation. The soul is 
dwarfed whenever it clings to what is pal- 
pable and plain, fixed and bounded. Its 
home is in worlds which can not be meas- 
ured and weighed. It has infinite hopes, and 
longings, and fears; lives in the conflux of 
immensities; bathes on shores where waves 
of boundless yearning break. Borne on the 
wings of time, it still feels that only what 
is eternal is real — that what death can de- 
stroy is even now but a shadow. To it all 
outward things are formal, and what is less 
than God is hardly anything. In this mys- 
terious, supersensible world all true ideals 
originate, and such ideals are to human life 
as rain and sunshine to the corn by which 
it is nourished. 




The Ave Maria. 



I 



What hope for the future is there, then, 
when the young have no enthusiasm, no 
heavenly illusions, no divine aspirations, 
no faith that man may become godlike, 
more than poets have ever imagined, or 
philosophers dreamed? — when money, and 
what money buys, is the highest they know, 
and therefore the highest they are able to 
love? — when even the ambitious among 
them set out with the deliberate purpose of 
becoming the beggars of men's votes; of 
winning an office, the chief worth of which, 
in their eyes, lies in its emoluments? — when 
even the glorious and far-sounding voice of 
fame for them means only the gabble and 
cackle of notoriety? 

The only example which I can call to 
mind of a historic people, whose ideals are 
altogether material and mechanical, is that 
of China. Are we, then, destined to become 
a sort of Chinese Empire, with three hun- 
dred millions of human beings, and not a 
divine man or woman? 

Is what Carlyle says is hitherto our sole 
achievement — the bringing into existence 
of an almost incredible number of bores-^ 
is this to be the final outcome of our na- 
tional life? Is the commonest man the only 
type which in a democratic society will in 
the end survive? Does universal equality 
mean universal inferiority? Are repub- 
lican institutions fatal to noble personality ? 
Are the people as little friendly to men of 
moral and intellectual superiority as they 
are to men of great wealth ? Is their dislike 
of the millionaires but a symptom of their 
aversion to all who in any way are distin- 
guished from the crowd? And is this the 
explanation of the blight which falls upon 
the imagination and the hearts of the 
young? 

Ah! surely, we, who have faith in human 
nature, who believe in freedom and in pop- 
ular government, can never doubt what an- 
swer must be given to all these questions. 
A society which inevitably represses what 
is highest in the best sort of men is an evil 
society. A civilization which destroys faith 
in genius, in heroism, in sanctity, is the fore- 
runner of barbarism. Individuality is man's 



noblest triumph over fate, his most heav- 
enly assertion of the freedom of the soul; 
and a world iu which individuality is made 
impossible is a slavish world. There man 
dwindles, becomes one of a multitude, the 
impersonal product of a. general law, and 
all his godlike strength and beauty are 
lost. Is not one true poet more precious 
than a whole generation of millionaires; 
one philosopher of more worth than ten 
thousand members of Congress; one man 
who sees and loves God dearer than an 
army of able editors? 

The greater our control of nature be- 
comes — the more its treasures are explored 
and utilized, the greater the need of strong 
personality to counteract the fatal force of 
matter. Just as men in tropical countries 
are overwhelmed and dwarfed by nature's 
rich profusion, so in this age, in which in- 
dustry and science have produced resources 
far beyond the power of unassisted nature, 
only strong characters, marked individual- 
ities, can resist the influence of wealth and 
machinery, which tend to make man of less 
importance than what he eats and wears — 
to make him subordinate to the tools he 
uses. 

From many sides personality, which is 
the fountain-head of worth, genius, and 
power, is menaced. The spirit of the time 
would deny that God is a Person, and holds 
man's personality in slight esteem, as not 
rooted in the soul, but in aggregated atoms. 
And the whole social network, in whose 
meshes we are all caught, cripples and 
paralyzes individuality. We must belong to 
a party, to a society, to a ring, to a clique, 
and deliver up our living thought to these 
soulless entities. Or, if we remain aloof 
from such affiliation, we must have no 
honest convictions, no fixed principles, but 
fit our words to business and professional 
interests, and conform to the exigencies of 
the prevailing whim. The minister is 
hired to preach not what he believes, but 
what the people wish to hear; the congress- 
man is elected to vote not in the light of 
his own mind, but in obedience to the dic- 
tates of those who send him; the newspa- 



6 



The Ave Maria. 



per circulates not because it is filled with 
words of truth and wisdom, but because it 
panders to the pruriency and prejudice of 
its patrons; and a book is popular in in- 
verse ratio to its individuality and worth. 
Our National Library is filled with books 
which have copyright, but no other right, 
human or divine, to exist at all. And 
when one of us does succeed in asserting 
his personality, he usually only makes him- 
self odd and ridiculous. He rushes into 
polygamous Mormonism, or buffoon revi- 
valism, or shallow-minded atheism ; nay. he 
will even become an anarchist, because a 
few men have too much money and too 
little soul. What we need is neither the 
absence of individuality nor a morbid in- 
dividuality, but high and strong personali- 
ties. 

If our country is to be great, and forever 
memorable, something quite other than 
wealth and numbers will make it so. Were 
there but question of countless millions of 
dollars and people, then indeed the victory 
would already have been gained. If we 
are to serve the highest interests of man- 
kind, and to mark an advance in human 
history, we must do more than establish 
universal suffrage, and teach every child to 
read and write. As true criticism deals 
only with men of genius or of the best tal- 
ent, and takes no serious notice of mechan- 
ical writers and book-makers, so true his- 
tory loses sight of nations whose only dis- 
tinction lies in their riches and populous- 
ness. The noblest and most gifted men 
and women are alone supremely interesting 
and abidingly memorable. We have al- 
ready reached a point where we perceive 
the unreality of the importance which the 
chronicles have sought to give to mere 
kings and captains. If the king was a hero, 
we love him ; but if he was a sot or a cow- 
ard, his jewelled crown and purple robes 
leave him as unconsidered by us as the 
beggar in his rags. Whatever influence, 
favorable or unfavorable, democracy may 
exert to make easy or difficult the advent 
of the noblest kind of man, an age in which 
the people think and rule will strip from 



all sham greatness its trappings and tinsel. 
The parade hero and windy orator will be 
gazed at and applauded, but they are all 
the while transparent and contemptible. 
The scientific spirit, too, which now prevails 
is the foe of all pretence: it looks at things 
in their naked reality, is concerned to get 
a view of the fact as it is in itself, without 
a care whether it be a beautiful or an ugly, 
a sweet or a bitter truth. The fact is what 
it is, and nothing can be gained by believ- 
ing it to be what it is not. 

This is a most wise and human way of 
looking at things, if men will only not 
forget that the mind sees farther than the 
eye, that the heart feels deeper than the 
hand ; and that where knowledge fails, faith 
is left; where possession is denied, hope 
remains. The young must enter upon their 
life-work with the conviction that only 
what is real is true, good and beautiful; 
and that the unreal is altogether futile and 
vain. 

Now, the most real thing for every man, if 
he is a man, is his own soul. His thought, 
his love, his faith, his hope are but his soul 
thinking, loving, believing, hoping. His 
joy and misery are but his soul glad or sad. 
Hence, so far as we are able to see or argue, 
the essence of reality is spiritual ; and, since 
the soul is conscious that it is not the su- 
preme reality, but is dependent, illumined 
by a truth higher than itself, nourished by 
a love larger than its own, it has a dim 
vision of the Infinite Being as essentially 
real and essentially spiritual. A living 
faith in this infinite spiritual reality is the 
fountain-head not only of religion, but of 
noble life. All wavering here is a symptom 
of psychic paralysis. When the infinite real- 
ity becomes questionable, then all things 
become material and vile. The world be- 
comes a world of sight and sound, of taste 
and touch. The soul is poured through 
the senses and dissipated; the current of 
life stagnates, and grows fetid in sloughs 
and marshes. Minds for whom God is the 
Unknowable have no faith in knowledge 
at all, except as the equivalent of weight 
and measure, of taste and touch and smell. 



TM Av^ Maria. 



I V Now, if all that may be known and de- 
sired is reduced to this material expression, 
how dull and beggarly does not life be- 
come — mere atomic integration and dis- 
integration, the poor human pneumatic 
machine puffing along the dusty road of 
matter, bound and helpless and soulless as 

B p#i clanking engine! No high life, in indi- 

I Hhduals or nations, is to be hoped for, un- 
less it is enrooted in the infinite spiritual 
reality — in God. It is forever indubitable 

I^Brat the highest is not material, and no 
argument is therefore needed to show that 
when spiritual ideals lose their power -of 

•ittraction, life sinks to lower beds. 
Sight is the noblest sense, and the starlit 
ky is the most sublime object we can be- 
hold. But what do we in reality see there? 
Only a kind of large tent dimly lighted with 
gas jets. This is the noblest thing the no- 
blest sense reveals. But let the soul appear, 
and the tent flies into invisible shreds: the 
heavens break open from abyss to abyss, 
still widening into limitless expanse, until 
imagination reels. The gas jets grow into 
suns, blazing since innumerable ages with 
unendurable light, and binding whole plan- 
etary systems into harmony and life. So 
infinitely does the soul transcend the senses! 
The world it lives in is boundless, eternal, 
sublime. This is its home ; this the sphere 
in which it grows and awakens to conscious- 
ness of kinship with God. This is the 
fathomless, shoreless abyss of being wherein 
it is plunged, from which it draws its life, 
its yearning for the absolute, its undying 
hope, its love of the best, its craving for 
immortality, its instinct for eternal things. 
To condemn it to work merely for money, 
for position, for applause, for pleasure, is to 
degrade it to the condition of a slave. It 
is as though we should take some supreme 
poet or hero and bid him break stones or 
grind corn, — he who has the faculty to give 
to truth its divinest form, and to lift the 
hearts of nations to the love of heavenly 
things. 

Whatever our lot on earth may be — 
whether we toil with the hand, with the 
brain, or with the heart — we may not bind 



the soul to any slavish service. Let us do our 
work like men, — till the soil, build homes,, 
refine brute matter, be learned in law, in 
medicine, in theology; but let us never 
chain our souls to what they work in. No- 
earthly work can lay claim to the wholes 
life of man; for every man is born for Gody 
for the Universe, and may not narrow his 
mind. We must have some practical thing 
to do in the world — some way of living 
which will place us in harmony with the 
requirements and needs of earthly life; and 
what this daily business of ours shall be, 
each one, in view of his endowments and 
surroundings, must decide for himself. 

And it is well to bear in mind that every 
kind of life has its advantages, except an 
immoral life. Whatever we make of our- 
selves, then — whether farmers, mechanics, 
lawyers, doctors, or priests — let us above all 
things first have a care that we are men; 
and if we are to be men, our special busi- 
ness work must form only a part of our life- 
work. The aim — at least in this way alone 
can I look at human life — is not to make 
rich and successful bankers, merchants, 
farmers, lawyers, and doctors, but to make 
noble and enlightened men. Hence the 
final thought in all work is that we work 
not to have more, but to be more; not for 
higher place, but for greater worth; not 
for fame, but for knowledge. In a word, 
the final thought is that we labor to up- 
build the being which we are, and not 
merely to build round our real self with 
marble and gold and precious stones. This 
is but the Christian teaching which has 
transformed the world ; which declares that 
it is the business of slaves even, of beggars 
and outcasts, to work first of all for God 
and the soul. The end is infinite, the aim 
must be the highest. Not to know this, 
not to hear the heavenly invitation, is to be 
shut out from communion with the best; 
is to be cut off from the source of growth; 
is to be given over to modes of thought 
which fatally lead to mediocrity and vul- 
garity of life. 

To live for common ends is to be common: 
The highest faith makes still the highest man; 



The Ave Maria, 



For we grow like the things our souls believe, 

And rise or sink as we aim high or low. 

No mirror shows such likeness of the face 

As faith we live by of the heart and mind. 

We are in very truth that which we love; 

And love, like noblest deeds, is born of faith. 

The lover and the hero reason not, 

But they believe in what they love and do. 

All else is accident— this is the soul 

Of life, and lifts the whole man to itself. 

Like a key-note, w^hich, running through all 

sounds, 
Upbears them all in perfect harmony. 

We can not set a limit to the knowledge 
and love of man, because they spring from 
God, and move forever towards Him who 
is without limit. That we have been made 
capable of this ceaseless approach to an 
infinite ideal is the radical fact in our na- 
ture. Through this we are human, through 
this we are immortal; through this we are 
lifted above matter, look through the rip- 
pling stream of time on the calm ocean of 
eternity, and, beyond the utmost bounds of 
space, see simple being, life and thought 
and love, deathless, imageless, absolute. 
This ideal creates the law of duty, for it 
makes the distinction between right and 
wrong. Hence the first duty of man is to 
make himself like God, through knowledge 
ever-widening, through love ever-deepen- 
ing, through life ever-growing. 

So only can we serve God, so only can 
we love Him. To be content with igno- 
rance is infidelity to His infinite truth. To 
rest in a lesser love is to deny the bound- 
less charity which holds the heavens to- 
gether, and makes them beautiful; which 
to every creature gives its fellow; which 
for the young bird makes the nest; for the 
child, the mother's breast; and in the heart 
of man sows the seed of faith and hope and 
heavenly pity. 

Ceaseless growth towards God — this is the 
ideal, this is the law of human life, pro- 
posed and sanctioned alike by Religion, 
Philosophy, and Poetry. Dulcissima vita 
sentire in dies se fieri meliorein. 

Upward to move along a Godward way, 
Where love and knowledge still increase, 

And clouds and darkness yield to growing day. 
Is more than wealth or fame or peace. 



No other blessing shall I ever ask: 
This is the best that life can give; 

This only is the soul's immortal task, 
For which 'tis worth the pain to live. 

It is man's chief blessedness that there 
lie in his nature infinite possibilities of 
growth. The growth of animals comes 
quickly to an end, and when they cease to 
grow they cease to be joyful; but man, 
whose bodily development even is slow, is 
capable of rising to wider knowledge and 
purer love through unending ages. Hence 
even when he is old, if he has lived for 
what is great and exalted, his mind is clear, 
his heart is tender, and his soul is glad. Only 
those races are noble, only those individu- 
als are worthy, who yield without reserve to 
the power of this impulse to ceaseless prog- 
ress. Behold how the race from which we 
have sprung — the Aryan — breaks forth into 
ever new developments of strength and 
beauty in Greece, in Italy, in France, in 
England, in Germany, in America; creating 
literature, philosophy, science, art; receiv- 
ing Christian truth, and through its aid 
rising to diviner heights of wisdom, power, 
freedom, love, and knowledge. 

And so there are individuals — and they 
are born to teach and to rule — for whom to 
live is to grow; who, forgetting what they 
have been, and what they are, think ever 
only of becoming more and more. Their 
education is never finished, their develop- 
ment is never complete, their work is never 
done. From victories won they look to 
other battle-fields ; from every height of 
knowledge they peer into the widening 
nescience; from all achievements and pos- 
sessions they turn away towards the un- 
approachable Infinite, to whom they are 
drawn. Walking in the shadow of the too 
great light of God, they are illumined and 
they are darkened. This makes Newton 
think his knowledge ignorance; this makes 
St. Paul think his heroic virtue naught. O 
blessed men! who make us feel that we are 
of the race of God ; who measure and weigh 
the heavens ; who love with boundless love ; 
who toil and are patient; who teach us that 
workers can wait. They are in love with 



The Ave Alaria. 






life, they yearn for fuller life. Life is good, 
and the highest life is God; and wherever 
man grows in knowledge, wisdom and 
strength, in faith, hope and love, he walks 
in the way of Heaven. 

And to you, young gentlemen, who are 
about to quit these halls, to continue amid 
other surroundings the work of education 
which here has but begun, what words shall 
I more directly speak ? If hitherto you have 
wrought to any purpose, you will go fotth 

to the world filled with resolute will and 
oble enthusiasm to labor even unto the 
end in building up the being which is your- 
self, that you may unceasingly approach the 
type of perfect manhood. This deep-glow- 
ing fervor of enthusiasm for what is highest 
and best is worth more to you, and to any 
man, than all that may be learned in col- 
leges. If ambition is akin to pridej and 
therefore to folly, it is none the less a 
mighty spur to noble action; and where it is 
not found in youth, budding and blossom- 
ing like the leaves and flowers in Spring, 
what promise is there of the ripe fruit which 
nourishes life? The love of excellence 
bears us up on the swift wing and plumes of 
high desire: 

"Without which whosoe'er consumes his days, 
Leaveth such vestige of himself on earth 
As smoke in air or foam upon the wave." 

Bo not place before your eyes the stand- 
ard of vulgar success. Do not say : I will 
study, labor, exercise myself that I may be- 
come able to get wealth or office; for to 
this kind of work the necessities of life 
and the tendency of the age will drive 
you; whereas, if you hope to be true and 
high, it is your business to hold yourself 
above the spirit of the age. It is our worst 
misfortune that we have no ideals. Our very 
religion, it would seem, is not able to give 
us a living faith in the reality of ideals; for 
we are no longer wholly convinced that 
souls live in the atmosphere of God as truly 
as lungs breathe the air of earth. And we 
find it difficult even to think of striving 
for what is eternal, all -holy and perfect, 
so unreal, so delusive do such thoughts 
seem. 



Who will understand that to be is better 
than to have, and that in truth a man is 
worth only what he is? Who will believe 
that the kingdom of this world, not less 
than the kingdom of Heaven, lies within? 
Who, even in thinking of the worth of a 
pious and righteous life, is not swayed by 
some sort of honesty-best-policy principle? 
We love knowledge because we think it is 
power; and virtue, because we are told, as a 
rule, it succeeds. Ah ! do you love knowl- 
edge for itself — for it is good, it is godlike 
to know? Do you love virtue for its own 
sake — for it is eternally and absolutely 
right to be virtuous? Instead of giving 
your thoughts and desires to wealth and 
position, learn to know how little of such 
things a true and wise man needs; for the 
secret of a happy life does not lie in the 
means and opportunities of indulging our 
weaknesses, but in knowing how to be con- 
tent with what is reasonable, that time and 
strength may remain for the cultivation of 
our nobler nature. Ask God to inspire you 
with some noble thought, some abiding 
love of what is excellent, which may fill 
you with gladness and courage, and in the 
midst of the labors, the trials, and the dis- 
appointments of life, keep you still strong 
and serene. 



The Feast of Gladness. 

BY MARION MUIR. 

1 HAVE been sad, but I am sad no more; 
-^ I have been blind, and now, with open eyes, 

I can look upward at the wide, blue skies. 
The world I fancied evil to the core 
Hath room upon it for the royal store 

Of love and trust, and splendid hope that lies 

In youthful dreams, or noble enterprise 
That builds success from sorrows gone before. 

I have shed tears, but now I leave regret 
Under the green that fitly clothes a grave. 

There is no lasting gloom for those who set 
Their faith on ideals lifted up to save 

Immortal natures from the strife and pain 

Of seeking guidance on the pathless plain. 
Pentecost, 1886. 



lO 



The Ave Maria. 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY t HRISTIAN REID. 



A LARGE brown-stone house, of elabo- 
rate architecture, set in the midst of 
spacious grounds, where every art of the 
landscape-gardener had been called into 
service, and where the result was as perfect 
as taste and wealth could make it, was the 
home of Mr. James Thornton, one of the 
most noted millionaires of the city of River- 
port Not that millionaires were uncommon 
in Riverport, which, being on the border of 
the prosperous Southwest and West, had 
a fair proportion of these fortunate persons 
among its inhabitants; but, beside the fact 
that Mr. Thornton was reputed to be one of 
the wealthiest, there were certain incidents 
in his career which ^ave a picturesque in- 
terest to it in the popular mind. For one 
thing, he had amassed his wealth in a very 
short time; and this is something which is 
always interesting to those who wish to do 
likewise, yet lack the necessary opportunity 
or ability. Not very many years had elapsed 
since he was only an ordinarily prosperous 
business man. Suddenly property had 
fallen into his hands, which almost immedi- 
ately appreciated enormously in value. He 
at once entered largely into speculative in- 
vestments, and, owing to good luck or good 
judgment, everything which he touched 
doubled his fortune, until in a few years he 
reached the apex of prosperity. 

The admiration of the average American 
mind is deeply stirred by such a career, 
and Mr. Thornton tasted in full measure 
the respect and adulation which are paid to 
financial success in a country that has not 
indeed a monopoly of the cultus of the 
golden calf, but where it exists to a greater 
degree than in any other. He enjoyed the 
nineteenth century equivalents of those 
salutations in the market-place which the 
Pharisees loved, and was not mistaken in 
feeling himself an object of mingled admi- 



ration and envy to almost all his fellow- 
citizens. 

Almost, but not quite all. In Riverport, 
as elsewhere, a small minority did not bow 
the knee to the modern Baal, and among 
them were a few who knew how much this 
man had altered for the worse since the 
tide of his prosperity had set in. In that 
day, which now seemed to him the day of 
small things, yet when he had possessed all 
that was necessary for comfort and inde- 
pendence of life, he had been liberal ac- 
cording to his means, and kindly and genial 
in disposition. As wealth increased his 
liberality decreased, while his character 
changed and hardened. The hands which 
were put out so eagerly to grasp every 
promising investment, lost their hold on the 
charities of life; and the eyes which were 
turned intently on the interests of earth, 
forgot to look toward Heaven. 

Such forgetfulness is common with men 
so absorbed, but it was aggravated in this 
man's case by the fact that he had been 
educated a Catholic. It was true that he had 
early fallen into habits of indifference to 
religion; but, although this indifference led 
him to marry a Protestant, it did not lead 
him to deny his faith until after the era of 
his remarkable prosperity began. It was 
then that he turned his back upon the re- 
ligion of his fathers, that he was seen no 
more in Catholic churches, and that finally 
his old friends heard with sorro\y that he 
appeared now and then with his wife in the 
fashionable temple of ' ' High ' ' Episcopali- 
anism, where she worshipped. 

For he had married rather late in life, 
into a family of great social prominence, 
and his wife was as much a type of a fine 
lady as the conditions of American life can 
readily produce. With inherited refine- 
ment she possessed a grace of manner and 
charm of disposition which went far to 
atone for the fact that she did not possess a 
great deal of intellect. It would have been 
impossible, however, for the heart of a mill- 
ionaire to desire a better show-piece for 
wealth, or a woman who understood better 
all its uses — in a worldly way. She had the 






The Ave Maria. 



II ' 



personal appearance of a duchess — an ideal 
duchess — and such fine taste, that the ap- 
pointments of her household and the style 
of her entertainments formed a standard 
which others eagerly imitated. 

These people had no children of their 
own, but circumstances had made it possible 
for them to adopt two, whose presence gave 
that life and animation of youth which 
would else have been lacking in their lux- 
urious home. One of these was an orphan 
niece of Mrs. Thornton; the other, a nephew 
of Mr. Thornton. The latter was also an 
<i orphan, but his father had been wise enough 
I wto guard him from a great danger by his 
* dying act. He had inserted in his will a 
special provision stating how and where 
the boy should be educated. "For I can't 
trust James in this matter," he had said in 
explanation. " If he has not absolutely de- 
nied his faith, he is so indifferent to it that 
he would as soon send Philip to a Protes- 
tant college as not. But I am determined 
that he shall have a Catholic education. 
After that, if he loses his religion it will be 
his own fault, not mine." 

It was to this wise forethought that Philip 
Thornton owed the years which he spent 
in a Catholic university. His uncle made 
no objection to carrying out the provision 
of the will; but' there could be no doubt 
that, left to himself, he would have preferred 
one of the Protestant centres of learning. 
The only allusion which he ever made to 
the matter was to say, when the young fel- 
low was on the point of leaving home : " It 
is a pity to handicap you for the race of life 
in this way, Phil; but it was your father's 
wish. And, after all, it will not matter — 
for you. It would matter if you had your 
way to make in the world ; but the way has 
been made for you. There will be no diffi- 
culties in your case; you can indulge your- 
self in believing what you please. ' ' 

It was not until long afterward that the 
significance of these words occurred to the 
young man. But by that time he had 
learned that religion was a subject which 
it was not possible to discuss with his uncle. 
The most avowed materialist could not 



have ignored the spiritual side of life more 
completely than Mr. Thornton. Immersed 
in worldly interests, he seemed never to 
give it a thought; and if the subject was, 
by any chance, presented to his considera- 
tion, he did not hesitate to indicate his dis- 
taste for it. 

When Philip first returned from the relig- 
ious associations that had surrounded his 
college life, this indifference of his uncle — 
an indifference amounting to hostility — 
seemed to him terrible. But such is the 
effect of habit and example, that he soon 
grew accustomed to the atmosphere into 
which he had fallen, and before very long it 
ceased to excite any surprise in his mind. 
He, too, began to say to himself that relig- 
ion was very well — in its place. But that 
place grew smaller and smaller to his ap- 
prehension as the pleasures and interests 
of the world opened before him. It was 
indeed difficult to think of any other exist- 
ence when everything contributed to make 
his present one so delightful. Youth, wealth, 
leisure were all his, together with a nature 
eminently susceptible of enjoyment, and 
formed to give and receive pleasure. He 
did not cease to practise his religion, only 
it fell more and more into the background 
of his life, while the foreground was filled 
with those amusements which are so 
charming to the young and gay of heart. 

It was soon apparent that his social tastes 
were very pleasing to his uncle. Ivike 
many men who have had no social success 
of their own, he placed an exaggerated 
value on such success, and preferred to see 
Philip a man of fashion rather than a man 
of business. The matter might have been 
different had the young man showed any 
qualities of a spendthrift; but he was so 
scrupulous not to exceed the means placed 
at his disposal, that Mr. Thornton was forced 
to urge him now and then to greater ex- 
penditure. 

"Don't hesitate," he said, "to do things 
handsomely — as handsomely as possible. 
Money can not be spent to better advantage 
than in securing your social position. There 
is no reason why you should not be at the 



12 



The Ave Maria. 



head of everything, with your appearance, 
your qualities, and your means." 

"?7y//r means, rather," said the young 
man, laughing a little. ' ' I sometimes think 
that it is time I began to see about making 
something for myself." 

"Nonsense!" said his uncle. "Don't 
you come into the office and write a few 
letters now and then? I look upon you as 
my son, and I have other ends in view for 
you than money-making. At present I de- 
sire that you spend money freely, and make 
yourself popular. After a while we shall 
see." 

It was agreeable advice to a young man 
with the world already at his feet, to spend 
money freely, and make himself popular. 
It might have been dangerous advice to 
many, but Mr. Thornton, who was a shrewd, 
judge of human nature, would not have 
offered it had he not been sure of his neph- 
ew's character — had he not observed him 
closely, and tested him well. Gay, ardent, 
pleasure-loving though he might be, there 
was a depth and strength of character in 
Philip which prevented him from being 
inclined to vicious excesses. Mr. Thornton 
recognized this, even while he refused to 
acknowledge to himself where this strength 
had been gained. 

It was certainly a pleasant household of 
which the young man found himself a part 
when he finally settled at home. His aunt 
had always been kind to him, as she was 
by nature kind to everyone; and he had 
always admired her exceedingly. Her grace 
and refinement had fascinated his eyes even 
when he was a boy, and they were not 
likely to fascinate him less now, that he had 
learned the value of such gifts. And there 
was another gracious presence also in this 
household — a girl who was like a white 
rose in delicate loveliness, with the same 
aroma of refinement that Mrs. Thornton 
possessed, and a slight haughtiness which 
was foreign to the elder woman, yet did not 
misbecome the younger. Constance Irving 
was indeed a product of the same condi- 
tions which had produced her aunt; but, as 
a strain of different blood must result in 



different characteristics, there were some 
essential differences between them. The 
foundation of the girl's character was firmer 
and harder than that of the woman; her 
disposition was less gentle, and her intellect 
keener. These things, however, were as 
yet in abeyance, waiting for circumstances 
to develop them. To everyone, including 
those of her own household, Miss Irving 
seemed a model of all that was most charm- 
ing in young ladyhood. 

When or how it became clear to Philip 
that his uncle and aunt desired him to 
marry this very attractive girl, he could not 
tell ; but there was no doubt it had been 
made sufficiently plain, although no direct 
word had been spoken. He had not the 
least objection. Let him look where he 
would, he saw no one so lovely, so refined, 
so charming as Constance; and, though he 
had known her too long and too intimately 
to fall in love with her, he felt sure that he 
could not admire her more if he were ever 
so much in love. Whether the wishes of 
their elders had been made as plain to her 
as to him, and, if so, how she regarded 
these wishes, he could not tell. She treated 
him exactly as she had always done; and 
he knew that if any change in their rela- 
tions took place, the initiative must come 
from him. 

But there seemed no reason for haste in 
making such a change. All their youth 
was before them to enjoy, and why should 
they lay a fetter upon it? Philip knew in- 
stinctively that Constance would feel, with 
himself, that there was no reason, and that 
she would probably decline to be fettered. 
Just as ho wanted to enjoy, without any 
sense of bondage, the pleasures which the 
world spread before him, so, no doubt, did 
she; the more that the incense of homage 
and admiration offered her on all sides 
would very sensibly diminish were she once 
known to be " engaged. ' ' 

So no word that could be construed to 
such meaning was uttered by any one con- 
cerned. Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were silent, 
through the influence of the latter rather 
than by the desire of the former. ' ' Do not 




The Ave Maria. 



15 



urge the matter," she said, "or you might 
provoke opposition; Let them alone. When 
they have enjoyed themselves sufficiently 
they will see the wisdom of what we de- 
sire." 

"Why should they not settle this, and 
then enjoy themselves as much as they 
like?" asked Mr. Thornton, somewhat im- 
patiently. 

" Oh ! that would be different, ' ' said Mrs. 
Thornton. ' ' They would feel — bound, you 
know. And, of course, a girl who is known 
to be engaged is socially at a disadvantage. 
Constance ought to have some good of her 
beauty and attractiveness before she gives 
up her reign. She will be as great a belle 
as I was, I hope." 

"And what good will it do her?" de- 
manded Mr. Thornton. 

The delicate, faded cheek of the woman, 
whose sweetest recollection was of that past 
bellehood, flushed. 

" It is a great pleasure to her now, and 
it will be a great gratification to her to re- 
member hereafter," she said, with dignity. 
"I can not consent that she should be de- 
prived of such a — distinction." 

"It will be a dearly-bought distinction 
if she takes a fancy to marry some one of 
the men who are dangling around her all 
the time," said Mr. Thornton. 

"There are so many of them that .she is 
not likely to think of any one in particu- 
lar," answered his wife. "And you must 
see that there are few who have Philip's 
advantages. ' ' 

Mr. Thornto" did see that, and it con- 
soled him a little, even while he muttered 
something not very complimentary to femi- 
nine vanity. But he knew that on this 
point his wife would be immovable, so he 
wisely gave up the discussion. 
(to be continued.) 



Christian faith is a grand cathedral 
with divinely-pictured windows. Standing 
without, you see no glory, nor possibly can 
imagine any; standing within, every ray of 
light reveals a harmony of unspeakable 
splendors. — Hawthorne. 



My Father's Promise. 

• 

BY E. P. RYDER. 

TYj Y Father promised unto those who trust 
^ ^ ^ That for their earthly needs He would 

provide; 
So, as I fear Him, knowing He is just. 

Securely in that promise I abide. 
And when my needs demand His aid divine, 

And I make known my wants in humble 
prayer, 
I feel His powerful assistance mine, 

And strength the burden of my life to bear. 

Never before were skies so dark o'erhead, 
Never the way so hard; yet, day by day. 

Through the dense darkness I am safely led^ 
Secure from all the perils of the way. 

So I can say, whatever ills beset, 

' ' My Father's promise never failed me yet. ' ' 



Palms. 



BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 



CHAPTER XV.— Nemesius Meets Pope 

Stephen. Valerian's Diabolical 

Ingenuity, and how he was 

Baffled. 

AT,the appointed hour, Nemesius, clad in 
armor, his sword at his belt, and a dark 
toga thrown around him, passed out of the 
bronze gates, and, walking rapidly, soon 
reached the spot where he expected to meet 
Admetus and found him waiting his arrival. 

' ' We have far to go, ' ' whispered the boy. 

"Lead on," was the quiet answer. 

So much mystery might naturally have 
awakened distrust, but, strange to say, Ne- 
mesius felt none, his mind being occupied 
solely with the object he had in view. To- 
gether they walked down the steep road, 
through many turns and windings of the 
city, past guards, whose challenge the offi- 
cer met by the countersign, until they were 
safely outside the walls, on the wide, shad- 
owy Agro Romano, which looked vaster 
under the pale starlight. 

Nemesius and his guide had walked 



H 



The Ave Maria. 



some distance m an apparently aimless 
way, when Admetus turned to the left, dis- 
turbing several flocks of sheep that were 
slumbering in the grass around the poor 
huts of their shepherds, and at last stopped 
before a small, dilapidated building, so far 
gone to ruin as to be able to hold itself to- 
gether only by numerous props. A bush 
of grape-vines hung ostentatiously over the 
doorway, indicating that wine could be here 
obtained by thirsty travellers. Three quick 
raps on the door were answered by a woman, 
who opened it cautiously, and peered out. 
The boy Admetus whispered a single word ; 
she threw open the door, and invited them 
to enter the poor place, which was dimly 
illuminated by the flickering rays of a lamp 
suspended by an iron chain from a rafter. 
There were one or two shelves, which held 
a few amphorcE^ drinking- cups, and flagons; 
a rickety table, some rude seats, and a water- 
cask, — all in keeping with the poverty- 
stricken exterior. 

"Follow me," said the low, sweet voice 
of Admetus, as he led the way down a steep, 
dilapidated staircase into a cellar, that gave 
out an odor of rotten wood and mouldy 
straw. 

Nemesius cast a quick glance around the 
vault, whose gloom was only intensified by 
the dull torch borne by his guide, and for 
the first time his instincts as a soldier sug- 
gested that it was just possible he was be- 
ing led into a trap. But he did not hesitate ; 
peril or no peril, he would risk everything 
to secure the object of his hope; and, follow- 
ing the light, he descended another steep, 
narrow stairway, cut in the rock of some 
older foundation than that on which the 
tumble-down wine-shop had been built. 
At the bottom, Admetus turned into a nar- 
row passage, then entered another that ran 
across the one they were in; and, after pro- 
ceeding a short distance stopped, and, push- 
ing aside some rubbish, picked up a stone 
and rapped sharply against what appeared 
to be a s®lid wall of travertine. Suddenly 
an aperture opened, caused by the turning 
of a block of stone, which revolved on a 
pivot fixed into it at the top and bottom 



"Enter. I will await thee here," said 
his guide. 

Nemesius saw a long gallery stretching 
away into the darkness, and two soldiers 
with a light advancing towards him. They 
were unarmed, and gave him the military 
salute, saying, ' ^Deo gratias. ' ' He entered ; 
the stone door closed, then they courteously 
but briefly told him that they were sent to 
conduct him to the presence of the holy 
Bishop Stephen. 

"Lead on," was all he said; but what 
were his thoughts as, following his un- 
known guides, he beheld stretching away 
in interminable lines, as far as the torch cast 
its light, tier above tier of square blocks of 
stone, carved in devices unknown to him, 
which sealed the graves of the Christian 
martyrs? None might know, nor could he 
define the strange awe that sat upon his 
soul as he moved through these ranks of the 
holy dead. He knew now that he was in 
the Catacombs; and, although his hand in- 
stinctively grasped the hilt of his sword, 
the faith and hope — devoid of superstition 
— which had brought him hither, to ask 
the intervention of a mysterious and divine 
power, unknown to him, to give sight to his 
blind child, did not permit him to falter a 
moment in his purpose, or ask a single ques- 
tion of his companions. His step was firm 
and steady, his splendid eyes clear and un- 
troubled, his helmeted head erect, while the 
faint ring of his armor kept time as he 
moved. 

After many sinuous turns along these 
silent corridors, filled with the columbaria^ 
where, like "doves in the clefts of the 
rocks," the martyred dead reposed, a sweet, 
solemn sound swept along, growing more 
distinct as they advanced; and presently, 
through an arch near which they were 
passing, a soft halo of light was shed, and 
Nemesius heard the words chaunted: 

" O ye holy and just ones, rejoice in the Lord! 
God hath chosen ye unto Himself for an inher- 
itance. Alleluia! 
Precious in the sight of the Lord 
Is the death of His saints. Alleluia ! " * 



Vespers for Martyrs. 



The Ave Mar. 



na. 



15 



The sweet, restful strains died away; only 
a faint echo sounded along the dim galleries 
of the dead, like the whispered response of 
angels, as another martyr was laid to rest. 
Nemesius did not then know the signifi- 
cance of the light he had seen and the words 
he had heard. 

At length— it seemed as if miles had been 
traversed — the soldiers stopped before an 
opening, across which a leather curtain was 
suspended. One of them passed behind the 
screen, and, quickly returning, invited Ne- 
mesius to enter. He did so, and found him- 
self in a lamp-lighted apartment, its- only 
occupant a man past middle-age, clothed in 
a white woollen robe, whose aspect was ma- 
jestic but mild; who^e countenance, shining 
with sweetness and compassion, was full 
of power; and whose eyes, penetrating yet 
kind, inspired him with emotions such as 
he had never before experienced in the pres- 
ence of any human being. 

He knew that this was the Christian 
Pope, Stephen, and involuntarily knelt be- 
fore him; while the holy man, impressed 
by his appearance, and the spontaneity of his 
homage, laid his hand upon his head and 
gave him a benediction ; then invited him 
to be seated near the chair from which he 
had risen to greet him; and, in tones that 
inspired confidence, asked the object of his 
visit, and expressed his readiness to serve 
him. 

"I thank thee for granting me audience. 
I am here as a suppliant, but I will not de- 
ceive thee. Know, then, that I worship the 
Genius of Rome and the gods, and that I 
have taken part in the persecution of Chris- 
tians," said Nemesius, with dignity, his 
voice subdued, yet firm, as he made his frank 
avowal, not knowing but that it might bring 
defeat to his hopes; but, as an honorable 
gentleman and a brave soldier, he could not 
act otherwise. 

"I have heard of thee," was the mild 
answer; "but know that it is a fundamen- 
tal law of the Christian life to forgive our 
enemies, and do good to them who despite- 
fuUy use us; otherwise we are not true dis- 
ciples of Jesus Christ. Speak, then, for it 



must be no light cause that leads thee to 
seek me in the Catacombs." 

"Thou ^alt judge," answered Neme- 
sius, refusing by a gesture the seat offered 
him. "It is for one most dear to me — my 
only child — for whom I solicit a share in 
those favors which I am credibly informed 
thou bestow est on the miserable and unfor- 
tunate." 

"I but do the holy will of Him whose 
servant I am," was the gentle response. 

Then Nemesius, in brief words, unveiled 
the story of his grief; the most eloquent 
language could not have increased the 
pathos of its facts; tears rose unbidden to 
his eyes, and fell unheeded; the very deeps 
of his strong heart were broken up, and he 
asked, as a boon more precious than any 
life could give, that sight might be given to 
his blind child. Nor — pagan as he was — 
did he spare lavish offers of treasures and 
countless gold to the Christian Pontiff; for 
had he not, from time to time, poured out 
his riches to the priests of his false gods 
for the same object? and he did not yet 
know the difference. 

"The gifts of God can not be bought 
with silver and gold; they are gratuitous, 
and of His divine mercy," quickly re- 
sponded the Pontiff, whose heart was moved 
with Christlike pity towards the noble 
pagan. He saw in his simple faith a glorious 
possibility, and a swift, divine inspiration 
dictated the words: "With our God all 
things are possible ; take comfort, therefore, 
for thy desire will be granted." 

" Do I hear arigh t ? Oh ! sir—' ' 

Nemesius was overwhelmed by this calm 
assurance that his long-delayed hope would 
be at last confirmed; he could scarcely be- 
lieve, after all his bitter disappointments, 
that this was not some illusion of his over- 
wrought senses; his face paled, and for a 
few moments his thoughts were confused. 

"On the morrow the blind eyes of the 
innocent one will be opened," continued 
the Pontiff. ' ' Bring her to me in the morn- 
ing early — not here, but to the old, walled 
villa west of the second milestone on the 
Via Latin a," 



i6 



The Ave Maria. 



"I would thank thee, could I find words 
adequate to express my gratitude; but lan- 
guage fails. I can only say that all I have 
— aye, my very life would I lay down, and 
still think the price too small for that which 
thou hast promised," said Nemesius,with 
profound emotion ; then, with generous 
after- thought, quickly added: "but may I 
not bring my Claudia here ? It may be un- 
safe for thee outside. ' ' 

The holy Pontiff knew that the time had 
not yet come for his crowning and replied : 
"There will be no danger. The villa be- 
longs to an officer of the Prsetorian Guard, 
whose wife is a lady of the imperial house- 
hold; both of them are Christians, but not 
yet openly. Now we must part. May He 
whom I serve enlighten thee! Farewell!" 
And so saying he passed out beyond the 
leather curtain that covered the doorway. 
(to be continued.) 



An Incident in tFie Life of Bisiiop 
Hendricken. 

From the Pilot. 

A STORY of the late Bishop Hendricken, 
of Providence, R. I.,has been revealed, 
through a brief sentence uttered by Bishop 
O'Reilly at the funeral service, last week, to 
the effect that the Bishop was once nearly 
made a martyr at sea for persisting in perform- 
ing a Christian act; and that there lives a man 
in Providence who was instrumental in sav- 
ing the Bishop from being foully murdered. 
The gentleman alluded to is the Rev. Samuel 
Davies, a Protestant clergyman, who says 
that the affair occurred on the Black Ball Line 
ship, Columbia, ^N\)^.QS^ sailed from lyiverpool to 
New York on May 25, 1852. 

The captain of the vessel and all his offi- 
cers and crew were members of the Know- 
nothing party, the captain being a notorious 
leader, and president of a lodge of Knownoth- 
ings in Maine. There were 700 steerage 
passengers, of whom 500 (Irish and German) 
were Catholics. Fathers Hendricken and 
Walsh, newly-ordained priests, were among 
the cabin passengers. When thirteen days at 
sea, a Catholic woman in the steerage was 
taken mortally ill, and Mr. Davies notified 
Father Hendricken. 



* 'The young man, ' ' says Mr. Davies, ' ' hur- 
ried into his cabin, donned his vestments, 
and was passing out with the Eucharist in 
his hand, when he was confronted by the cap- 
tain.who damned him for a papist, and seized 
him by the throat, declaring that aboard his 

ship people would have to die without 

Catholic mummery. Drawing a pistol, he 
threatened to shoot if a step was taken tow- 
ards the spot where the poor woman lay dy- 
ing Clasping his crucifix, young Hendricken 
replied that he must go to the relief of that de- 
parting soul, even though his life be sacrificed. 
Livid with rage, the captain would have 
felled him to the earth but for the other priest 
and myself. We got the young Father away, 
and persuaded him to refrain from open defi- 
ance of the captain until supper- time, when 
he could slip down, while we would endeavor 
to engage the captain in conversation at table. 
The ruse succeeded; and while the captain, 
with coarse gibes and ribald jokes, was de- 
claring that no Catholic rite should ever be 
administered aboard his boat. Father Hen- 
dricken was at the dying woman's side, hear- 
ing her confession, and administering the 
Sacrament. She died while he was repeating 
the final prayer. 

"Just before supper was over, a sailor burst 
into the room, and informed the captain that 
' that priest had got down, and was at- 
tending that Irish woman.' Snatching up a 
pistol, the captain sprang from the table, fol- 
lowed by the mate and purser, bent on de- 
stroying Father Hendricken. We ran out 
after them, and were in time to see the captain 
strike the priest a fearful blow as he came up 
the hatchway, hurling him down, where he 
lay stunned and bleeding. ' Drag the cuss up 
here,' commanded the captain, and his sail- 
ors, seizing the prostrate priest by the feet, 
dragged him up, and flung him moaning on 
the deck. We tried to interpose, but were 
driven back by the crew, all of whom were 
ripe for any order from the captain. 'The 

papist shall never see New York alive! ' 

exclaimed he, and he led off by planting a 
fearful kick on Father Hendricken's head. 
The blood gushed from a ghastly wound, dye- 
ing the white vestments crimson. 

"I rushed down below, and acquainted the 
German Catholics of the tragedy being en- 
acted on deck. Fifty veteran soldiers followed 
me, and we reached the scene in time to hear 



The Ave Maria. 



17 



the captain tell the crew to throw the 

carcass overboard. The men were in the ac 
of pushing the inanimate body over the side, 
when the Germans fell upon them, felling 
them right and left, and wresting the body 

from them. ' Mutiny, by ! ' exclaimed the 

captain; but I bade him beware; that these 
Germans were but preventing the murder of 
a priest, and that, if goaded to desperation by 
his wickedness, summary vengeance might be 
resorted to. 

' 'At this moment a great commotion was 
heard in the quarter where the Irish emigrants 
were penned up. The captain's deed had been 
made known to them, and they were furious 
and frantic to get out to save or avenge the 
heroic priest. Father Walsh went down and 
implored them, in the name of God, to restrain 
their fury; and but for his influence they 
would have forced the hatches, and the decks 
of the good ship Columbia would have been 
deluged in blood. 

"Taking in the situation, the captain sul- 
lenly ordered Father Hendricken to be ironed 
and locked up, but this the Germans would 
not allow. They carried him to their own 
quarters and nursed him back to life. When 
he was removed to his cabin they fed him 
from their own scant provisions, fearing poi- 
son; and night and day, until the ship reached 
New York, three emigrants stood sentinels 
at his cabin door to protect him from secret 
violence. 

' * The captain refused to allow a burial ser- 
vice over the dead woman, or to let the body 
Tdc sewed up in a hammock. He ordered it to 
be dragged up, and in the presence of the 
bereaved husband and children he had the 
still warm body tossed into the sea. Three 
years later he was murdered by one of his 
own crew, and found the watery grave that he 
wished to give Bishop Hendricken." 



The Late Madame Hardey. 

MOTHER MARY AI.OYSIA HARDKY, 
Assistant- General of the Religious of the 
Sacred Heart, who died in Paris on the 17th 
ult., was a native of Maryland. She was ed- 
ucated at the Academy of the Sacre Coeur, 
Grand Coteau, I^a,, and took the veil in 
that convent, then under the government of 
the accomplished and saintly Mere Eugenie 



Ande, Mme. Hardey received the religious 
habit at the age of sixteen, having displayed 
unusual maturity of mind, and facility in ac- 
quiring the knowledge suited to her sex. 
Her capacity and the needs of the mission 
led her superiors to confide important charges 
to her even during the second year of no- 
vitiate; and when the establishment known 
as St. Michael's was opened, she was sent 
thither as one of its most efficient foundresses, 
and finally, as superioress, laid the founda- 
tions of the existing convent and academy. 
She had governed that establishment with 
great success, when Mme. Gallitzin was ap- 
pointed by the Venerable Mere Barat to visit 
all the houses of the community then existing 
in North America. That wise superioress, per- 
ceiving the promising qualifications of Mme. 
Aloysia, conducted her to the Maison-Mere at 
Paris, to form the acquaintance of the Mother- 
General of the Order, and thence to Rome, to 
receive the blessing of his Holiness Gregory 
XVI. 

In 1 84 1 Mme. Hardey was sent to a mission 
lately opened in New York, in a very unim- 
posing building on Houston Street. Bishop 
Hughes was anxious to secure a better home 
for the religious, and thus until the estate of 
the lyorillards was purchased at Manhattan- 
ville(i847)the community occupied a spacious 
residence at Astoria in lyong Island. As many 
prelates wished to have Mme. Barat' s daugh- 
ters in their dioceses, houses of the Order 
were opened by Mme. Hardey (as the Vicar of 
the Mother- General) in several parts of the 
United States, in Canada, Nova Scotia, New 
Brunswick, and the West Indies. From 1841 
to 1870, that indefatigable superioress founded 
nearly twenty convents, with their academies 
and parochial schools. 

Those who know the small human resources 
of every kind with which Mme. Hardey ac- 
complished her great work, can only look 
upon the results as bordering on the marvel- 
lous. She seemed destined to success in gov- 
ernment by her calm dignity, and firmness 
mingled with rare sweetness. Esteemed by 
the clergy and the patrons of her schools, she 
was loved and deeply venerated by her relig- 
ious daughters and her pupils. 

In 1870 the beloved superioress was called 
from her sorrowing communities to reside at 
Paris, as her knowledge of American affairs 
rendered her particularly fitted to give counsel 



i8 



The Ave Maria. 



about matters in the Order which had rela- 
tion to this country. At that period her vica- 
riate reckoned 700 religious, and the young 
persons whose education .she controlled num- 
bered many thousands. 

About a year ago the venerable Mother 
Hardey was attacked b}^ congestion of the 
brain, and her health remained feeble, alter- 
nating between hopes of improvement and 
dread of illness on the part of her devoted 
daughters, until a cablegram on the 17th ult. 
announced that their sacrifice was consum- 
mated. R. L P. 



Catholic Notes. 



The magnificently wrought Golden Rose 
which the Pope solemnly blesses every year 
on the fourth Sunday of I^ent, for bestowal 
on some Catholic personage of royal blood as 
a mark of his personal affection, or as a token 
of his recognition of some good quality or 
special merit in the recipient, has been sent to 
Queen Christina, of Spain. 



We know nothing more touching than the 
piety of the Irish poor for their dead, and their 
traditionary clinging to the sacred places of 
rest of their ancestors. It may be true that 
in their wakes there have been abuses, which 
the zeal of the clergy has now pretty well ex- 
tirpated; there may have been, occasionally, 
tumultuous scenes of party conflicts at burials, 
which afford good materials for writers of 
Irish romances, fonder of men's frailties than 
of their virtues. But the long and silent 
train that will for miles follow the bier, and 
join in carrying it — despite of modern church- 
yard and cemetery tempting on the way — to 
the ruins of some abbey church, or the green 
mound on the site of an old chapel; the re- 
spectful demeanorof every passer-by; the care- 
lessness about manner compared with the 
solicitude about place; the true Catholic sim- 
plicity of the tombstone inscriptions (still 
ever running in the old form, ' ' Pray for the 

soul of "); the care for a full ofi&ce, and 

a "month's mind," and an anniversary on 
the part of the survivors, — these are evidences 
of a Catholic land, edifying and consoling. 



Everyone has heard the vulgar Protestant 
calumny that there are enough relics of the 



True Cross to build a ship; the calumny is as 
ignorant as it is spiteful. The Cross, as Our 
Blessed lyord bore it, probably contained about 
10,800 cubic inches, whereas all existing relics 
put together do not amount to 250 cubic 
inches. Hence not one-fortieth part of the 
wood of the Cross survives. 

The simple tombstone placed over the grave 
of America's great orator and statesman, Dan- 
iel Webster, who lies buried in the little town, 
of Marshfield, Mass , bears the following sug- 
gestive inscription: 

"Daniel Webster. Born Jan. 18, 1782; died Oct. 
24, 1852. 'Ivord, I believe; help Thou my unbe- 
lief.' 'Philosophical argument, especially that 
drawn from the vastness of the universe, in com- 
parison with the apparent insignificance of this 
globe, has sometimes shaken my reason for the 
faith which is in me; but my heart has always 
assured and reassured me that the Gospel of Jesus 
Christ must be a divine reality. The Sermon on 
the Mount can not be a merely human production. 
This belief enters into the very depths of my con- 
science. The whole history of man proves it.' 
Dafiiel Webster.'' 

This epitaph is an extract from Webster's 
own works, and. though it sadly reveals the 
want of that true faith which enlightens and 
assists reason, yet, at the same time, it mani- 
fests that sense of religion by which every 
sincere seeker after truth will suffer himself 
to be influenced, and in all the difficulties that 
may beset his weak reason give expression to 
the cry of the soul: "I^ord, help Thou my 
unbelief! " — a prayer which, in God's mercy, 
will bring in answer the blessed gift of Faith. 



The Rev. Thomas Nolan, P. P., of Abbey- 
leix, Ireland, who passed away on the 9th 
ult., was perhaps the oldest priest in the 
world. He was born in 1794, and descended 
from one of the oldest and most respectable 
families in Co. Carlow . ' ' Father Tom, " as he 
was called, was a warm patriot and a zealous 
missioner. He left many monuments to his 
priestly devotedness, among which may be 
mentioned the beautiful spire of TuUow, the 
first erected to any Catholic church from the 
days of the so-called Reformation. One of the 
most notable events in the life of this vener- 
able and beloved clergyman was his inter- 
view with Mr. Gladstone some years ago, 
when the great Premier asked the old priest's 
blessing. R. I. P. 



F 



The Ave Ala Ha. 



19 



The sixteenth annual Convention of the 
Catholic Total Abstinence Union of America 
will be held in the University of Notre Dame, 
Ind., on Wednesday and Thursday, August 
4 and 5 The Board of Government will meet 
on Tuesday evening, August 3, in Washington 
Hall, Notre Dame, On the morning of the 4th, 
Pontifical High Mass will be celebrated in the 
beautiful Church of Our I/ady of the Sacred 
Heart. Societies will be present from Chicago, 
111. ; lyOgansport, Goshen, and South Bend, 
Ind,, and other places. They will escort the 
delegates. On Wednesday evening a public 
temperance meeting will be held in Washing- 
ton Hall", On Thursday evening the drama of 
' ' Drink ' ' will be presented by the Columbian 
Dramatic Association of Valparaiso, Ind, 

The President of the Indiana Union, the 
Rev. F, C, Weichman, writes: "Other places 
may present many attractions, but Notre 
Dame will surprise everyone, ' ' All delegates 
will be entertained during the Convention at 
the commodious and elegant University build- 
ings, free of charge. The Rev. Thomas Walsh, 
C. S, C, President of the University, will in- 
vite personally all the bishops of the country, 
and it is expected that a goodly number will 
honor the Convention with their presence. 



The bishops of the Provincial Council of 
Milwaukee say well that ' ' during the Middle 
Ages the Church organized workingmen into 
guilds, and before the i6th century the misery 
they now endure was unknown," We have 
repeatedly asserted that the root of all labor 
troubles is to be found in Protestantism. A 
religion which magnifies the present and min- 
imizes the hereafter must necessarily prove 
a nursing mother of communism, — Western 
Watchman. 

The history of Father Adam Schall, an ap- 
ostolic Jesuit missionary of the 17th century, 
has been again brought into prominence 
through the recent publications of a Prussian 
literary society, I^ike his brother mission- 
ary, Robert de Nobili, he followed literally the 
words of St, Paul— the type of all zealous 
laborers in the vineyard of the Lord — and 
made himself all to all, that he might gain 
souls to God, When he entered upon his mis- 
sion among the Chinese, he learned that the 
Emperor Chun Tse had a mania for astronom- 
ical calculations. Father Adam at once ap- 



plied himself to the study of all the extant 
works on abstract and concrete mathematics, 
which he mastered in less than three years, in 
which time he also gained a very fair knowl- 
edge of the Chinese language. He then be- 
gan to supplement his sermons with an occa- 
sional lecture on mathematical subjects, which 
had the intended effect of attracting imperial 
notice. And it is said that before the end of 
a year he was almost forced to remove to a 
luxurious lodging in the imperial palace, and 
to accept the insignia of a mandarin. The 
Emperor often visited him in his study, and, 
after dismissing his attendants, would proceed 
to discuss his favorite subjects with such en- 
thusiasm and persistence that Father Adam 
almost repented his stratagem. However, the 
grand end was gained: not only was permis- 
sion granted the learned and devoted Jesuit 
to preach throughout the Empire, but an im- 
perial edict was published proclaiming this. 



The title-page and contents of volume 
twenty-second are now printed, and will be 
sent, on application, to those who wish to 
bind their magazines. 



Obituary. 

'*// /> a holy and zolinlexome thought to pray for the dead." 

—2 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

The Rev. Daniel Magorien, a venerable priest 
of the Archdiocese of Philadelphia, formerly pas- 
tor of Port Carbon, Pa. 

The Rev. John Stephany, the beloved rector of 
St. Aloysius' Church, Covington, Ky. His death 
occurred on the Feast of St. Aloysius. 

The Rev. Father Timothy (Reilly), C,P., de- 
ceased at St. Michael's Retreat, Hoboken, N.J,, 
June 17. 

Mrs. Nicholas Hussey, of Albany, N.Y,, whose 
well-spent life closed with a peaceful death on the 
22d of May. 

Mrs. Mary Anne Lonergan, who departed this 
life in Dublin, Ireland, on the ist ult., fortified 
by the last Sacraments. 

Mrs. Marie Forgeot, of Boston, an old and es- 
teemed friend of Thk "Ave Maria," whose fer- 
vent Christian life was crowned with a precious 
death on the 8th ult. 

Mr. Edward Lanigan, of Applegarth, Australia; 
Miss Alice Mary G'Rourk, San Jose, Cal. ; Philip 
Fitzpatrick, and James H. Toner, Boston, Mass. 

May they rest in peace! 



--^^^^-ji:^^^.':^ 1 




pakTmenT 



Ger?nan Hunting Song.) 

I. 
OME, ye children bright, with 
your happy voices ringing, 
Sound our queenly I^ady's fame! 
With the angels pure, who on golden harps 
are hymning, 
Wake the woodland with her name. 

Chorus. 
All hail, Our Lady fair! 
All hail, our Queen most rare! 
All hail, God's Mother sweet! 
We have roamed thro' Nature's bowers, 
We have gathered fresh wild flowers, 
And we'll lay them at her feet. 

II. 
When temptation comes, then our hearts, all 
sad and weary. 
On our Mother's name will call; 
And her hand so kind, tho' the way be dark 
and dreary. 
Will protect and guide us all. 

Chorus. — All hail, etc. 

III. 
Oh! most lovely Queen, hear our youthful 
voices blending; 
Bless thy children ere we go; 
With a mother's care every heart from sin de- 
fending. 
Teach us all our God to know. 

Chorus. — All hail, etc. 
Mercedes. 



From Tipperary to Texas. 



The Adventures of Tibbv Butler. 



BY T. F. GAIyWEY. 



When one has not worked in one's youth, 
one knows nothing, is nothing, and can do 
nothing. — Lacordaire. 

Everything lives by exertion, every- 
thing dies by idleness. — St, Johii Chrysos- 
tom. 



I. 

It was a clear morning in February, as the 
Oceanic^ after a blustering voyage from 
Liverpool, steamed up the lower bay of 
New York. The steerage passengers were 
gathered on the forward deck, and peered 
out upon the land they had chosen for their 
new home. There were Hans and \i\'&frau 
and the kinder — a good many of Hans and 
his/r^//, and still more of the kinder; and 
there was John Bull, with his rabbit- skin 
cap, and his wife done up in a long water- 
proof coat, and the little John Calves clus- 
tering about papa and mamma; and there 
were Pat and Bridget, and the bright-eyed 
little Paudeens and Brideens, ' ' axin' ' ' their 
daddy and mammy all sorts of unanswera- 
ble questions about this America, which 
seemed to be moving out to meet them, so 
smooth and steady was now the course of 
the great ship. 

lycaning over the gunwale, staring hard 
at the snow-covered heights of lyong Island, 
was a stout boy of medium size, dressed in 
plain but becoming grey clothes. He was 
about fifteen, with a serious cast of features, 
yet with a countenance that frankly ex- 
pressed his real feelings at all times. 

' ^ Look out, Tibby ! ' ' shouted some sail- 
ors, as they rushed along close to him, 
dragging a heavy cable. Everyone aboard 
who came near him regarded him in a 
friendly manner; and it was plain that in the 
short nine or ten days of the voyage, he had 
made a good impression on those with 
whom he had come into contact. 



The Ave Maria. 



2i 



But he was somewhat melancholy now; 
and no wonder. Families stood together in 
groups, and friends in knots arranged plans 
for the future; but Tibby leaned over the 
side of the ship, and for the time was almost 
as much alone as if he were Robinson Cru- 
soe on his little island. Some of the other 
passengers were travelling alone, it is true ; 
but they expected to recognize watchful 
faces ashore, waiting with welcome and ad- 
vice, There was no one in America whom 
Tibby knew; none who knew him. 

Tibby' s real name was Theobald Walter 
Butler, but he had scarcely ever been called 
anything else since his babyhood than 
' ' Tibby, ' ' which is a pet name for Tiobal^ 
the Irish for Theobald. He was an orphan. 
His parents had both died when he was a 
mere infant, and, as is often the case in Ire- 
land, had left their only child scarcely any- 
thing else than — ij/hat is highly prized in 
that country by those that have it — an an- 
cient pedigree. And now he was coming to 
a country where every man must be his 
own ancestor — where no one is allowed to 
boast of any achievements but his own. 

However, one glance at Tibby, upright 
and straightforward as he was, showed that 
he was one who would always do to the 
best of his ability whatever fell to him to 
do. An uncle, with a large and expensive 
family of his own, had been almost a father 
to the little orphan. But the boy, foreseeing 
that in the end he would have to make his 
own way in the world, and rather than be 
longer a burden to his excellent relatives, 
turned his thoughts to the great nation be- 
yond the sea. 

It was a bold undertaking for a boy of 
fifteen. It cost Tibby many a sigh before 
he could make up his mind finally to leave 
Carrick-on-Suir, where he had been bom; 
sweet, old Tipperary, where his family had 
lived for centuries, — where he used often to 
feel a comfort, in his poverty, in strolling 
among the tombstones of the old church- 
yard, gloating over the curiously carved 
escutcheons of the Butlers. But he had a 
strong will, and, taking the few pounds left 
by his father, and bidding adieu to relatives, 



and friends, and schoolmates, he started on 
his journey. And here he was now. 

The melancholy could not last long, 
however; for Tibby was a boy, and there 
was too much now to occupy his eyes. As 
he looked, the Stars and Stripes fluttered on 
the mast of Fort Hamilton to his right, and 
Tibby thought it a most beautiful flag. 
To the left, Staten Island rose up from the 
water; and now, on gazing straight to the 
front through the Narrows, he had a view 
that would delight any boy. Far ahead, the 
circular fort on Governor's Island made 
Tibby' s grey eyes moisten; for it reminded 
him of the grim, dingy old castle at Car- 
rick ; but beyond that the beautiful picture 
so widened out, that, turn his head as rap- 
idly as he might, he could not see as much 
of it as he would have liked. 

In the centre was New York itself, with 
the clump of trees at the Battery glistening 
in the snow that bent down the branches; 
and, rising beyond and above the Battery, 
the Produce Exchange, and the many other 
stately edifices of the great metropolis. Off 
to the right, Brooklyn stretched away far 
out of sight up the East River; and Tibby 
thought he had never before seen anything 
so strange as the great suspension bridge 
hanging from its massive piers between 
these two cities. 

On went the steamship. The water was 
fairly churned into foam by the hundreds 
of craft, of all sizes, shapes, and colors, that 
were moving in and out, around and across, 
in constant seeming danger of collision 
with one another: sloops, schooners, great 
sailing ships, steamboats, ferryboats; and, 
everywhere flying about, active, powerful 
little tugs continually whistling, and send- 
ing up pufis of steam, that turned as white 
as chalk in the clear, cold air. 

The course lay more to the left now, and 
there was Communipaw to the west; be- 
yond, the Kill von Kull; and then Jersey 
City, and then — Tibby took oflf his cap, and 
said a prayer of praise to God and thanks- 
giving ; for there, conspicuous above the 
heights on the Jersey shore, glittered the 
gilded cross of the Passionist monastery. 



22 



The Ave Maria. 



It was late in the afternoon when Tibby 
found hhnself standing in line within the 
great hall of Castle Garden, with the other 
steerage passengers of the Oceanic, moving 
step by step forward, through a little gate, 
as fast as the clerk could register the im- 
migrants' names. 

''What's your name?" asked the clerk. 

"Theobald Walter Butler, sir, " answered 
Tibby. 

"Whew! but that's high-toned!" re- 
marked the clerk. "What's your age?" he 
continued. 

"Fifteen next St. Patrick's Day, sir," 
was Tibby' s answer. 

The clerk, who was an Irish- American, 
smiled approvingly at this. And then the 
full entry was made, declaring that this 
interesting arrival from Carrick-on-Suir, in 
the County of Tipperary, Ireland, intended 
to remain in the United States, and that 
his final destination was "California" or 
"Columbia," the said immigrant not at 
present being settled in his mind which of 
these two regions he wQuld finally honor 
with his presence. 

II. 

Tibby removed himself and his neat 
little valise from Castle Garden to an emi- 
grant boarding-house in Greenwich Street, 
not far from the Battery. The place was 
called the "Harp of Erin," and it was the 
big sign stretched across the front of the 
house — bearing, besides the above title, an 
artistically painted golden harp in the mid- 
dle, surrounded by a wreath of green little 
shamrocks — that had atlracted Tibby' s 
attention and custom. 

Thought Tibby to himself: ' ' It must be 
a good man keeps this inn, and he will 
surely be kindly-spoken to a boy from Tip- 
perary. ' ' And he went in and asked for ' ' the 
landlord." 

"Dot's me," said a fat, jolly, red- faced 
man behind the counter, leaning forward, 
and resting his chin in his hands. "Come 
right up here once, my poy. Chon ! ' ' (this 
to a man who was polishing a mirror on 
the wall) ' ' dake de chentleman' s peckage. ' ' 

The valise, which Tibby had set down 



until he could make terms for lodging, was 
whisked out of his sight before he could 
realize what had happened. 

Tibby stared hard at the landlord, and 
wondered what part of Ireland he could 
have come from. Not from Tipperary, of 
course; nor from Kilkenny, or Cork, or 
lyimerick, or Clare. Perhaps he was from 
the North, where, as Tibby had often heard, 
the people spoke with a queer accent. 

"You come by de Oceanic?^'' the land- 
lord asked. 

' ' Oh ! yes, ' ' said Tibby ; ' ' and I am from 
Carrick-on-Suir. That's in Tipperary, you 
know. May I be asking what part of Ire- 
land yourself s from? You're not from 
Sligo?" 

"Now, ton't you do it, young feller," 
said the landlord. ' ' Yust you wait alretty a 
leetle vile yet, as you beest by de gountry, 
und den mebbee you tell me I'm not a 
'shly go' once." 

Tibby' s amazement at the strange ac- 
cent was equal to his amusement at the 
pleased way in which his host looked at 
him. The landlord, in fact, was astonished 
at what he took to be the coolness and the 
wit of this boy, all alone and friendless in 
a new country. But Tibby' s curiosity was 
too much excited to delay satisfying him- 
self as to the landlord. 

' ' You have m y belongings, that' s plain, ' ' 
he said; "though I don't know where your 
man has put them. But I suppose they are 
all right. Anyway, I think I'll be after 
stopping here, if your terms are moderate; 
for it's not so much I have that I can be 
spending it about very freely. But you 
haven't told me what part of Ireland you're 
from." 

' ' Veil, young feller,' ' replied the landlord, 
whose name was Fritz Schnupfer, "vot 
difference make it anyhow if I peen from 
Shly-go — ish dot de place? — or No-go? 
Yust you make yourselluf at home by me 
once, und dot's all right. I treat you veil if 
you treat me veil. ' ' 

"Oh! to be sure," said Tibby, who was 

the opposite of narrow-minded, and was 

I ready to tolerate a man from any part of 



The Ave Maria, 



23 



[Ireland, even from Sligo, which he now felt 
^rtain was the country of the landlord's 
birth; though he couldn't clearly under- 
stand why that individual should be so 
delicate about owning it as he seemed to 
be. "I must be asking your pardon," he 
went on, *'for taking so much liberty; but 
a good friend of mine and my family at 
home, Father Prendergast, bade me mind 
what strangers I dealt with in America. 
I like your looks, though ; and if you will 
tell me the terms, and they are what they 
ought to be, I'll go to my apartment, and 
change my dress for tea. ' ' 

The landlord had walked around from 
behind his counter in order to have a better 
view of this young man from Ireland, who 
was totally unlike any that had previously 
come within his experience. 

It must be observed that Tibby,who was 
a really modest boy, was not likely to be 
guilty of an intentional impertinence. He 
was frank by nature, however, though usu- 
ally rather silent' and whenever he did 
become communicative he was very apt 
to say whatever was passing through his 
mind. 

The terms for boarding and lodging were 
arranged, and Tibby was conducted to his 
"apartment" — a little room up under the 
roof of the hotel. He intended to rise early 
next morning, so as to go to confession and 
be ready to receive Holy Communion at 
Mass in the nearest church, and thus make 
a worthy beginning of his life in the New 
World. "In the meantime, as the afternoon 
was not yet more than half spent, he was 
aching to see at once what he could of that 
world, and he concluded to take a stroll up 
into the great city, and return in time for 
the evening meal at the ' ' Harp of Erin ' ' — 
for "tea," as he called it. 

He changed his clothes, and now ap- 
peared in the office with a collar so high 
and stiff, that it was a wonder his ears were 
not sawed off. ' ' Landlord, ' ' he said, ' ' what 
street have you that is as fine as Patrick 
Street in Cork?" 

"Petrick Sthreet?" 



Schnupfer replied. 
Oh, ya! Veil, dere's Proteway ; dot's 



mebbee all so goot as dot Petrick Sthreet. 
My poy, it's petter as you sthay by de 
house yust now, und in de morning, ven you 
by St. Peter's Church peen, den you take a 
promenahd in dot sthreet." 

Tibby was evidently not pleased with 
this, for he could not restrain his impatience 
to be off for a stroll. 

"Veil," said Schnupfer, "ef you must 
go, I gif you one piece of adwise, und dot 
is you leaf me your money, und I put it in 
dot safe. ' ' And he pointed to a small safe 
inside the counter. 

Now, Tibby Butler had always enter- 
tained a sort of good-natured contempt for 
country people. In Carrick he had heard 
much sport made of the peasants who used 
to crowd into town in fair- time; and he was 
hurt in his feelings to have this man, whom 
he supposed to be from remote Sligo in- 
deed, bidding him take care of himself if 
he went out, just as if he had never seen a 
lamp-post before, or two roofs touching; 
worst of all, to be as good as told he had 
not sense enough within the four walls of 
his head to know how to carry his own 
money! Still, the landlord, though stupid 
no doubt, as the Carrick people said all the 
' ' Far-Downs ' ' were, evidently meant well. 
He suppressed his indignation, therefore, 
and merely declined the friendly offer with 
cold dignity. 

"I am beholden to you, sir," he said; 
"but I can mind what I have very well. 
I shall be back for tea. ' ' And then he strode 
out into Greenwich Street, and turned tow- 
ards Broadway, to have a look at "the main 
street of the town." 

It was after dark, and a few of the board- 
ers of the "Harp of Erin" — some of them 
newly-arrived immigrants, others laborers 
— were sitting about in the office, and in the 
parlor opening off the office, when Tibby 
appeared at the door. 

What a change there was in his expres- 
sion! He was a small picture of tumbled 
pride. He walked in not so briskly and 
lightly as he had walked out two hours 
before. But if his manner was humble, it 



24 



The Ave Maria. 



was frankly so — without any effort at con- 
cealment. 

vSchnupfer was stooping down behind 
the counter, examining the contents of the 
safe preparatory to shutting it up securely 
for the night. 

' ' I did wrong, landlord, not to hearken to 
you," said Tibby. The landlord rose up 
and, turning around, faced his interesting 
boarder. "You bade me not go out; or, if I 
did, to leave my money with you, and to 
take care of the sharpers. I did neither; 
but the sharpers looked out for me, and 
they have all my money now, except a few 
bits of silver I have in my trousers pocket. 
My bank-notes they took — every one of 
them." 

Fritz was all attention, and was really 
distressed at Tibby 's misfortune. He made 
him describe the rascals who had robbed 
him of his money, and the trick they had 
played to accomplish it. There were two 
of them, it seemed; and they had, one after 
the other, inveigled Tibby into a conversa- 
tion, learned all about his plans, his money, 
and so forth; and had then advised him 
to let them see if the bills were good that 
had been given him at Castle Garden that 
day in exchange for his British money. 
Then they had snatched the bills away 
from him, and had disappeared in opposite 
directions. 

Had Tibby been older than he was, Fritz 
would have laughed at his simplicity, and 
all the more rendily for the disdain with 
which Tibby had treated his advice. But 
the good-natured German, who had con- 
ducted the ' ' Harp of Erin ' ' ever since its 
founder and first landlord retired from the 
hotel business to go into politics, had al- 
ready taken a sincere liking to the straight- 
forward, though strong-willed, little fellow. 

" Py chiminy Chackson! " he exclaimed, 
* ' dis outrayche is fearful ! Now, my poy, 
ven you peen a Cherman poy, der peen 
some kind of society vat see dot you ton't 
go arount all by yourselluf like a leetle 
chackass in a sdranche gountry. Now vat 
you goin' to do?" 

" It is to work I must go to-morrow, and 



put off seeing the country until I hav6 
earned some money in place of what I have 
lost," Tibby replied. ''But I was going to 
say, landlord, that I have a stock of good 
clothes in my portmanteau, and I wish yoii 
to take them in pledge for my board and 
lodging until my first wages are paid." 

Schnupfer chuckled quietly to himself at 
the undaunted courage with which Tibby 
talked of wages before he had taken even 
a step towards finding employment. But 
he made the boy go into the dining-room 
and eat his fill, and then sent him off to 
bed. 

When Tibby knelt down that night to 
say his prayers, he promised that, if God 
would pardon him, he would try to over- 
come his self-conceit. He slept soundly. 
(to be continued.) 



The Order of the Garter. 



It should not be forgotten that the Order 
of the Garter had for its patron not only St. 
George, but, in the first place, the ever-blessed 
Virgin Mary. In the statutes of the Order, 
drawn up by Edward IV. in the beginning of 
his reign, it is expressly declared that his an- 
cestor, Edward III. (who instituted the Order, 
as it is thought, about 1349), had done so to 
the honor of the Blessed Virgin, and that out 
of his singular affection for her he had wished 
her to be honored by his knights. Therefore, 
by an unanimous vote they had resolved that 
on each of the five festivals of Our Lady, and 
on all Saturdays, as well as on the Feast of 
St. George, the knights should wear during 
the divine offices a peculiar habit, having a 
golden figure of the Mother of God on the 
right shoulder; and that on each of these 
days they should recite five times the * ' Our 
Father" and five times the "Hail Mary." 
From the same motive of devotion, Edward 
III. had inaugurated the Order on the octave- 
day of Our lyady's Purification. 

What, I maj^ ask, would the illustrious 
founder have thought of the knights of his 
Order who scoff" at the idea of invoking the 
Mother of their Redeemer, or who are perhaps 
declared enemies of the Christian faith? — 
Father Bridgett, C. SS. R. 




TpHK glory of Mammon I have not desired, 
^ The favors of Fortune I have not desired, 
The friendship of worldlings I have not de- 
sired, 
For these white hostages, lent by Thee — 
(I^ord, Thou knowest, who knowest me! ) 

Faith and holiness I have desired, 

Truth and charity I have desired, 

Honor and chastity I have desired, 

That I might bring them, unstained, to Thee — 

(Lord, Thou knowest, who knowest me!) 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



11. 




T often chances that events which 
seem to us very trivial at the time 
of their occurrence, are regarded 
afterwards, with clearer sight, as turning- 
points in our lives. Such an event occurred 
one evening to Philip Thornton, when his 
aunt asked him if he did not intend to ac- 
company Constance and herself to a ball, 
which was to be one of the chief events of 
the fashionable season. 

' ' I can not have the pleasure of accom- 
panying you," he answered; "but I shall 
see you there." 



can you not accompany 
asked Mrs. Thornton. 

' ' Because I have another engagement for 
the evening, ' ' was the reply. * ' It will not 
keep me from the ball, but will make me 
later than you will probably wish to be in 
arriving. I did not imagine that you would 
care for my escort, ' ' he added, after a mo- 
ment. 

" It is always desirable to have an escort, 
especially at such a ball as this, ' ' said Mrs. 
Thornton. 

Philip raised his eyebrows* They were 
in the drawing-room alone together, after 
dinner, and he looked at his aunt in sur- 
prise. Her tone seemed to indicate that, 
for some reason, she did care for his attend- 
ance. 

"Really," he said, "there are always'so 
many of Constance's admirers on hand that 
it did not occur to me — " 

He paused; for Mrs. Thornton looked at 
him, and something in her glance stopped 
his words. 

' ' It might occur to you, ' ' she said, ' ' that 
there are reasons why Constance should 
not be left too much to her admirers. ' ' 

Philip understood her, but it was the 
clearest speech that had ever passed be- 
tweeil them on this subject; and before he 
could decide what to answer, a peal at the 
door-bell cut the conversation short. 

Here entered a gentleman who, as a dis- 
tant connexion of Mrs. Thornton, was very 
intimate in the house, and who was also one 
of the most devoted of Constance's many 



26 



The Ave Maria.- 



attendants. Jack Bellamy, as he was fa- 
miliarly known, was a social favotite, an 
authority on social points, and a leader in 
all social matters. A handsome, graceful 
man, he had also fair talents, which might 
have enabled him to do something in the 
world if he had not loved pleasure inordi- 
nately, and devoted himself to making a 
purely social reputation. 

''i\h!" said Philip as he entered, "here 
is an attendant that leaves nothing to be 
desired. I was just saying to my aunt," he 
added, turning to Bellamy, "that I can not 
have the pleasure of accompanying her to 
the ball to-night; but I am sure you will 
see her safely there." 

"I shall be delighted," Bellamy an- 
swered. "But why should you debar your- 
self from the pleasure aho? What are you 
going to do?" 

"Oh! I have another engagement, that 
will occupy me for a few hours," said 
Philip. "But I shall appear in time to 
claim two or three dances — remember that, 
Constance, and keep them for me." 

The young lady whom he addressed en- 
tered at the moment, and advanced up the 
long room toward them, its rich colors 
throwing into relief her graceful figure. 
She was dressed in silvery blue, with a crys- 
tal trimming that made a beautiful effect. 
Diamonds shone on her fair neck and 
arms, and a diamond arrow caught the soft 
masses of her brown hair. Never had she 
looked lovelier — more like some delicate 
creation of finest porcelain — than as she 
paused and stood under the chandelier, that 
showered Its radiance down on her, and 
made her seem flashing with light, while she 
looked at Philip. 

"What is that?" she asked. "Why 
should I keep dances for you? You must 
take your chances like everyone else." 

"I am not going to the ball with you," 
he answered. "I shall make my appear- 
ance later, and of course by that time your 
ball-book will be filled if you don't keep 
some dances for me. You will, however, I 
am sure." 

"Don't be too sure," she answered. 



"Why should you not go with us? That 
is the proper thing for you to do. ' ' 

' ' It did not occur to me in that light, ' ' 
he answered, smiling; "and I have made 
another engagement, which I— do not like 
to break. I know that you never have any 
lack of attendants. ' ' 

"Certainly not," she answered, a little 
haughtily, and then she turned and held 
out her hand to Bellamy. "One can al- 
ways depend on you^ ' ' she said. 

Involuntarily as it seemed, Mrs. Thornton 
looked again at Philip. He understood the 
inference, and knew that she expected him 
to yield and declare himself at their service; 
but the thing appeared to him at once so 
trivial and so unreasonable, that he would 
not yield. "They have really not the least 
need of me, and I have told them that I 
have an engagement," he said to himself. 
"I will not give it up for nothing." 

So after a little while he took his depart- 
ure, promising to see them later, and walked 
into the city. As he went, he had rather 
an uncomfortable sense of dissatisfaction 
with himself It irritated him a little to 
remember how thoroughly at home and at 
ease Bellamy had looked as he sat by Con- 
stance, watching her draw on and button 
her long gloves. After all, perhaps he ought 
to have gone with them, or else have plainly 
stated the nature of his engagement. Why 
had he not done the latter ? Not even to him- 
self would he acknowledge that it was be- 
cause he knew it would have excited a smile 
of amusement, with perhaps a tinge of scorn. 
For he had promised to attend a Church 
fair, of which this was the last night. Only 
that day he had met one of his college 
friends, who had urged him to go. " DonH 
you know that they are straining every 
nerve to pay the church debt ? " he said. ' 'A 
fellow like you, made of money — what do 
you mean by not helping them ? ' ' 

' ' I — really I never thought of it, ' ' an- 
swered Philip. "But I'll go to-night, I 
promise you." 

' ' If nothing more attractive turns up, I 
suppose," said the other, who had not much 
faith in him. 




The Ave Maria, 



27 



•'Whatever turns up, I'll go," said Philip. 
"If you doubt my word, perhaps you'll be 
kind enough to take me in charge. I will 
call for you about nine o'clock." 

"Very well," responded the other, with 
a laugh ; ' ' though I can tell you my pockets 
are nearly empty." 

So it was that, having reached the heart 
of the city, Philip presently turned into a 
street sacred to the legal profession, and 
made his unceremonious entrance into an 
office which bore the name of F. X.Graham. 
The bearer of the name looked up from an 
imposing leather-bound volume as he en- 
tered, showing a strong but rugged face. 

"So you have come!" he said. "I did 
not expect you." 

' 'Apparently you have not much respect 
for my assertions," answered Philip. "Did 
I not tell you I was coming?" 

"Oh! yes," said Graham, closing his 
book; "but I remembered afterwards the 
grand ball to-night, and I supposed of course 
you would be there." 

" So I shall be there, but I can attend to 
this matter first, I suppose. ' ' 

"Certainly. There will not be much to 
detain you. You have only to make up your 
mind how much money you will spend, and 
to spend it — that is all." 

Philip put his hand in his pocket. "I 
wonder I did not think," he said, "that it 
would have been easier just to give you a 
cheque. I believe I will do it yet." 

"It would be easier,' ' said Graham ; ' ' but, 
on the whole, I think you had better go and 
spend the money at the fair. It shows in- 
terest, you know, and that is something 
you are not overburdened with." 

Philip flushed. " Perhaps you are not the 
best judge of that," he said. But the next 
moment his sense of honesty made him 
add: "You are right enough, though; I 
don't take much interest in religious mat- 
ters. But I am willing to give, to the ex- 
tent of my means, whatever is needed." 

"That is better than nothing," said 
Graham, rising and putting his book care- 
fully aside. "But, if you will pardon the 
liberty, I am bound to add that you are 



ready to give because it costs you nothing. 
A little interest would be better for the 
health of your soul. Without it you will 
be likely to go some day as — others have 
gone. ' ' 

He stopped himself before saying "as 
your uncle has gone, ' ' but Philip knew very 
well that it had been on the end of his 
tongue, and it seemed to make reply impos- 
sible on his own part. That was the end to 
which indifference and worldliness led. He 
knew it well ; and, knowing it, he seemed 
to see before him the end to which he 
would also come. 

"You are always a cheerful prophet," 
he said, after a minute. "But if I am to 
show interest in the buying and selling of 
useless articles for the health of my soul, 
come let us go. I have not much time to 
spare. ' ' 

They went out together, and walked a few 
blocks to the hall where the fair was taking 
place. They found it crowded when they 
entered, and, although it was the last night, 
the tables had not lost their attractive ap- 
pearance, and traffic was very brisk. Philip 
had not many acquaintances — for his social 
lines did not lie much in Catholic circles — 
but he was himself sufficiently well known; 
and it was so impossible to him not to en- 
ter^with spirit into whatever he undertook, 
that he was soon engrossed not only in buy- 
ing, but in assisting to sell all that he could. 

Graham watched him for a while with 
amusement, then he seemed to drift away, 
and when Philip presently looked around 
he had some difficulty in finding him. But 
after an interval he perceived him talking 
to a young lady who was sitting behind one 
of the tables, but who did not appear to be 
taking much trouble to dispose of her wares. 
This, however, was not because she was en- 
grossed by Graham's conversation. Philip 
rather doubted whether she heard half of 
it, there was so much indifference in her 
air, and now and then her eyes wandered 
wearily over the noisy crowd. 

It was these eyes which first attracted the 
young man's attention, they were so large, 
so dark, so lustrous, — such eyes as are seL 



28 



The Ave Maria, 



dom seen except in an Italian or afSpanish 
face. Noticing this, he also noticed that 
there was the nobleness of outline, the 
statne-like grace of the Latin races, in the 
head and features. Her profile, as she turned 
it, might have been cut on an antique 
cameo, with the dark hair drawn back just 
as it was, in a low knot. It was a face of 
the loftiest type— fine, clear, sensitive— and 
Philip caught his breath as he looked at it. 
"Who on earth can she be?" he said to 
himself; and then he walked directly up to 
Graham. 

"I have been wondering what had be- 
come of you, ". he said, addressing him sud- 
denly. 

Graham turned, looking a little embar- 
rassed. "Oh— is it you?" he asked. "I 
thought I left you very well employed." 

"So I was," Philip answered. "But I 
think it only right to bestow my attentions 
impartially. I have come to see what I can 
find to buy here." 

"Not much, I am afraid," said Graham, 
glancing around. He moved away from the 
lady to whom he had been talking, and ad- 
dressed a young girl who shared the duty 
of presiding over the table. ' ' What have 
you that a gentleman anxious to spend 
money can buy, Miss Julia?" he inquired. 
"Oh! a great deal," replied the girl, 
eagerly. "Here is a lovely hand-painted 
screen. Perhaps he will take that?" 

Philip took the screen in his hand, as if 
he were critically examining the conven- 
tionalized flowers that adorned it; but in 
truth he hardly saw them, for he was think- 
ing that Graham's conduct was churlish in 
the highest degree. "1 would not have 
believed the fellow could have been so self- 
ish and rude, ' ' he reflected — rather unrea- 
sonably; for, on the face of the matter, 
Graham was certainly not called upon to 
interrupt his conversation in order that 
Philip might make some purchases. But 
an instinct assured the latter that his friend 
was perfectly aware of his motive for ap- 
proaching him, and so he resented the cool- 
ness which had handed him over to Miss 
Julia. 



This young lady discovered nothing 
amiss in her new customer, however. He 
bought the screen and various other trifles, 
paid for them liberally, and then carelessly 
gave the most of them back. When he had 
finished he turned, to find Graham at his 
elbow. Involuntarily he glanced around 
for the dark-eyed girl whose appearance 
had so much attracted him. She had moved 
to some distance, and was engaged with 
some one else; but again her air of distinc- 
tion, and the noble beauty of her classic 
head, struck his eye. He stood still, look- 
ing at her. 

"Well," said Graham, after waiting a 
moment, "are you ready to go?" 

"No," Philip answered, with quiet de- 
cision. ' ' I want you to introduce me to that 
young lady yonder." 

There was a short pause, during which 
the two men regarded each other — Philip 
with an air of expectation, Graham with a 
reluctance which must have been apparent 
to the dullest observation. At length he 
said: 

' ' This is not a suitable place for intro- 
ductions, and she is — engaged." 

"Whether or not it is a suitable place for 
introductions, you have introduced me to 
at least a dozen other people," said Philip. 
"But no matter; I only wanted to see if 
you would do it. I am satisfied now. ' ' 

He turned quickly on his heel ; but as he 
walked away, Graham was by his side. 

"I know you think me churlish," he 
said, as they passed down the hall. 

"Yes," Philip answered, "if you care to 
know it, I do; but, as I have already re- 
marked, it is not a matter of the least im- 
portance. ' ' 

"You don't understand," said Graham, 
in a low tone. ' ' I could not act otherwise : 
I could not introduce you to her without 
asking her permission — ' ' 

"And what prevented you from asking 
her permission ? ' ' demanded Philip, coldly, 
as he paused. 

' ' The fact that she would not have given 
I it, " replied the other ; ' ' and that would 
I have been awkward for both of you. ' ' 



The Ave Maria. 



29 



Philip was so much astonished at this 
most unexpected reply, that he stopped 
short — they were now outside the hall — 
and stood looking at his companion by the 
light of the*lamps flaring over the door. 

"I can not imagine," he said at length, 
*'that you are in earnest. What possible 
reason could there be for this young lady 
refusing to know nie ? ' ' 

' ' It does seem extraordinary, no doubt, 
since young ladies are not in the habit of 
refusing to know you," said Graham, with 
a slight smile. "But perhaps when you 
know who this young lady is, the mystery 
will not be so great. She is Miss Percival. " 

"And who is Miss Percival? I never 
heard of her before. ' ' 

It was Graham's turn to stare somewhat. 
' ' You have never heard of her father — of 
Robert Percival ? " he said. 

' ' Certainly not, ' ' answered Philip, decid- 
edly. ' ' I never, to my recollection, heard 
the name before," 

' 'Ah ! " said Graham. He made no other 
comment, but, turning, proceeded to walk 
on so silently that Philip presently asked, 
"^■"--Jm patiently : 

"What is the meaning of this? Who 
are the Percivals?" 

"Who are the Percivals?" repeated 
Graham. He was silent still a minute be- 
fore he answered : ' 'Ask your uncle that 
question. ' ' 

(TO BE CONTINUED.) 



Madonna del Sasso. 



BY OCTAVIA HENSEI/. 



FROM woodlands of scarlet pomegranate 
and pale chrysoprasus-hued olive and 
aloe, among which cream-white magnolia 
blooms breathe their perfume on the air, far 
above the waters of Lake Maggiore rises 
the rock- wall Del Sasso, crowned with the 
old church and convent of Our Lady of the 
Rock. 

It was the eve of the Festival of SS. 
Peter and Paul, and the quaint old town of 



Locarno, cool and tranquil as the lovely lake 
upon which it rests its crescent shore, was 
musical with the peal of bells, and the patter 
of many feet ascending its narrow, cobble- 
paved streets to the parish Church of San 
Antonio. Among them might be seen the 
veiled forms of the Maggiathale women, 
their heads covered with white cloth, leav- 
ing but half of the face exposed; and 
peasant girls from the valleys of Ticino, 
bringing to the altars of Madomta Maria 
their customary offerings — grapes, chest- 
nuts, potatoes, and Indian corn. 

We joined the hurrying throng, and 
with them entered the old basilica- formed 
church, which in daylight seems filled with 
brilliant fresco, and renaissance scrolls of 
gold and crimson. All was dark, save for 
the lamps which twinkled before the altar, 
and a few pale candles burning beside the 
dark confessionals near the entrance vesti- 
bule beyond the baptistery. So shadowy, 
silent, and ghostly, the passing forms moved 
as figures seen in dreams; it seemed t^ie 
very threshold of the Silent Land. At last 
the sacristan ascended the pulpit stairs, and 
placed a tall wax-candle beside the pulpit 
desk ; a few minutes later a young priest 
appeared, and in the soft Italian tongue 
told us legends from the lives of SS. Peter 
and Paul. 

The moon had risen before this story- 
sermon ended, and never was there night 
more lovely. The lake was gleaming sil- 
ver; the tall white houses,* over which 
acacias threw their lofty shadows, seemed 
veiled in lace of aerial looms. Far out on 
the water a voice was singing the ' ' Santa 
Lucia ' ' barcarolle; and far above the moon- 
lighted, crescent-shaped town, the gray 
rocks, upon which Our Blessed Lady ap- 
peared to the holy Minorite Father, glowed 
like foundations of silver to the convent 
church of the Madonna del Sasso. 

Four hundred years ago, on just such a 
night as this, as the good Fra Bartolomeo 
von Ivrea was praying in the old Minorite 

■'^ Of gray and white- veined marble, or stone of 
neutral tints. Wooden houses are rare in Italy, 
for wood of all kinds is very scarce. 



30 



The Ave Maria, 



Convent beside the lake, he raised his eyes 
to this rock-wall, and there, surrounded by 
angels, stood the Queen of Heaven. Three 
times the vision appeared, and then Fra 
Bartolomeo took it as a sign that Our Lady 
desired a chapel built there. The ground 
belonged to the Massini family, but they 
gave it to the good Father, and in 1484 he 
left his convent cell for a cave on the rocky 
height, where he lived as a hermit, and with 
his own hands built a small wayside chapel, 
to which the villagers ascended to offer 
prayers of thanksgiving, and bring votive 
offerings to Our Lady of the Rock. 

A hundred years later a church wms com- 
pleted there, but not until 1587 — long after 
Fra Bartolomeo had been laid in his tomb 
in the wayside Chapel of I'Annunziata — 
was the edifice consecrated, and the solemn 
Sacrifice of the Mass offered there. vSt. 
Charles Borromeo twice visited the spot — 
once in 1567, and three years later, when 
the Franciscans, who had dwelt at the foot 
of the mountain, completed their convent 
beside the church. 

At dawning on the festival the bells 
again rang out their joyous music, and 
from magnolia and jasmine hedge-rows the 
birds flew upward to the cool woodlands 
around Del Sasso. The sun beat fiercely 
down upon the vineyards and locust woods 
which lead up the steep mountain-side to 
the old convent church. But the pathway 
is shadowed by acacias, olives, and cedars; 
and so much shorter than the long, dusty 
drive up the serpentine mountain road, that 
we again followed the peasants, in their 
holiday dress, * and with them ascended the 
steep hill-side, past the ruins of the old 
Franciscan cloister, past the Governess 
Seminary, and the lovely garden of the 
Franzoni family, filled with great Italian 
magnolia trees and pomegranates ; over 
the foaming mountain brook Romagna and 
then we rested in the little Church of I'An- 
nunziata, where Fra Bartolomeo lies buried. 



■** Of dark blue print or lawn, with mantle veils 
of white cloth over the head and shoulders, strik- 
ingly like old pictures of the women of Judea. 



The church is full of pictures — frightful 
daubs, viewed with artistic eyes; but hal- 
lowed by saint-like nimbus, when we re- 
member the loving hearts and holy faith of 
the poor Brothers who placed* them here. 

The stations and stone staircases become 
more and more steep and intricate as we 
near the precipitous rock-wall upon which 
the church is built; but nothing more ex- 
quisite can be imagined than the woodland 
pathway which leads up to the rock. The 
perpendicular wall sinking down two hun- 
dred feet, covered with ivy, moss, and ferns, 
ends in a forest of magnolias, olives, and 
laurel. Above us are cedars, olives, and 
great, fan-like ferns, a few fig-trees, and 
limes of emerald hue. The mountain brook 
comes dashing and foaming from unseen 
cliffs above; and as we sit on the old stone 
bench, looking down on the town five hun- 
dred feet below us, and over the lake ' ' girt 
round with rugged mountains," the sun- 
shine broken by leafy shadows from the 
dark cedars of the convent garden, comes 
the trilling of nightingale, above the broken 
arpeggios of the leaping brook. No other 
sounds disturb the delicious solitude. 

We reach the church at last, and kneel 
within its portal. Like all the votive shrines 
in the smaller towns of Italy, this one, raised 
in honor of Our Blessed Lady, is crowded 
with rude pictures of the sick and dying 
— deformities of every kind and of both 
sexes. Silver hearts, chains, and rings hang 
on the walls, and the whole church is gaudy 
in blue, red, and gold decorations. This 
lack of taste is painful to behold; heart 
sympathy alone can aid us to endure the 
glaring glitter of color which meets our 
sight on every side. One picture alone 
holds the artist tourist spellbound; it is the 
Ento77ibme7it of Christy by Antonio Ciseri. * 
The face of Our Blessed Lady is one of the 
most exquisite ever painted. Heavenly pa- 
tience, holy love, and earthly anguish com- 
bine in rendering this representation of the 
Mother Immaculate one of most remarkable 



* Professor of Painting in the Academy of 
Florence. 



The Ave A/aria. 



beauty. The tones of the picture are golden 
brown, and the sadder leaden hues from the 
mantles of the women who follow the dead 
Christ. 

In a chapel to the right of the entrance is 
a very lovely picture, the Flight into Egypt. 
painted by Bramantino. The figure and 
attitude of St. Joseph are especially fine; 
there is a manly strength in the face, and 
a sense of full protection in the strong arm 
as he stands beside the pale young Mother, 
with her Holy Child clasped to her breast. 
An angel before them points out the road. 

From the church we went to the loggia^ 
an open arcade balcony running along the 
southern wall of the church, above the 
rock foundation, and overhanging the mag- 
nolia-embowered Locarno and Lago Mag- 
giore, mirroring the encircling mountains. 
The terraces of the convent garden to our 
right are full of flowers and vines. On the 
ledges of the rocks the good Brothers have 
placed their beehives. Locarno honey is 
renowned. Distilled magnolia and jasmine 
perfume are not more delicioiisly fragrant. 

We protracted our visit to Del Sasso until 
late in the afternoon, contenting ourselves 
with the cherries and cookies which poor 
old women and a few children carried about 
for sale among the peasant lads and maid- 
ens. Many had brought their frugal break- 
fast, and retired to the woodlands above 
the rocks, or sat on the church steps to eat, 
crossing themselves at every mouthful. 
There is something so childlike, so inno- 
cent about these people, that one can not 
but feel rested and happy when surrounded 
by them; life is very peaceful and content 
in these thoroughly Catholic communities. 

On our homeward way we took the car- 
riage highroad, and stopped at the Church 
of Trinita del Monti, under the lovely lin- 
dens of the "Platz." The Order of the 
Holy Trinity was founded for the freeing 
of Christians from Saracenic slavery. On 
the anniversary of the foundation of the 
Order, the Brotherhood march in procession 
to this old chapel, bearing the banner of 
the community, upon which appear two 
slaves with chained wrists. Gifts of money 



and jewels are still brought by the faithful, 
but, as there are no more slaves to be set 
free, the treasitre reverts to the Brother- 
hood. 

Evening had fallen over land and lake, 
and the mountain heights were purpling in 
the Tyrian crimson of the Alpen glow as 
we reached our hotel. Far above us, from 
the rocky heights of Madonna del Sasso, 
the Angelus was ringing. The campanile 
tower of San Antonio sent back the sweet 
message of the bells; and, far over the ruby, 
sunset waters of the lake, the tall white 
campanile of Ascona, like maiden voice 
replying sweet and low, " Behold the hand- 
maid of the Lord ! ' ' echoed the angel-greet- 
ing sounding from the convent towers of 
Our Lady of the Rock. 



All We Need to Know is Plain. 

BY SAMUEL H. DERBEY. 

TLtOW good God is! How good God is! 
•^ ^ The words go ringing thro' my brain. 
Why should we dwell on mysteries, 
When all we need to know is plain ? 

The time has been when wealth and fame 

Were mine to share in goodly store; 
But now forgotten is my name, 

And wealth's delights I know no more. 
Day after day, wasted and worn, 

I lie upon a couch of pain; 
Yet all my ills are calmly borne, 

For all I need to know is plain. 

The time has been when woman's love 

Sustained me with its blessed cheer; 
But mother's home is now above, 

And wife and child no more are here. 
Yet still my heart does not repine; 

How could my spirit dare complain ? 
The wondrous peace of Christ is mine, 

And all I need to know is plain. 

The time has been — but why recall 

That which has vanished from my side ? 

Nay! let my heart rejoice for all 
The glorious joys that still abide. 



32 



The Ave Maria. 



Loicl, help me prove Thy sacrifice 
For me has not been made in vain; 

Then shall I find Thy grace suffice— 
Find all I need to know is plain. 

Yes, God is good — is more than good! 

The words ring thro' my heart and brain 
Not all His ways are understood, 

But all we 7ieed to know is plain. 



Palms. 



BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 



CHAPTER XV.— (Continued.) 

THE PontifF had scarcely gone, when the 
two soldiers who had guided Nemesius 
hither came to conduct him back to the 
place where the boy Admetus awaited him. 
While traversing these dim, silent streets 
of the dead, he was too deeply absorbed in 
thought to observe them as at first, when 
but one idea dominated his faculties; for 
now, radiating from that, many others oc- 
cupied his mind. He thought of the old, 
walled villa out near the Via Latina, which 
had long been deserted as a permanent resi- 
dence by its owners, who only came there 
occasionally in the Summer, accompanied 
by numerous friends, to enjoy open-air fes- 
tivities in the beautiful grounds. Nemesius 
knew it well, having visited there with 
Fabian; but he found it difficult to think of 
the brave, dashing Tertullus, and his gay, 
pretty wife Camilla, as Christians. Truly 
did it appear to him that the nets of the 
Christus were spread far and near, snaring 
in their meshes not only the ignorant rab- 
ble, always ready to follow novelties, but 
those w^hom Rome could ill spare from her 
patrician ranks. 

Nemesius wondered if Tertullus and his 
wife were at the villa, and jvhether they 
were alone, or surrounded as usual by visit- 
ors. Their being* alone would ensure greater 
safety for the Christian Pontiff; in either 
case, his own way would be smoothed for 
the approaching interview, when, as if for 
the purpose of an early drive, accompanied 



by Claudia, he sought admittance at the 
old iron-ribbed gates; a sunrise visit to 
the near country-place of a friend in warm 
weather being too usual an occurrence to 
attract attention. 

Not the least surprising incident of the 
night's experience, he thought, was the con- 
fidence reposed in him by the Pontiff, who 
had virtually placed his life in his hands, 
were he base enough to betray him; it 
appealed to Nemesius' best instincts, and, 
without the lest admixture of that shallow 
gratitude derived from the expectation of 
favors to come, but moved solely by the 
magnanimous chivalry of a true, noble 
heart, he vowed that should any danger, 
from whatever quarter it might come, assail 
the holy man in their approaching inter- 
view, he would defend him with his very 
life. 

How strange it was that he should, all at 
once, be mixed up in this secret way with 
individuals of that despised class which 
he, loyal to his own traditions and convic- 
tions, had persecuted, did not for a moment 
disturb him ; love for his child had led him, 
as it would have led him into the fires of 
Tartarus, could he have hoped to find there 
some potent elixir that would open her 
blind eyes, — love which, although he did not 
then understand it, was as a pillar of cloud 
to his feet, and a voice to his darkened con- 
science, that was like the far-off echo of a 
cry in the wilderness to make straight the 
path of Him who was drawing near. 

Nemesius did not question the mysterious 
influences that were silently operating on 
his inner life; had he paused to do so, he 
would have ascribed them to the singular 
impressions he had received, and the pro- 
found joy he felt at the certain prospect that 
the long-hoped for time — nay, almost the 
hour (for it was past midnight) — was at 
hand when the eyes of his beautiful one 
would be opened. It did not enter into his 
mind to doubt it — he a worshipper of the 
gods! And, what is more singular, he be- 
lieved with simple faith that the wonder 
would be wrought by the power of the God 
of the Christians, and not by the exercise 



The Ave Maria. 



33 



of goetic and other occult sorceries, to which 
the heathen mind ascribed the miracles by 
which the divine power was manifested in 
those days. 

Broad and white lay the radiant moon- 
light, and black, grotesque shadows over 
the Agro Romano, when Nemesius and his 
youthful guide emerged from the dilapi- 
dated wine-shop, which concealed one of 
the many entrances to the Catacombs ; soft 
winds from the sea, bearing sweetest odors 
from the numberless flowers over which 
they swept, filled the air with refreshment; 
here towered-the mountains, draped in pur- 
ple shadows; far away stretched the aque- 
ducts; and there superb Rome, her marble 
splendors flooded with silver, as she sat like 
a queen upon her seven hills, with the op- 
ulence of the w^orld she had conquered at 
her feet; while silence, like a sacred balm, 
brooded over all. 

Nemesius did not pause to note the en- 
trancing loveliness of the scene; the cool, 
sweet air, after the close atmosphere of the 
Catacombs, refreshed him; but his mind 
was too full of his approaching happiness 
to be diverted by exterior objects, however 
attractive. Followed by Admetus,and never 
halting in his progress, the ground seemed 
to fly from under his feet, and he reached 
the great bronze gates of the villa without 
having realized the distance he had trav- 
ersed. 

Here this Roman gentleman remem- 
bered his faithful guide, thanked him for 
his attendance, and told him that he wished 
to retain him in his service. There was no 
one to listen; the porter, who had taken 
one draught of wine too much, was in a 
profound sleep; and, not caring to rouse 
him, Nemesius entered by a narrow, private 
postern a little farther on, to which he alone 
had the key ; but when he turned to bid 
his guide follow him, he had disappeared. 

Hastening up the broad avenue, Neme- 
sius reached the house ; but, before passing 
in, he stood looking up with yearning heart 
to the windows of the room where his blind 
darling reposed in peaceful slumbers, un- 
dreaming of the happiness so near at hand — 



But no! Could that white figure waiting 
there in the moonlight be hers? She de- 
tected the footsteps for which her ears had 
been on the alert, although he had walked 
lightly, fearing to disturb her; and her glad 
cry answered his thought. A minute later 
she was in his arms. 

"I was waiting, /«<^r^ mio^ just for this, 
and began to think thou wouldst never 
come," she murmured, in loving tones. 

"But here I am, dulce mia! only to kiss 
thee good-night, and bid thee go to thy 
couch and sleep ; for we are to take an early 
drive together. And, O bella 7nia! some- 
thing awaits- thee, full of happiness for both 
thee and me," he said, the glad news hov- 
ering on his lips; but he refrained, fearing 
that the excitement would keep her awake, 
and he wanted her to be all fresh and rested 
when they started on the morning's quest; 
he would tell her then, on the way to the 
villa of Tertullus. 

After the interchange of a few more fond 
words, she lay her golden head upon her 
pillow, satisfied that he had come, that he 
had kissed her good -night; while the 
thought of the promised ^rly drive with 
him was so entirely delightful that, like a 
pleasant song, it lulled her to sleep. 

When in the silence of his own apart- 
ment, Nemesius stood at his casement gaz- 
ing out at the far distance, and wishing for 
the dawn, the sunrise, the beautiful day, 
which the eyes now sealed in darkness 
would behold; and he thought and thought, 
until a mysterious awe fell upon him, which 
presently assuming distinct purpose and 
form, he exclaimed: "If by the power of 
the Christians' God my child receives her 
sight. Him alone will I worship, and none 
other. ' ' 

His vow was registered in Heaven. It 
was no longer a pillar of cloud, but one of 
fire, that was leading him out of the dark- 
ness; "the voice of one crying in the wil- 
derness ' ' was no longer an indistinct echo, 
and the way was being made straight for 
Him whose footsteps were already heard. 

Nemesius dismissed the two drowsy 
servants whom he found nodding in the 



34 



The Ave Maria. 



anteroom, and passed into his apartments. 
His impatience for morning and all that it 
would bring banished even the thought of 
sleep, and he determined to keep vigil until 
it dawned. 

How slowly the moments seemed to drag 
as he stood at the casement straining his 
eyes towards the dark, distant mountains, 
to catch the first pale glimmer that would 
illumine their summits! But what human 
heart-longing ever quickened the march of 
Time? It was hard to wait, but how futile 
to stand idle when things were to be at- 
tended to which, if deferred later, would 
cause delay! 

He remembered that no orders had been 
sent to the stables, and, stealing noiselessly 
out, he reached them in a few minutes, 
roused the sleepy and astonished guardian 
of the stalls, and, in those firm, quiet tones 
of command that always ensured obedience, 
directed him to have the low two-seated 
chariot in readiness and at the door by sun- 
rise. Then, refreshing himself with a ther- 
mal bath, he went back to his apartment, lit 
a lamp, and began preparations to apparel 
himself as be^tted the approaching mo- 
mentous event. His child had never seen 
him, and he would appear well in her sight; 
he would don rich garments, and his superb 
armor of Damascus steel inlaid with ara- 
besques of gold; his jewel -hilted sword, 
made with such cunning art that it was as 
keen and flexible as lightning; and wear 
across his breast the splendid silken scarf 
of his military grade. He scanned his dark, 
noble face in a mirror, holding the lamp so 
that its rays shone full upon his counte- 
nance, and wondered if at first sight its 
strangeness would repel her. 

Never before, even in the days of his early 
love, had this man, self-poised and indif- 
ferent to externals, given so much thought 
to his appearanc e ; for it was not alone the 
impression he would make on his little 
daughter, should she receive her sight — of 
which he had not the smallest doubt — that 
occupied his mind, but he wished to show 
due respect to that Power -by which the 
wonder would be wrought, by appearing in 



all the insignia of his military rank, as be- 
fore an Emperor. 

His preparations at length completed, a 
more noble figure could scarcely be imag- 
ined; he looked the ideal of one of his own 
gods. He extinguished his lamp, and re- 
newed his vigil at the casement, his gaze 
turned towards the mountains. At last! at 
last! a filmy, luminous whiteness faintly 
outlined their grim crests; the moon was 
bending low over the sea; tints of palest 
saffron veiled the morning-star, and the 
shadows began to be transfigured with 
flashes of gold and veins of cr-imson as they 
drifted away. 

Nemesius went to the shrine that stood 
in a corner of the apartment, and, mixing 
wine and frankincense together in a gold 
cup, he offered the morning libation in 
honor of the gods. Having performed this 
act of heathen piety, he went out into the 
corridor, walked softly towards Claudia's 
apartments, and met Zilla,who had just left 
them, her countenance wearing an anxious 
and perplexed expression, which vanished 
in surprise at his appearance. Folding her 
hands on her bosom, she bowed her head, 
and waited for him to speak. He asked if 
the child was still asleep. 

'*She is awake, and wishes to rise and be 
dressed for a drive which, she insists, she is 
to take with thee. She must have dreamed 
it, sir, as she was asleep before I sought my 
own couch last night." 

' ' It was no dream ; I saw her for a few 
moments after I came in; she was at the 
window listening for me. I promised the 
early drive. We start at sunrise, and shall 
pay a visit before we get back. Make her 
take a biscuit and a little wine before we 
go. And, Zilla! be ready with thy gladdest 
smiles to receive her when she returns; for, 
if I am not mistaken, she will bring thee 
cause for rejoicing," he answered, scarcely 
able to hold back his secret. 

(to be continued.) 



A ROAD with a prickly, thorny hedge on 
either side is often the safest, and so is the 
road of sorrow. 



The Ave Maria. 



A Mission in Mid-Ocean. 



II 
I 



[For the following interesting account of Easter 
Island, and of a recent visit there, we are indebted 
to the Rev. Father Albert, of the Society of the 
Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. This apostolic 
man has been, for more than thirty years, a mis- 
sionary in the islands of the Pacific. Our readers 
will remember him as the coadjutor of Father 
Damien, the apostle of the lepers at Kalawao, 
Molokai.] 

EASTER Island, situated in the Pacific 
Ocean, about half-way between Tahiti 
and the coast of Chili, is so called because 
it was discovered (by a Dutch squadron) 
on Easter Sunday, 1722. Although visited 
from time to time by whalers and ships of 
war, it remained comparatively unknown 
till quite recently. In 1863 it was almost 
depopulated by the incursions of Peruvian 
pirates, who carried off great numbers of 
the inhabitants, as well as by the small-pox, 
which created fearful havoc among them. 

The missionaries at Tahiti had long had 
in view the evangelization of this island. 
Being at Valparaiso that same year, in 
search of health, I obtained the consent of 
Bishop Janssen to proceed thither and in- 
struct the inhabitants. Providence, how- 
ever, had allotted the work to other and 
abler hands; still I had the great happiness 
of opening the doors, as it were, of the mis- 
sion, and of establishing there a devoted 
laborer, Mr. Eugene Eyrould, who had 
some time before joined the community of 
our Order at Valparaiso. This gentleman 
accompanied me to Tahiti, where at his own 
expense he chartered a vessel, and freighted 
it with dry-goods, clothing, and agricult-' 
ural implements, to distribute among the 
natives, in order the better to dispose them 
to receive the missionaries. 

Alternately protected and plundered by 
the different chiefs, who are continually at 
war with one another, he deemed himself 
happy, after nine months of privations and 
indescribable sufferings, to escape, half 
naked, in a vessel which the Rev. Father 
Barnabe had brought from Valparaiso to 
rescue him. The two missionaries saw no 



immediate prospect of making any further 
progress, and thought it best to return to 
Chili. 

On his arrival at our house in Valparaiso, 
Mr. Eyrould made his vows. He then be- 
gan with renewed energy to prepare for a 
second voyage to Easter Island, and was 
allowed to purchase enough building ma- 
terial for several houses. He also procured 
another large stock of dry-goods and wear- 
ing apparel, besides a complete assortment 
of domestic animals. This time he was ac- 
companied by a priest. Two years passed — 
years of benediction. On the Feast of Our 
Lady's Assumption Mr. Eyrould calmly 
rendered up his soul, gladdened by the news 
that the last of the natives had just been 
baptized. 

We can not but believe that God, who 
has promised a reward exceedingly great 
for even a cup of cold water given in His 
name, has long since recompensed the suf- 
ferings and sacrifices of His faithful ser- 
vant. Mr. Eyrould deserves to be called the 
Apostle of Easter Island. No sooner did he 
learn of my intended visit to the isle, than 
he came and offered himself, with no insig- 
nificant fortune — the result of years of hon- 
orable labor and of wise economy — in order 
to be a sharer in the good work. 

Only a few years after the death of this 
holy religious, all his labors, as well as those 
of the two missionaries, were rendered prof- 
itless by the scandals of a certain European, 
whose name and nationality I refrain from 
mentioning. After having- squandered his 
fortune, at Papaete, in gambling and de- 
bauchery, he turned brigand, and endeav- 
ored to retrieve his losses at the expense of 
the missionaries and the natives of the isle. 
During several years the missionaries la- 
bored, with many trials and sufferings, to 
bring him back to a sense of duty, but, find- 
ing their efforts ineffectual, they finally, 
acting on the advice of the Bishop, aban- 
doned the mission. The majority of the na- 
tives quitted it at the same time, emigrating 
to Gamblers and Tahiti. 

The missionaries had neither the time 
nor means during their sojourn to have any 



36 



The Ave Maria. 



works printed in the language of the coun- 
try; as a consequence, they were obliged 
to retire without having been able to teach 
the converts either to read or write. Last 
February, when I visited the isle, I found 
those who had remained on it as ignorant 
as if a ray of civilization had never shone 
upon them. Happily, however, a Catholic 
gentleman from Europe had been among 
them for about a year, as agent of a com- 
mercial firm, and imparted to them some 
slight knowledge of the Tahitian dialect. 
With the zeal, devotedness, and patience of 
a true Christian, he consecrated his leisure 
moments to the instruction of the inhabi- 
tants in Catechism and in the singing of 
pious hymns. No doubt they did not un- 
derstand half of what they recited and sang, 
but the accuracy with which they had 
committed to memory and retained all that 
had been taught them both surprised and 
charmed me. Individually or collectively, 
they answered with correctness and promp- 
titude many of the most difficult questions 
of the Catechism. But this good gentle- 
man did not content himself with teaching 
the natives the mere theory of Christian 
doctrine: he also taught them the practice 
of it, and that by his example. 

When we arrived at the wharf, on my 
first visit, I was very much impressed with 
the modest and reserved demeanor of the 
feminine portion of the population. All the 
natives had turned out in their best apparel 
to receive me. Having formed in proces- 
sion, they began to sing hymns, and led me 
to the church and school. Years of absence 
had not in the least diminished their love 
and respect for the missionaries. 

I had only ten days to remain among 
them, and these I tried to spend to the best 
advantage. From early morning till late 
at night I was engaged in instructing, bap- 
tizing, marrying, and hearing confessions. 
All made their Easter duty in the most edi- 
fying manner. I even began to teach them 
the elements of reading and arithmetic, and 
distributed among them some books with 
which to instruct themselves until such 
time as I can send them a teachei" from 



Tahiti. I was obliged to interrupt my la- 
bors now and then, owing to a soreness of 
lungs and loss of voice; in the meantime I 
employed myself at manual labor — paint- 
ing the church, school, etc. 

During my stay I visited an extinct vol- 
cano in the neighborhood ; descending into 
the crater, I found a pool of clear water. 
Close to the volcano were several caves, 
which had formerly served as places of 
concealment for the inhabitants of the isle. 
I also went to see some colossal statues of 
which I had heard a great deal. A journey 
of half the circuit of the island brought me 
to them. I counted twenty standing on 
pedestals, all looking towards the sea, while 
many more la}^ scattered about on the 
ground. Not far from where I stood were 
several only half finished. Each statue was 
from 40 to 45 feet in length. They are 
sculptured by means of a kind of rock 
harder than themselves. To raise them 
when finished is the most difficult part of 
the work ; for the natives know nothing 
about mechanics. Near where the statue- 
is to be placed they raise a mound, up ta 
the summit of which they contrive to roll 
the unhewed stone After chiselling it, they 
attach ropes to the upper part, and dig away 
the ground at the base. 

I also sought out the unhonored grave of 
Mr. Eyrould. I had the weeds cut away and 
a mound raised. The neophytes have sur- 
rounded it with a picket fence, inside which 
is a circular ridge of rich soil planted with 
flowers. I blessed the grave, and erected 
over it a wooden cross. A cast-iron cross 
and railing have been ordered from San 
Francisco by Bishop Verdier, our new 
Vicar- Apostolic; and when these arrive the 
wooden ones will be removed. 

The ship which brought me having re- 
ceived its cargo, I began to prepare for my 
departure. When the neophytes heard that 
I was going, they were so affected that they 
could neither sing the little hymns that 
evening nor respond to the prayers. Next 
morning, after the usual exercises of devo- 
tion, I exhorted them to persevere in the 
practice of what they had been taUght; and 



m 



The Ave Maria. 



37 



11 



then, having shaken hands with each one, 
I embarked, amid cries of, "Come soon 
again! come soon again!" This I hope to 
do, particularly as there is danger that some 
cattle raisers — non-Catholics — may destroy 
the good already effected. May the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus, to which I solemnly conse- 
crated the isle, deign to guard it against 
so great a misfortune! 



A Saintly Convict. 



AZEAIvOUS priest of a religious order, 
who has served as chaplain in the pen- 
itentiaries of La Rochelle, Brest, and Tou- 
lon (France), gives the following account of 
one of the convicts: 

I once conversed with a man whom I 
shall never forget, whom I honor — venerate 
more than any one else I know; and this 
man is a convict! One evening he came to 
my confessional, and after his confession I 
asked him some questions regarding his 
past life, as was my custom in dealing with 
those unfortunates. On this occasion a spe- 
^ cial motive impelled me to put my ques- 
tions, as I was struck by the peaceful look 
on the man's face. He answered me with- 
out affectation, concisely, and to the point. 

"What is your age?" 

"Forty-five, Father." 

"How long have you been here?" 

"Ten years." 

"How much longer must you stay?" 

"I am here for life." 
* ' ' What was your offence ? ' ' 

"Incendiarism." 

"You certainly have much cause to re- 

^ gret having committed such a crime." 

K< ' ' I have greatly offended God, but not by 

the crime for which I was sentenced. Still, 

I am justly condemned: it is God who has 

condemned me." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I have greatly offended God, Father; I 
have been very guilty, but \ have com- 
mitted no crime against society. After hav- 
ing repeatedly fallen into sin, God touched 
my heart, and I returned to Him. But I 



was uneasy — a heavy weight was upon my 
soul: I could not persuade myself that my 
sins were blot4:ed out. I did not know how 
to make reparation, and felt the necessity 
of atoning for the crimes of my youth. 
In the meanwhile a very destructive fire 
broke out near my house. I was arrested 
on suspicion, found guilty, and condemned 
to the penitentiary for life. When my sen- 
tence was pronounced a delicious peace 
filled my soul, and has remained with me 
ever since. No one knows me here, and all 
believe that I am justly condemned; and 
so I am. Pray for me, I beseech you, that I 
may do the will of God unto the end. ' ' 

I could not help reflecting: If we were all 
to accept the sufferings of this life in view of 
the satisfaction we owe the divine Justice, 
how it would sweeten the trials from which 
even the most favored'are not exempt, and 
what treasures we should lay up for our- 
selves in the next world! 



Leaves from Our Portfolio. 



THK RKV. R. S. HAWKER ON THE CLAIMS OF 
SCIENCE AND FAITH. 

To Mr. S. J ., Merchant, Plymouth. 

My Dear Nkphew: — You ask me "to put 
into a nutshell ' ' the pith and marrow of the 
controversy which at this time pervades the 
English mind as to the claims of Science and 
Faith Let me try. The material universe, 
SO the sages allege, is a vast assemblage of 
atoms, or molecules — "motes in the sun- 
beam "of Science— which has existed for myr- 
iads of ages under a perpetual system of evo- 
lution, restructure, and change. This mighty- 
mass is traversed by the forces electrical, or 
magnetic, or with other kindred names; and 
these, by their incessant and indomitable ac- 
tion, are adequate to account for all the phe- 
nomena of the world of matter and of man. 
The upheaval of a continent, the drainage of 
a sea, the creation of a metal; nay, the origin 
of life, and the development of a species in 
plant or animal or man — these are the achieve- 
ments of fixed and natural laws among the 
atomic materials, under the vibration of the 
forces alone. 



38 



The Ave Maria, 



Thus far the vaunted discoveries of science 
are said to have arrived. Let us indulge them 
with the theory that these results— for they 
are nothing more — are accurate and real. But, 
still, a thoughtful mind will venture to de- 
mand whence did these atoms derive their 
existence, and from what and from whom 
do they inherit the propensities wherewithal 
they are imbued ? And tell me, most potent 
seigniors, what is the origin of these forces, 
action and the guidance of their control, 
and with whom reside the impulse of their 
* ' Nothing so difficult as a beginning. ' ' Your 
philosopher is mute! He has reached the hori- 
zon of his domain, and to him all beyond is 
doubt, and uncertainty, and guess. We must 
lift the veil; we must pass into the border-land 
between two worlds, and there inquire at the 
oracles of Revelation touching the unseen and 
spiritual powers which thrill through the 
mighty sacrament of the visible creation. Be- 
ing inspired, we perceive the realms of sur- 
rounding space peopled by immortal creatures 
of air — 
"Myriads of spiritual things that walk unseen, 
Both when we wake and when we sleep." 
These are the existences, in aspect as 
*' ' young men in white garments, ' ' who inhabit 
the void between the worlds and their Maker 
and their God. Behold the battalions of the 
Lord of Hosts, the workers of the sky, the faith- 
ful and intelligent va.ssals of God the Trinity! 
In our poor, meagre language we have named 
them "the Angels," but this title merely 
denotes one of their subordinate offices — mes- 
sengers from on high. The Gentiles called 
them ' ' gods, ' ' but we ought to honor them 
by a name that should embrace and interpret 
their lofty dignity as an intermediate army 
"between the kingdom and the throne; the 
centurions of the stars and of men; the com- 
manders of the forces and their guides. These 
are they that, each with a delegated office, 
fulfil what their "King invisible" decrees; 
tiot with the dull, inert mechanism of fixed 
and natural law, but with the unslumbering 
energy and the rational obedience of vSpiritual 
life. They mould the atom, they wield the 
force, and, as Newton rightly guessed, they 
rule the world of matter beneath the silent 
Omnipotence of God. 

' ' And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set 
up on the earth, and the top of it reached to 
heaven; and behold the angels of God ascend- 



ing and descending on it. And behold the 
Lord stood above it." (Genesis.) 
Your affectionate uncle, 

R. S. Hawkkr. 
MoRWENSTOw Vicarage, Cornwall. 



The Genealogy of Mary. 

The hid 0- European Correspondence. 

A LEARNED Belgian priest, 1' Abbe Jamar, 
has succeeded in elucidating the gene- 
alogy of Mary in a complete and satisfactory 
manner. The names of her parents are not 
found in the Bible, but they have been pre- 
served for us by the tradition of the Levantine 
Fathers; so much so that the Church had no 
hesitation in consecrating the pious belief by 
admitting the feasts of St. Joachim and St. 
Anne into the calendar of her liturgy. 

According to the same sources, Joachim was 
the son of Mathan, and the brother of Jacob, 
who was St Joseph's father, so that Mary and 
Joseph were first cou.sins; and the Church 
again seems to endorse that opinion by caus- 
ing the genealogy of Joseph through Jacob 
and Mathan to be sung on the feast both of 
St. Joachim and of the Nativity of Mary. 

St. Anne was likewise of the race of David 
but through Nathan, and she was the grand- 
daughter of Mathat, the father of Heli, in the 
genealogy of St. Joseph as given by St. Luke. 
Your readers are probably aware that the dif- 
ficulty of St. Joseph's being called the son of 
Jacob in St. Matthew and the son of Heli in 
St. Luke has been explained in the clearest 
way by St. Augustine and St. Jerome. Heli 
having died without issue, Jacob, his next of 
kin, married his widow, according to Deuter- 
onomy (xxv.), and the issue of the marriage 
was held the legal issue of Heli, at the same 
time that it was the natural issue of Jacob. 

Mary must have been an only child, and as 
such must have inherited the property of her 
parents, as tradition also relates it; for it was 
only in that capacity that she had to accom- 
pany Joseph to Bethlehem, in spite of her del- 
icate state, and to get herself registered accord- 
ing to the edict of Emperor Augustus. 

It is true that St. John speaks of a sister of 
Jesus' Mother: viz., Mary of Cleophas (St. 
John,xix., 25); but it was a custom among the 
Jews, and it is yet retained among Orientals, 
that near relatives call themselves brothers 



The Ave Maria. 



39 



I 



and sisters. Cleoplias and Joseph being really 
brothers, their wives would still, with greater 
probability and with better right, salute each 
other as sisters. 

Joachim and Anna resided in Galilee, and 
possessed that little house of Nazareth (now 
lyoreto) which was to become soon the most 
august spot on the earth. Probabh' the family 
had withdrawn thither from Judea at the time 
of the persecution of King Antiochus, which 
drove many Jews to seek refuge in the North, 
and led to heroic resistance, and the exploits 
of the Maccabees. 

I subjoin the Blessed Virgin's pedigree 
according to the work of M. 1' Abbe Jamar: 

I. Adam — 2. Seth— 3. Enos— 4. Cainan— 5. 
Malaleel — 6. Jared — 7. Henoch — 8. Mathusalem — 
9. Lamech— 10. Noe— 11. Sem— 12. Arphaxad— 
13. Cainan— 14. Sale — 15. Heber— 16. Phaleg— 17. 
Reu, or Ragan- 18. Sarug— 19. Nachor— 20. Thara 
—21. Abraham— 22. Isaac— 23. Jacob— 24^Juda— 
25. Phares — 26. Esron — 27. Aram — 28. Aminadab 
— 29. Naasson— -.30 Salmon — 31.B00Z — 2)'^. Obed — 
y^. Jesse— 



34- 



David. 



35. Solomon — 36. Ro- 
boam — 37. Abia — 38. 
Asa— 39. Josaphat— 40. 
: Joram — [41 • Ochozias 
. — 42. Joas — 43- Ama- 
sias] — 44- Ozias —45- 
Jonathan— 46. Achaz— 
47. Ezechias— 48. Ma- 
nassas— 49- Amon— 50. 
Josias— [51. Joachaz]— 
52. Jechonias — 53. Sala- 
thiel — 54. Zorobabel— | 
55. Abiud— 56. Eleazar 
— 57. Azor— 58. Sadoc— 
59. Achim — 60. Eliud 
— 61. Eleazar— 62. Ma- 
than. 

62. M;Uhan,whom;irrifd Esthn, 

widow of Mathat. 

I 

63. Joachim, (^l- Jacob, 
Anna's husband, who married 

Heli's widow. 
i 



35. Nathan — 36. Math- 
atha — 2il- Menna — 38. 
Melea — 39. Eliakim — 
40. Jona — 41. Joseph — 
42. juda — 43. Simon — 
44. Lin — 45. Mathat — 
46. Jorini--^47. Eliezer — 
48. John — 49. Her — 50 
Helmadan — 5 1 . Cosan — 
52. Addi — 53. Melchi — 
54. Neri — 55. Salathiel — 
56. Zorobabel — 57. Reza 
58. Joanna — 59. Juda — 
60. Joseph — 61. Semei 
—62. Mathatia— 63. Ma- 
hath — 64 . Nagge — 65 . 
Heshi — 66. Nahiim — 67. 
Amos— 68. Matiiathias 
— 69. Joseph — 70. Janne 
— 71. Melchi — 72. Levi 
— ']T^. Mathat. 

7V Mathat, Esth I's isthuslxind. 



74. Iloli, 
who died 
chikiless. 



74. Mar\-. the 
nfeof Ma'than, 
a priest of 
Bethlehem. 



64. Mary, 64,Joseph, 64. Cleophiis. 
Mother of husb;ind of 
Jesus. Mary. 



75. Mary. Solie. 75. Anna, 
Joachim's 
wife. 



65. James, Joseph, Judas, Simeon, 76 Salome, 76, Elizab., 76. Marv, 

the Less.' ( rhaddx-us.) Zebedee's Zachary's Mother 

wife. wife. of Jesus. 



77.J:imes, 77. John 77. John 
the Greater, theEv. the Baptist. 



Letter from Paris. 

• 

The Expulsion of the Princes; The Comte 
DE Paris; A Royal Bride. — The Jews; A 
Battle of Books. — Piety and Irreligion. — 

■ A Muscular Christian; etc. 

DEAR "Ave Maria": — Paris has always 
some exciting question to discuss — some- 
thing that keeps the 'press on the qui vive; 
then public curiosity, hope, or alarm, on tip- 
toe. Just now the subject that is setting all 
the tongues in the country — and out of the 
country — wagging is the expulsion of the 
princes, who are supposed to be pretenders to 
the crown of France. They have many a time 
served as a scapegoat to one set of politicians 
or another, and have periodically got notice 
to pack up, and be ready to decamp at a mo- 
ment's warning. The Radicals were not to be 
done out of the sport of hunting a family of 
royal blood, and are now enjoying the fun of 
their discomfiture, and that of their friends; 
but after a while the laugh may be on the 
other side. 

The Comte de Paris is so little of a pre- 
tender, that his adversaries have no worse 
charge to bring against him than that he has 
never shown the pluck of a mouse in trying 
for the crown he is heir to, and his partisans 
have long been loud in their complaints that 
he ' ' does nothing. ' ' The Prince lately, how- 
ever, did something : he married his eldest 
daughter to the heir of a reigning sovereign, 
and the event was celebrated with becoming 
ceremony and jubilation at Eu and in Paris. 

The Comte de Paris, who is a good Catholic, 
and a highly-respectable gentleman, was very- 
much astonished to see the cordiality with 
which people of all classes responded to the 
opportunity of testifying their loyalty to him. 
Thousands crowded to the castle at Eu, with 
congratulations and presents. One working- 
man made the young fiancee a graceful offer- 
ing that deserves to be commemorated. He 
came to the castle and asked leave to present 
a gold piece of forty francs — a double Louis, as 
it used to be called —to the princess. When he 
was a little boy, her grandmother, good Queen 
Amelie, had given it to him (I forget on what 
occasion), and he resolved never td part with 
it. "I have kept it as a relic through many 
hard years," he said; "though many a time 
I have felt the pinch of want. I bore up, how- 



40 



The Ave Maria. 



ever, and never parted with my treasure. 
Now I give it to your Royal Highness, that 
it may bring you good luck, as it has done to 
me; for, after a long fight with poverty, I am 
now above want. ' ' The young princess was 
quite overcome with emotion on taking the 
beautiful gold piece from the honest fellow; 
he had kept it as bright as the day it came 
from the mint. 

The trousseau of the royal bride was a very 
grand affair, and circulated a good deal of 
money amongst the discontented Paris trades- 
people ; the sum of two millions of francs 
having been spent, it is alleged, on the bridal 
finery and festivities. But all these gay do- 
ings and rejoicings frightened the Govern- 
ment, and they declared the princes were 
going to upset the Republic, and must be sent 
out of the country. It is all very silly and 
spiteful, and very poor policy in the rulers of 
a great nation. 

Next to the princes, the Jews are the lions 
of the hour. Two books have been written 
about them, one fiercely abusive, the other 
passionately apologetical. The first is called 
''La France Juive,'" by Monsieur Drumont, a 
writer of the Catholic journal Le Monde. 
Monsieur Drumont is a Catholic, a good 
man, and an able writer, but he dipped his 
pen in gall when he began to write about the 
poor Jews; he attacks them on all sides, calls 
them usurers and thieves; he whips them, he 
spits at them, he knocks them down from their 
gold bags, where they sit enthroned, and he 
literally dances on them in his rage and scorn. 
He gives a long list of names of Jews and 
Jewesses holding high places in the world, 
and he lashes them fiercely. He is proportion- 
ally hard ou the Christians who receive the 
despised race in their ranks, and gives no 
quarter to the French dukes and princes who 
have sold their coronets to Rothschild for 
money-bags. There is a kernel of justice and 
truth and sound morality in all this invective, 
but the kernel disappears in the immense husk 
of abusive language. 

The opposition book is by a converted Jew, 
the Abbe I^emann. He stands up for his 
race, and recounts all the persecutions and 
cruel humiliations that Jews were subjected 
to through the Middle Ages, and up to the 
time of the Revolution, when they w^ere civilly 
emancipated. He foresees the great event, 
the conversion of Israel, and the glory that 



would come of the union of Jews and Chris- 
tians under the banner of the Church. A 
grand, wise, and very pathetic book, likely to- 
do as much good as Monsieur Drumont' s will, 
I fear, do mischief. It will draw hearts to the 
JewivSh cause, and perhaps win many of them 
to Christianity ; whereas the other will only 
create bitter enmity, and desires of being re- 
venged for such an unprovoked attack. 

The devotions of the Month of Mary were 
well attended in Paris, and, I hear, all through 
France, in the great centres. Nevertheless, 
some towns witnessed scenes of painful im- 
piety, knd Mary's worship by the faithful was 
frequently interrupted by violent outrages 
from the roughs of advanced democracy. At 
Troyes, for instance, bands of idle workmen 
went to the various churches, and hissed and 
made unseemly noises, to hinder the preacher 
from being heard. In one church several 
hundred scattered themselves through the 
congregation, and grew openly aggressive, 
and created such an uproar that the pre'acher 
had to hurry out of the pulpit, and take ref- 
uge in the presbytery, where the mob fol- 
lowed, throwing stones, threatening to set 
fire to the house, and behaving like madmen. 
The faithful showed good fight on the occa- 
sion, and made a solemn reparation to Our 
lyady for these insults; and the roughs were 
afraid to go further. All their misconduct m ly 
be put down to the impulse given by the au- 
thorities. 

The town council ordered all the crucifixes 
to be taken down in all public places, and the 
order was everywhere obeyed until it reached 
— the slaughter-house! Here the butchers- 
more power to their hatchets! — flatly refused 
to let the order be carried out. One stalwart 
fellow vowed that whoever laid a finger on the 
cross should answer to him for it. ' ' That cross 
was here before I came, and it shall be here 
while I stay, and I mean to leave it after me. 
So come on!" Nobody "came on," and the 
sign of Redemption, which the sacrilegious 
hirelings were allowed to tear down from the 
town-hall, the courts, the hospital, the schools 
— in fact, all the respectable places, remains 
untouched in the slaughter-house! 

We are having some threats of Summer at 
last, in the shape of bursts of heat, with rain, 
east-winds, thunder-storms, and every variety 
of bad weather. 

Enfant dk Marik. 




The Ave Maria. 



41 



Catholic Notes. 



If 



■ 



On Wednesday, the 30th ult. , the Cardinal 
Archbishop of Baltimore received, at the j 
liands of the venerable Archbishop of St. 
Louis, the Apostolic Delegate ad hoc, the red 
beretta, the official mark of the new dignity to 
.which he has been elevated The ceremonies 
ttending the investiture, which took place in 
he Cathedral, were very solemn and impres- 
ive, and were witnessed by an immense 
throng of the clergy and laity, who filled every 
available spot in the sacred edifice. Solemn 
Pontifical Mass was celebrated by Archbishop 
Williams, of Boston, during which a sermon 
was delivered by Archbishop Ryan, of Phil- 
adelphia. There were also present in the 
sanctuary, besides the prelates named, Arch- 
hishops Corrigan of New York, Feehan of 
Chicago, Heiss of Milwaukee, and bishops 
and clergy to the number of five hundred, to- 
gether with Mgr. Straniero, the Papal Able- 
gate, attended by Count Muccioli, the Noble 
Guard. After Mass Mgr. Straniero presented 
the beretta to the Apostolic Delegate, who 
placed it on the head of the Cardinal, who, 
with the attending clergymen, knelt before 
him. After addresses by the Cardinal and 
Archbishop Kenrick, the Te Deum was sung, 
and Cardinal Gibbons gave his blessing to all 
present. 

The annual pilgrimage of the students of 
the Uniyersit}^ of lyouvain to the shrine of 
Our I^ady at Montaigu took place June 3d. 
The pilgrims this year numbered 450, and 
went on foot fasting, although the road is a 
bad one, and the distance fifteen miles. Arriv- 
ing at Montaigu, the pious students assisted 
at Mass, received Holy Communion, and lis- 
tened to an appropriate sermon. 

Well might the Angelus bell have inscribed 
upon it, Vespere, et mane, et meridie clamabo et 
annu7itiabo (Ps. ,liv. ,18), — ' 'At evening, morn, 
and noon I will call out, and give the angelic 
annunciation." For this is truly the order of 
the ecclesiastical day, and, in Southern coun- 
tries of more Catholic atmosphere, of the civil. 
With first Vespers comes in the festival, and 
the sweet Ave Maria, with its clattering peal, 
rings in the new day. We own we like it. We 
love liot the old day to slip away from us, 
and the new one to steal in, " like a thief in the 



night, ' ' upon our unconscious being, and when 
nature, abroad and within us, most awfully 
personates dea^h. We like the day to die even 
as a good Christian would wish, with a heaven 
of mild splendor above, enriched in hue as its 
close approaches; with golden visions and 
loved shapes, however fantastically, floating 
in clouds around; with whispered prayer, and 
a cheering passing bell, and the comfort that, 
when gloom has overspread all, anew though 
unseen day has risen to the spirit; that the 
vigil only has expired, that so the festival-day 
may break. Then, when we awake once more 
to sense and consciousness, let the joyful peal 
arouse us, with the first dawn of day and 
reason, to commemorate that Mystery which 
alone has made the day worth living; and 
greet, with the natural, the spiritual Sun — the 
Dayspring from on high, that rose on be- 
nighted man, and chased away the darkness 
and the shadow of death wherein he sat. Who 
does not see and feel the clear analogy ? And 
who will neglect, if it be brought thus to his 
memory, to shield himself behind the ample 
measure of this grace, against "the arrow fly- 
ing in the day," in its sharp and well-aimed 
temptations? The which, when they have 
reached their height, and when all the holy 
dew of morning devotion seems to have well- 
nigh evaporated, we need new succor, and 
refuge ah incursu et dcemonio meridiano. At 
these eventful periods will the Angelus bell 
call out to us aloud, and make the joyful An- 
nunciation, speaking in angel's words and 
angel's tone, to the gladsome, to the anxious, 
and to the weary heart — gladsome at mom, 
anxious at noon, weary at eve. Truly it was 
a heavenly thought that suggested the ap- 
pointment of both time and thing. For what 
can chime so well with the first of those feel- 
ings and its season as the glorious news that 
"the Lord's angel" hath brought to earth 
such tidings as his ? What can suit the second 
better than to speak resignation in Mary's 
words, ' Behold Thy servant, or handmaid,' — 
Fiat mihi secundu?n verbum tuum? What 
can refresh the third, and cast forward bright 
rays into the gloom of approaching night, 
more than the thought that God's own Eter- 
nal Word dwelleth ever amongst us, our 
Comforter and Help ? 



The conversion, last month, of Mgr. Sa- 
varese, the chief of the Schismatic National 



42 



The Ave Maria. 



Churcb of Italy, has caused great rejoicing in 
Rome. It is anticipated that the so-called 
Church will now totally collapse. Mgr. Sa- 
varese has made humble submission for his 
past errors, and is disposed to do all that is 
possible to atone for the scandal given. 



The Canadian Pacific Railway Company 
have presented to Father Lacombe, O. M. I., 
an oil-painting of the Blessed Virgin and the 
Infant Jesus, as a token of their appreciation 
of his services in inducing the Blackfeet In- 
dians to take no part in the lyouis Riel up- 
rising. They recognize the fact that priests 
are the safeguards of law and order, the pro- 
moters of peace, the friends of humanity. — 
The Monitor. 

The members of the Tabernacle Society, of 
Washington, have been invited to unite with 
the nuns of the Perpetual Adoration, in Rome 
and in Belgium, in offering to our Holy Fa- 
ther Leo XIII. testimonials of loyalty and 
filial piety on the occasion of his approaching 
sacerdotal jubilee. These testimonials, in ac- 
cordance with the objects of the associations 
named, and as being most pleasing to the 
heart of the Sovereign Pontiff, will take the 
form of gifts of sacred vessels, priestly vest- 
ments, and general outfits for missionary work. 
The faithful in the United States are invited 
to CO operate with the Society at Washington 
in this praiseworthy undertaking, by which 
they may, at one and the same time, give ex- 
pression to their filial devotedness to the Vicar 
of Christ, and aid in serving the needs of 
Catholic missions. 

The Society of Foreign Missions, of Paris, 
includes 751 French missioners, of whom 28 
are bishops, 424 native Chinese priests, and 
1,800 catechists; and possesses 2,292 churches 
and chapels. Under the care of these are 
829,000 Catholics, and around and making the 
field of labor are 203 millions of pagans. 



Bernhard Reiburg, who is both a sculptor 
and the sacristan of the Church of Our I^ady 
at Spandau, on occasion of the passing of the 
new Ecclesiastical I^aw, sent to Prince Bis- 
marck a bust of lyco XIII. made by himself, 
and expressed his gratitude that ' ' sweet May 
breezes blow once more" — an allusion to the 
now reformed or abolished May I^aws. In 



reply, the Chancellor sent the following auto- 
graph letter: 

Friedrichsruhe, May 21. 

Sir; — You have given me great pleasure by the 

gift of the bust of his Holiness the Pope, which 

I believe to be a very good likeness. I beg you 

accept my most sincere thanks for your very kind 

attention. 

VoN Bismarck. 



While this region round about is being 
seriously agitated on the temperance question, 
it may not be inappropriate to briefly relate 
how one man became a total abstainer. He 
told me his story thus: "I was possessed by 
the demon of drink, and no persuasion of 
friends or reflections of my own had any effect 
in reforming me One day I went to New 
York, bent upon a tremendous carouse, and I 
had it. In four days I spent $350 for liquors of 
all kinds, and at the expiration of that period 
my besotment maj^ be better imagined than 
described. Suddenly, on the fifth day, while 
still laboring under madness caused by alco- 
hol, I experienced the strangest sensations of 
remorse, and a spirit was born in me to lead 
a different life. As if supernaturally inspired, 
I rose, trembling and yet determined, from my 
bed, seized upon the cut-glass decanters and 
bottles containing the fiery fluid, and smashed 
them. Amid that uncanny wreck I raised my 
hand and eyes to Heaven, swearing that, by 
God's grace, I would never touch another drop 
of any intoxicating fluid, even if my life de- 
pended upon it. I grew so ill that a doctor 
called upon me and prescribed brandy. I 
would not take it. He said I would die. I 
answered that at least my death should be a 
sober one. After him, in a providential way, 
a Californian entered my chamber, and, divin- 
ing the situation, took instant steps to remedy 
it. He had me put in a Turkish bath, and 
then gave me to eat some dried herb of his 
region, that filled me w^th extraordinary 
warmth, and worked internally like electric 
shocks. I rapidly regained my health and 
right senses. I have not taken a drop of liquor 
from that hour, and, though at this moment I 
am in pecuniary difficulties, I would not touch 
it if any one were to offer me all this property 
round about, which is valued at millions of 
dollars. I learned afterward that my relatives, 
having exhausted all known human means 
for my conversion, had had recourse to divine 
aid. Three of my family are Sisters of Mercy. 



m 



The Ave Maria. 



43 



Appeal was made to their prayers. They 
offered up for me what is known in the Catho- 
lic Church as a 'Novena' — that is, an act of 
devotion lasting nine days. It was on the ninth 
day, at the very moment the last petition was 
presented beseeching^ to the Almighty by 
these holy women, that, hundreds of miles 
distant, in the very midst of my revel, I was 
by some supernatural power led to the de- 
struction of my idols and to permanent sobri- 
ety, which, with Heaven's help, will never 
be violated. When I see other men drinking, 
or when a temptation is set before me, I be- 
hold the pale, angelic faces of three religious 
women, clad in the black and white habili- 
ments of their order, with one hand on their 
rosaries and the other raised in gentle admoni- 
tion. Some people call this superstition, but 
what a saving superstition it was for me! " — 
Washington Cor. Augusta Chronicle. 



New Publications. 



The stipends of ecclesiastics suspended by 
the Prussian Government in virtue of the May 
Laws amount to a total of $4,000,000, This 
immense sum remains in the hands of the 
Prussian Government, which, it is said, is in 
communication with the Vatican with the 
view of devoting it to some useful purpose. 
d^ If report be true, the money will be divided 
proportionately between the various dioceses, 
and invested for the benefit of aged and infirm 
clergymen 

The Holy Father is doing all in his power 
to succor the destitute and homeless in China, 
and to rebuild the churches and schools de- 
stroyed there during the late catastrophe. It 
was for these purposes that he recently sold 
all the valuable presents received during his 
pontificate. 

It is stated as a singular thing that the con- 
verts to Mormonism come entirely from the 
Protestant population; not a Catholic, so far 
as known, having joined them. It is indeed 
to be wondered at that not a single Catholic 
has joined the Mormons; for there are many 
uninstructed and nominal Catholics, who 
might, seemingly, be as easily led away as 
Protestants. But we should as soon expect a 
thorough college graduate to be converted to 
Brother Jasper's doctrine that "the sun do 
move," as to see a person educated in the 
Catholic faith converted to Mormonism, — 
Ypsilanti Sentinel. 



The Christian State op Life; or. Ser- 
mons on the Principal Duties of Christians in 
General, and of Different States in Particular. 
By the Rev. Francis Hunolt, S.J. Translated 
from the Original German Edition of Cologne, 
1740, by the Rev. J. Allen, D. D. Two Volumes. 
New York. Cincinnati, and St. Ivouis: Benziger 
Brothers. 1886. 

The title of this work sufficiently indicates 
the nature of its contents. It presents a series 
of very practical and instructive sermons 
upon the duties which one must fulfil in order 
to live in a manner becoming the dignity and 
vocation of a Christian. The work is com- 
plete in two volumes, containing a total num- 
ber of seventy-six sermons, which, in the 
extent and variety of their treatment, deal 
with the obligations of persons in the world, 
of every age, rank, and condition — in their re- 
lations to God, their neighbor, and them- 
selves. Though the original discourses, of 
which the present publication is a translation, 
were delivered at a period dating almost two 
centuries back, yet the simplicity of style and 
plainness of language employed in imparting 
the knowledge of truth, which is ever the 
same, make them suitable to peoples of all 
times and places. The great popularity of 
these discourses, so long and favorably known 
in Europe, is a proof of this. Father Hunolt's 
sermons, as the translator well says, "are 
sound in doctrine, powerful in appealing to 
every motive that could lead men to virtue or 
to repentance, and they display a knowledge 
of human nature which can be acquired only 
by long experience united with rare learn- 
ing. ' ' As may be well understood, the work is 
of especial value to the members of the clergy 
whose time is taken up with the cares and 
occupations of the mission; but, at the same 
time, to the lay Christian in general it will be 
found to possess a great practical usefulness, 
and prove the source of much spiritual profit. 
We can heartily commend the work to all 
classes of readers. The translation has been 
well made; the simple style of the original has 
been preserved, and expressed in pure, idio- 
matic Knglish. The publishers have done 
their part fairly well: the volumes are printed 
in good, clear type, and are well bound, mak- 
ing them both presentablejin appearance and 



44 



The Ave Maria, 



vety acceptable as offerings. We must say, 
however, that the title-page is marred by 
crowding into it matter that could find its 
proper place only in an index; for what we 
have given at the head of this notice is but 
the barest outline of what will be found on 
the title-page of the book itself. 

CoNEWAGO. A Collection of Catholic I^ocal 
History, Gathered from the Fields of Catholic 
Missionary Labor within Our Reach. A Hum- 
ble Effort to Preserve Some Remembrance of 
those who have Gone Before, and, by their 
Lives, their Labors, and their Sacrifices, Se- 
cured for Succeeding Generations the Enjoy- 
ment of Happy Homes, and all the Blessings 
of Our Holy Catholic Religion. By John T. 
Reily. Herald Print: Martinsburg, W. Va. 
All persons who are interested in the history 
of the Church in the United States should se- 
cure a copy of this entertaining work. Would 
that in every State, county, and parish, a 
Lambing, a Webb, an Aldering, a Griffin, or 
a Reily could be found to "gather up the 
fragments," and place them in a form to be 
preserv^ed! Photographs of the interior of 
Conewago Chapel, with exterior views of the 
old cupola and new steeple, and portraits of 
the Jesuit Fathers Enders, Deneckere, Vil- 
liger, and Kmig, enhance the value of this 
excellent though unpretending volume. We 
hope it will have many readers among the 
subscribers of Our Lady's magazine in the 
district where these apostolic men labored. 



Obituary. 

"It is a holy and vjkolesome thought to pray for the dead." 

—2 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

The Rev. F. X. ObermuUer, the venerable chap- 
lain of St. Rose's Convent, La Crosse, Wis., de- 
ceased on the 12th ult. 

SivSter Vincent (Margaret McDonough), lay- 
Sister of the Ursulines, who died suddenly on the 
22d ult., at Valle Crucis (near Columbia), S. C. 

Mrs. Catharine Sullivan, of Fall River, Mass., 
whose happy death took place on the 27th ult. 

Mrs. Anne Bell, who breathed her last in New 
Orleans, on the 12th of May. 

Mrs. John M. Crumlish, of Wilmington, Del.; 
William Geekie and Miss Ellen Maloney, St. 
Louis, Mo. ; Mrs. Susan Murray, Gallitzin, Pa. ; 
Miss Emma Connor, and Patrick W. Meagher, 
Marysburg, Minn. 

May they rest in peace! 




PAI^TMENI 



From Tipperary to Texas. 



The Adventures of Tibby Buti^er. 



BY T. F. GALWEY. 



III. 



The snow was falling in great flakes on 
the morning after Tibby' s arrival in Amer- 
ica. It had been falling since midnight, and 
travel in the streets of New York was con- 
sequently very much impeded. On many of 
the lines no horse-cars were running, only 
that now and again an immense snow- 
plough moved slowly along the tracks, 
piling up the white mass on both sides as 
it went. The foot- walks themselves were 
nearly impassable in all but the most im- 
portant thoroughfares. 

Tibby made his way with difficulty 
through the narrow avenue which the 
householders and storekeepers were already 
making on the sidewalks of Greenwich 
Street, until he came, as Schnupfer had di- 
rected him, to the massive granite structure 
of St. Peter's Church, at the corner of Bar- 
clay Street. Although it was not yet quite 
six o'clock, and barely daylight, hundreds 
of persons were coming to Mass from dif- 
ferent directions, through the deep snow. 

Tibby mounted the steps, entered the 
vestibule, and blessed himself; and as he 
pavSsed through into the nave of the church 
he felt himself, for the first time in many 
days, at home once more. Though he was 
an orphan, and all alone in America, so far 
as mankind went, he knew that in the Tab- 
ernacle there, where the lights were twin- 
kling on the altar, far up at the other end 
of the aisle, was his Friend, his God. He 
knelt and adored. 

Over in that quiet corner, behind the 
curtained door of the confessional, God's 




The Ave Maria. 



45 



vi 



minister was sitting, and when Tibby's turn 
came, he went in and made his confession, 
in time to receive Holy Communion at the 
Mass that was just about to begin. 

It was bright day when, after having 
made his thanksgiving, he came out of 
the church into the street. It was break- 
fast time, too, he recognized by the voice in 
his stomach, which was speaking plead- 
ingly to him. And yet before returning to 
the boarding-house he was determined to 
give a half hour or so to examining the 
town, in order to find out what were the 

ances of employment. 

He was astonished at the throngs that 
already came hurrying down Broadway and 
the streets leading into it; but he was espec- 
ially interested in observing the army of 
newsboys, some of them of about his. own 
age and size, but most of them very much 
younger and smaller — pale-complexioned, 
sharp-faced little fellows; many of them in- 
clined to poke fun at Tibby's slow walk 
and amazed expression, and at the unmis- 
takably foreign cut of his clothes. 

' ' Say ! what are yer a-starin' at, Micky ? ' ' 
said one insolent chap. ''This ain't no 
show. This is business, this is. Ye'd better 
wake up and go to work. ' ' 

"That's true for you," answered Tibby; 
but before he could continue to declare his 
agreement with what the newsboy had 
said, that young worthy had darted like a 
shot through the snow, and across the street 
to where a man stood beckoning for a 
paper. As Tibby went on, up past the Post- 
Office and along Park Row, he was bewil- 
dered at the excited, hasty manner of all 
he met. He was sure he had never seen 
such bustle in Carrick-on-Suir, and even in 
Cork, as he recollected; everything was as 
quiet as a graveyard compared with this 
breathless hurry-skurry of the people in 
New York before eight o'clock in the 
morning. 

A horse-car was moving past him at this 
moment, and the words "Central Park" 
above its windows attracted his attention. 
Central Park, he thought, must be in the 
cetj-tre gf the town, and it -was to the very 



centre that he wanted to go first of all. He 
had about two dollars in silver in his 
pocket — all that remained of his funds. He 
hailed the car, and would have fallen under 
and been run over in attempting to step 
upon the platform, had not the conductor 
caught him in time. 

"I suppose the horses couldn't stop?" 
he politely asked the conductor. 

"Yes, they could stop," was the answer; 
' ' but they haven' t time. ' ' 

Tibby took a seat, but he wished he were 
back again in Carrick, even if for but a 
day, so as to tell the ' ' Tips ' ' what a queer 
people the Americans are; even the work- 
horses are in a hurry. While Tibby was 
amusing himself with these critical reflec- 
tions; the conductor approached him, and, 
in a guttural tone, said "Fare!" at the 
same time thrusting out towards him what 
looked like a silver-mounted revolver. 

For an instant Tibby felt himself to be 
growing pale, and his heart almost stopped 
beating. "What have I done," said he, 
"that you should shoot me? Do you call 
that/^/r.^" 

"Now, look here, you young sprig of 
shillelah," said the conductor, impatiently, 
"I haven't got time to be fimny. I want 
your fare. ' ' 

"Sure I'll give it to you, if you give me 
time, ' ' said Tibby, putting his hand down 
into his trousers pocket in search of his 
money ; ' ' but, ' ' he remarked softly, though 
the rising indignation was bringing a flush 
to his cheeks again, "I don't see why you 
should shoot me because I'm not in as 
much haste as all you Yankees seem to be 
in." 

"That young Mick is a keen one," said 
the conductor, a few moments afterwards, 
pointing out Tibby to one of the crowd on 
the rear platform. ' ' He looks as if he was 
only just landed, and yet he has been mak- 
ing fun of my bell-punch. ' ' 

But Central Park was evidently a long 
way off; for, although the car had been rat- 
tling on for half an hour, there was still no 
sign of a park, and Tibby was now very 
hungry. He determined, therefore, to leave 



46 



The Ave Maria. 



the car, and eat his breakfast before pro- 
ceeding in his search for employment. He 
told the conductor to "let" him "down at 
once," but the car did not stop fully, and 
Tibby went headlong into a snow-bank. 
He picked himself up, however, and, beating 
the snow from his clothes, and brushing it 
out from his hair, he shouted after the con- 
ductor: " You are an uncivil fellow, sir!" 

The sidewalks on either hand in this 
neighborhood were almost impassable with 
the snow. Here and there a poor man or 
boy was at work clearing the way. From 
all directions came the scraping sound of 
shovels; but the shabby creatures, whose 
backs were bent nearly double as they 
tossed the snow from the walks in front 
of the long rows of comfortable-looking 
brown-stone houses, had a heavy task be- 
fore them. 

On the far corner of the block, Tibby 
espied an ugly brick structure, with a cross 
on its plain gable — evidently a Catholic 
church; and towards this he began to strug- 
gle on. Rut when, by dint of hopping, 
skipping, .'ind jumping through the snow, 
he had nearh- reached that corner, he found 
himself so weak from hunger, and so much 
out of breath from the exertion, that he 
could go no farther. He sat down for rest 
and deliberation on the lower step of the 
high flight leading to the hall- door of the 
house next to the church. 

Poor Tibby! He was not easily discour- 
aged, but he felt really despondent now, 
in spite of his stout heart. He thought if 
he could drag himself a little farther on 
through the snow to the corner, he might 
find the church door open, and there he 
could warm himself, while he said his pray- 
ers and made up his mind which way to 
turn. 

"Is it a job you want?" said a sharp 
voice just at his elbow. As Tibby glanced 
quickly to see who had spoken, a thin-faced, 
middle-aged Irish woman — a servant in the 
house — stood within the area railing, peer- 
ing at him over the side of the steps. 

"Indeed and I do so," answered Tibby, 
in a weak and rather indistinct tone; for 



his jaws were rattling his teeth together, 
and his whole frame was shivering with 
cold. "But, first of all, it's famished I am 
with the cold; and I was wondering is there 
a cook-shop or a coffee-house convenient, 
where I might get my breakfast." 

The hard countenance of the woman re- 
laxed as she gazed in pity at the little 
fellow. 

"Yerra, b'y, come in here at wanst, and 
have your breckquist!" she said; and she 
opened the gate, and led Tibby down the 
steps with her into the basement of the 
house. "Faith it's a coffee-house you 
want, is it? It's aisy to see you're not long 
over. Sit down there by the fire, ' ' she went 
on, placing a seat for him near the raging 
kitchen stove. "I'll have something hot 
and nourishing for you in three skips of a 
lamb's tail." 

Within a few minutes the woman, who 
was from a county in Ireland neighboring 
to the one whence Tibby hailed, knew all 
about the youngster's recent adventures. 

Tibby ate a hearty breakfast, and then 
went out with shovel and snow-scraper, 
and before an hour's time had earned a half- 
dollar, and had a clean pavement to show 
as a result of his work. Such thorough- 
ness! There was not as much soft snow 
left on the high stoop and the sidewalk as 
I would have filled his hat. 
1 That was the thought which passed 
j through the mind of the gentleman who 
I was standing at one of the parlor windows 
I of the house, looking out through the slats 

of the closed shutters. 
j "Do you know that boy, Nora?" the 
gentleman inquired of the servant, who was 
' just then flourishing through the hall on 

her usual morning walk. 
I " I do not. your reverence," she answered; 
I "except that he's just over. Tibby Butler 
I is his name, he does be saying, and he's from 
I Tipperary." 

The gentleman thus addressed was Fa- 
ther Fitzgerald, the rector of the church at 
the corner. He had only a little before fin- 
ished his own breakfast after celebrating 
Mass, and was now in conversation with 



The Ave Maria. 



47 



another gentleman, a friend of his whom he 
was entertaining for a few days as a guest 
—Colonel Joe Lynch, of Texas. 

"Bring that boy up here, Nora, before 
you let him go," said the priest to the ser- 
vant. "Colonel," he said, addressing his 
guest, who was sitting curled up in a com- 
fortably-cushioned arm-chair before the 
cheerful blaze in the open grate, and puffing 
away at a fragrant cigar; "if you can leave 
the fire for a moment, come here to the win- 
dow. I want to show you a young country- 
man of ours, who has just arrived from the 
«ld Sod,' and is not afraid to work." 
Colonel Lynch arose reluctantly, and ap- 
proached the window, with a great shiver. 

' ' Phew ! " he groaned. ' ' Down in Texas 
we think a Norther is bad enough, but it's 
a wonder, Father Fitzgerald, you all don't 
freeze to death up here." 

"That's the result of your twenty years' 
life in the enervating Southern climate," 
was the priest's reply. "But what do you 
think of that young ' Tip ' there, doing his 
first day's labor in America? Doesn't the 
sight of such industry and such cleanness of 
work warm your heart ? ' ' 

By this time the Irish-Texan — a lean, 
dark - complexioned, sinewy man, with 
heavy black eyebrows and steel-blue eyes — 
had partly overcome his unwillingness to 
admit anything good in connection with a 
Northern winter, and was staring in aston- 
ishment at Tibby, who had raised a great 
bank of snow along the curb-stone, and was 
putting on the finishing touches by scru- 
pulously shovelling away any little hum- 
mocks of snow that still remained on the 
walk. 

"Ah! here he comes now," said Father 
Fitzgerald a minute later, as the servant 
brought Tibby to the parlor do ^r. 

Tibby was all in a glow from his woik, 
and, though the servant carefully brushed 
the snow from his clothes, he hesitated to 
enter. ' ' My feet are wet, ' ' he said, ' ' and 
I'm afraid it's soiling the carpet I'll be if I 
come in." 

But Father Fitzgerald took him gently 
by the shoulder, and led him to a low chair 



at the fireplace, where he made him sit 
down. "Let me see your feet," said the 
priest. "Oh! it's your boots, you mean; 
not your feet," he slyly remarked, as he 
cast a glance at the Texan, whose admira- 
tion for a boy that could face snow as Tibby 
had done was unbounded. 

The two gentlemen soon learned from 
Tibby what was his past, and what were his 
designs for the future. It was evident to 
both that Tibby wa-^ ambitious, as most 
healthy boys are; but they perceived that 
along with ambition he had industry and 
courage; and, what pleased them even far 
more, that he was transparently honest as 
v/ell as pious. His religious devotion was 
set off by a straightforward manner of go- 
ing about whatever he had to do. It was 
plain that he was one of those who do to 
the best of their ability whatever they have 
to do, not because they are watched, or ex- 
pect a reward, but because they are honest. 
Tibby seemed to be almost incapable of 
trick or deceit; or, if capable, to have a 
good-natured contempt for deception in any 
form. 

He was such a boy as, if he lived to grow 
up into manhood and old age, would always 
retain the freshness of mind and the senti- 
ment of youth. If he was what some would 
call an "old-fashioned," he was of the sort 
that would in after-years still be young in 
mind and body, when the trickier or more 
boisterous companions of his boyhood had 
become prematurely old. 

(to be continued.) 



Bridget.— A Prison Story.* 

One day the matron of a great prison came 
to Father Nugent, and said to him: 

"Father, there is a young woman in the 
dark cell whom we can do nothing with. She 
is as strong as three men, and is so violent 
that no one can master her. I have tried 
everything to tame her, but in vain. She is 
screaming and shouting now like a wild beast. 
Do come and see if you can calm her. ' ' 

* Selected. Adapted from "True Wayside 
Tales," by lyady Herbert. 



a8 



The Ave Maria. 



The Father went straight into the dark 
cell, and the moment there was a pause in the 
torrent of bad words which fell from the girl's 
lips, he said, in a very gentle voice: 

" Hush, my child! You must whisper." 

This checked her at once: she became quite 
still and silent; and then he began talking to 
her in the kindest way, promising to get her 
taken out of punishment if she would only 
behave differently. The poor girl after a time 
burst into tears, and exclaimed: 

"Father, these are the first kind words 
that have been spoken to me in my whole 
life." 

He found in this way the key to her heart, 
and then she told him her whole history. Her 
mother had died in giving her birth, so that 
she never knew^ a mother's care. Her father, 
who was a bad and worthless man, and angry 
at having a baby left on his hands, deserted 
her, and went off to America. She was found 
in the empty house by the police, and was 
going to be taken to the workhouse, when a 
woman came forward, saying she had no chil- 
dren of her own, and would adopt her. This 
woman in reality only wanted to have her to 
beg; and when she became a little older, poor 
Bridget was forced in all weathers to go out 
barefooted to sell flowers or matches, and if 
she were unsuccessful, was cruelly whipped 
on coming back to her wretched home. 
She was always half starved, and lived be- 
sides in perpetual terror of this hard-hearted 
woman; so that very often, she said, she 
thought of putting an end to her miserable 
little life. 

At last she got acquainted with some bad 
girls, who laughed at her for her cowardice 
in not running away from this cruel task- 
mistress, and persuaded her at last to come 
and live with them. There she became ac- 
quainted with all the vice of the streets, and 
finally was induced to take part in a jewel 
robbery, which ended in her capture and im- 
prisonment. 

Father Nugent got the matron to take her 
out of the dark cell, and then had a little 
further conversation with her. He found she 
was only too anxious to learn, and was really 
good at heart, though so utterly untrained, 
or rather trained in nothing but evil. He per- 
suaded the matron to employ her in other 
works about the house; and very soon, to the 
matron's astonishment, she was found to be 



the best and most industrious of the prison- 
ers. 

When the term of her imprisonment was 
nearly at an end, poor Bridget became very 
sad and downcast. 

' ' What will become of me, ' ' she exclaimed 
one day to Father Nugent, ' ' when I leave this 
place ? I have no friends and no character, 
and yet I would rather die than go back to 
my old life ! ' ' 

' ' Did I not tell you, ' ' replied Father Nu- 
gent, ' ' that if you would only become a good 
girl, I would never forsake you ? ' ' 

She thanked him with tears, and he was 
as good as his word. Before her term of im- 
prisonment had expired he had begged her 
passage-money, and the very day she left the 
prison he put her in a Home, where she re- 
mained until he was able to start for Canada, 
which he did a week or two later, taking her 
with him. When he arrived there he placed 
her with the "Grey Sisters," who employed 
her in their infirmary. They found her not 
only most handy and willing, but entirely de- 
voted to the sick. 

After a time they procured her an excellent 
situation. She had grown a fine, handsome 
woman, though the events of her early life 
had left an expression of great sadness on her 
face. She was, however, thoroughly good and 
steady, modest in her ways, and quiet and 
handy in her work. 

A few years later Father Nugent returned 
to Canada, and went to see her. He was de- 
lighted at the high character he received of 
her from her employers, and when he was 
leaving her she slipped a handful of dollars 
into his hand. 

"What is this for?" he exclaimed, trying 
to return it to her. But she replied: 

"Oh, Father! do take it, and spend it on 
some poor neglected child, such as I was; for 
no one knows better than I what they have to 
go through." 



In all places, then, and in all seasons, 

Flowers expand their Mght and soul-like 
wings. 
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 

How akin they are to human things. 
And with childlike, credulous affection, 

We behold their tender buds expand; 
Emblems of our own great resurrection — 

Emblems of the bright and better land. 

— Longfellow. 




Vol. XXIIL NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, JUIvY 17, 1886. 



No. 3. 



lC!opyright •.—Kmv. D. E. HOTeoH, C. 8. C] 



The Madonna of Landen. 




BY THE REV. F. BICKERSTAFFE DREW. 
I. 

ERHAPS you have never been to 

Landen? You may have seen the 

^ glories of the sunset on Himalayan 



peaks, whose white teeth are reddened with 
the day's death-blood; or the sun which 
never sets at all, all Summer long, at Ham- 
merfest; and yet the chances are that you 
have never set foot in the narrow valley of 
Landen. 

It is not over easy to reach, and yet it is 
not so very far away. The best plan is to 
walk from Baden-Baden over the Hornis- 
griinde, and so to Allerheiligen, where you 
can procure lodging at the once great Pre- 
monstratensian Abbey, whence long since 
the White Canons have been driven out. 
For Landen was a dependency of Aller- 
heiligen, and a few hours' walk up into 
the forest will bring you to it. 

The small nameless river that flows 
along the valley, and will ultimately find 
its way to the great Rhine somewhere out 
on the plain of Strasburg, is surrounded by 
pleasant pastures and cool thickets, white 
with spircBa; and these fields are bordered 
by the advanced guards of the actual forest. 
Close by the left bank of the river the road 
winds, with now and then a great painted 
post beside it, like a huge sugar-stick, to 
mark the boundaries of the Grand Duchy 



and the Kingdom of Wiirtemberg; and now 
and then also an elaborate Calvary of 
painted wood, with Judas and his money- 
bag, St. Peter and his keys, and the local 
saint with proper emblem. 

About half-way up the valley is a little 
detached hill, or mound, crowned with what 
was once the Monastery of Our Lady of 
the Wood, and is now the Hotel du Roi de 
Wiirtemberg. Long ago its last exiled 
mxonk was laid to rest under the shadow of 
trees all unlike the odorous pines of his 
own valleys ; and now weedy Alsacian wait- 
ers, chronically evening-dressed, lounge and 
chatter in the cloisters where he held a 
meditative silence. In the prior's cell the 
thrifty hostess augments her reckonings, 
and in the great, cool refectory sit blowzy 
baronesses and impecunious princes. 

The chapel alone is undesecrated, for the 
merciful storms of a century have reduced 
it to less incongruous ruin ; and one can see 
how beautiful it was once, though it must 
always have been of plain exterior, ^nd 
perhaps of no great merit architecturally. 
The green grass is its only pavement now, 
and the blue floor of God's heaven its sole 
roofing; but a few patches of fresco on the 
walls suggest past beauties, and some of 
the empty windows show still a little rude 
tracery. Over the high altar is a large, 
smooth space, where formerly was to be seen 
the miraculous picture of Landen. 

Man}^ of the peasants in the valleys round 
about have brightly colored prints, which 
they claim to be copies of the original 



so 



The Ave Maria. 



painting. These prints show a grave-eyed 
Teutonic Maiden, with smooth flaxen hair, 
and fair, sweet face, holding two children 
in her arms, neither of whom bears any 
likeness to the typical Christ-Child, who 
lies smiling at her feet. Behind is a rude 
representation of the forest on a wild, win- 
try night — 'the driving snow standing out 
against the blackness of the pine-trees, and 
almost obscuring the light of a pale, cold 
moon. The following is, in brief, the his- 
tory of the Madonna of Landen : 

There was at Allerheiligen, in the very 
height of its prosperity, a certain monk 
called Rudolph, who had been Count of 
Ottenhofen, but who, hearing read the Gos- 
pel wherein Christ said to the young man, 
'One thing thou lackest,' had left all to 
his brother, and put on the habit of relig- 
ion. The young monk made rapid progress 
in perfection, and was noted for his tender 
charity, which led him to see in all men 
but the counterpart and representatives of 
his divine Master. The poor and wretched 
for miles around were wont to come to 
him in all their miseries, and he was fre- 
quently to be found in their huts, dressing 
loathsome wounds, making savory messes 
with his own hands, and performing the 
most menial and toilsome labors for the old 
and helpless, who were -unable to do any- 
thing for themselves. 

One Winter a great famine came upon 
the Schwarzwald, and many of the forest 
people died; but in the valleys round Al- 
lerheiligen the poor were well cared for. 
The Lord Abbot daily gave large alms of 
bread to all who appeared at the gate; 
while the good monks carried provisions 
and fuel to the sick and aged, who were not 
able to leave their homes. 

But about this time a great sorrow fell 
upon the monks themselves; their beloved 
abbot, who had governed the monastery 
for almost half a century, was called to his 
reward, and the loss was deeply felt by his 
bereaved children. However, when the pre- 
cious remains had been laid to rest under 
the chancel floor, and a chapter had been 
held in order to appoint a successor, all the 



monks were filled with joy to find Rudolph 
chosen to replace the saintly abbot, although 
the good Brother was still young, and had 
never before held an office in the house. 

Of all the community, only one monk 
was grieved at the choice, and that was 
Rudolph. Nevertheless, he obeyed, and 
bent his shoulder in meek submission to 
the burden that had been laid upon him, 
although he was very sad at heart. ' ' Not 
for a jewelled mitre did I lay down my hel- 
met of plain steel, ' ' he say within himself; 
" but rather to be the last soldier in the army 
of our great Captain, Christ." The keys of 
the monastery were harder to carry than 
he had ever found his long sword or spear, 
and the cross of silver and gold he now 
bore upon his breast was the heaviest cross 
that had ever been laid upon him. Yet so 
well and wisely did he govern the great 
abbey, that, as a sweet odor draweth bees, 
even so did the reputation of his sanctity 
draw many youth to his quiet retreat. So 
great, indeed, was the increase of postu- 
lants, that it was found necessary to bt^ild 
a new house in order to accommodate 
them. 

The remote valley of Landen was chosen 
as the hive where the new swarm should 
take up their abode; and, when the building 
was finished, certain of the brethren from 
Allerheiligen were sent to found the new 
house, among whom was Rudolph. ''I 
have borne, ' ' he said, ' ' the yoke of govern- 
ment patiently until now; suffer me, then, 
to go in peace, to bear a little severity and 
hardship in this our new home; and choose 
you a better ruler to be over you, — one 
who has well learned to obey; for only he 
who has been long in subjection is fit to 
govern others. ' ' So they suffered him to 
go; and because he had borne rule (for such, 
humility is more needful) he was set to 
cook for the brethren, in which capacity he 
labored diligently, and gave entire satis- 
faction. 

Now, everything at Landen was poor and 
simple. Even the chapel, though a large, 
beautiful building, was very plain in its 
decorations; it contained but two altars, 



The Ave Maria, 



51 



without any paintings. Over the high altar 
was a great space, where, in time, some de- 
vout artist might be tempted to exercise his 
skill. Rudolph often looked at this vacant 
spot, and longed to see it filled with a beau- 
tiful representation of some scene from 
the life of our divine Lord or His Blessed 
Mother; but for the present there was no 
hope of seeing his wish realized; he must 
wait and pray. 

However, in the second year of the foun- 
dation a young man — a painter of consid- 
erable merit — presented himself at the 
monastery door, and Rudolph looked upon 
the newcomer as a messenger from Heaven, 
in answer to his long and earnest prayers. 
Brother Willibrord was set to paint the 
great space above the altar. He began by 
drawing an outline of his subject, and then 
filled in a little of the coloring, leaving 
the background all confused. The monks 
on coming to the chapel always looked 
curiously to see how he was progressing, 
and at last he had finished Our Lady with 
the Divine Child in her arms. There re- 
mained to be executed only the scenery be- 
hind the figure, and the ground beneath its 
feet. 

"In the background I shall paint Aller- 
heiligen," said the artist; "and make it 
appear as though the Blessed Virgin were 
coming thence to Landen, holding the 
Christ-Child in her arms." But Brother 
Willibrord never painted thus, as we shall 
see in the sequel. 

IL 

One night in midwinter, when the snow 
lay thick and deep throughout the valleys 
of the forest, the monk Rudolph went to 
pray in the chapel, when his kitchen work 
was done; and, being wearied therewith, he 
soon fell asleep. How long he slept he 
knew not, but when he awoke the lamps 
were extinguished, and only that before the 
high altar was still burning. Its mild radi- 
ance fell on the plain altar of rough-hewn 
stone, on the monks' stalls, and on the un- 
finished picture on the wall. Rudolph knelt 
in a dark corner apart, and so it happened 
that he had not been noticed by those who 



had come to put out the lights in the 
chapel. 

He presently arose, and passing before 
the altar genuflected, and was about to turn 
away, when his eyes fell once more on the 
picture behind it. Then he stood still in 
wonderment. The Christ- Child was there, 
lying on the ground and smiling, as He 
raised His tiny hand to bless; but the 
Gottes Mutter was gone, and Rudolph saw 
only the background rough and confused. 
He looked long, in doubt of his senses, but 
the picture remained the same: Our Lady 
was not there, and the Divine Infant lay 
smiling on the ground. 

While Rudolph stood thus, wondering 
and astonished, he became aware that a 
cold draught was blowing on his face, and 
causing the red lamp of the sanctuary to 
flicker nervously. He went therefore across 
the choir towards the sacristy, the low, 
arched door of which he found ajar, and, 
passing thence into a narrow cloister run- 
ning round the eastern portion of the 
chapel, came to another postern opening 
into the monks' garden. This also stood 
ajar, and through it the cold air of the 
winter night came strong and keen. More 
and more was the good monk filled with 
astonishment and fear, for seldom was this 
postern opened at all, and never left un- 
locked through the night. It was not 
snowing now, and the pale, full moon 
stared down out of a steel-blue sky upon 
the forest. 

Rudolph went out a few paces, and 
looked around for sight or sound of aught 
unusual that might explain the strange oc- 
currence; but all lay still as death, wrapped 
in the white mantle of the winter night. 
He was slowly going back into the mon- 
astery, his head bent in thought, when he 
noticed that there were other footprints in 
the snow beside his own; they were small 
and light, like a woman's, and were turned 
away from the abbey towards the forest. 
He followed them some distance, and they 
did not cease ; up the hill- side they led 
him, off" the main cart-road, and into one of 
the narrow tracks that lead to the thickest 



52 



The Ave Maria, 



of the wood. Here it was often too dark to 
see the footprints, but still Rudolph walked 
on patiently, till he came to a place where 
the moonlight fell again upon the path, and 
then he found the small footmarks ever 
pointing forward into the forest. 

For an hour he followed them, and now 
he was quite in the recesses of the great 
pine forest. Suddenly the night-silence was 
broken by a sound that held his heart still, 
and made his pulses cease to beat. Down 
the mountain-side from about a mile away 
there came, on the clear, still air, the bay of 
many wolves. Where Rudolph stood it was 
pitch-dark; the pines were thick around, 
and their black arms were twined together 
overhead; but a hundred yards in the dis- 
tance he could see the moonlight on the 
snow. Should he go backward, or stay 
here in the darkness, and climb one of the 
trees, to be in safety from the wolves? or go 
forward, and see if the footprints still con- 
tinued? Onward towards the white light 
and towards the wolves the monk went, 
making the Sign of the Cross and praying 
as he approached. 

On drawing nearer to the place where the 
moonlight fell, he saw some one coming to 
meet him out of the blackness beyond. At 
first the shadows were about their way, and 
he could not distinguish whether it were 
man or woman; but soon the figure came 
out iiito the moonlight, and he saw it was 
a lady, tall and stately, with raiment of 
glistering white, and a mantle like the 
blue waters of the summer sea; and in her 
arms she held two little children, whom she 
pressed against her shoulders lovingly. 

In the shadow of the pines the monk 
Rudolph stood still in reverent wonder- 
ment, his eyes fastened on the vision before 
him. Full well he knew that dazzlino- 
raiment, and that sapphire veil, and those 
kind, mother-eyes of the Lady coming to 
meet him. It was the Gottes Mutter of the 
picture Brother Willibrord was painting. 

For a few moments, that were to the 
monk Rudolph as a thousand years, he 
watched her as she approached; then, fall- 
ing down upon his knees, he covered his 



face with his hands, and did not dare to 
look. Presently there came upon the night 
air the noise of far-off bells, as of the chime 
from all the steeples of a Gothic town, and 
Rudolph raised his head to hear. Just by 
him in the snow two small children stood 
watching him, hand in hand, and waiting 
for him to uncover his face and speak. But 
the Lady had left them and was gone. 

' ' Carry us ! " the children begged ; and, 
rising from his knees, Rudolph lifted them 
in his arms, and turned homeward, with 
the pair nestled against his heart. 

The noise of those unearthly bells came 
no more through the listening air, but soon 
there was again the cry of the wolves, which 
grew more distinct as Rudolph hurried on. 
Still he seemed to keep pace, and it was 
wonderful how swiftly he sped homeward 
with the sleeping children in his arms. It 
was not till he reached the open space be- 
tween the forest and the monastery that 
he could hear the trampling of the wolves 
through the thicket, and knew that now, 
at all events, they were upon his track. 
How long those last few hundred paces 
seemed! He hardly dared to look around, 
and when he did he saw the black forms 
of the wolves bounding over the snow. 

Onward, onward he pressed, and the 
children were wakened by his speed. The 
wolves gained step by step; he could hear 
their panting now ; and still the postern was 
not reached. Great God, if it should be 
shut! Perhaps the wind had blown it to; 
it lay in black darkness, and he could not 
see. Onward, quicker — the postern was all 
but reached; he would surely be in time. 
But, nay ! he stumbled, and tripped, and fell 
headlong forward, and the wolves drew on 
apace. Something surely lifted him up; 
how else rose he so swiftly ? Again he flew 
forward, like the wind that whistled in his 
ears; the wolves were hardly a dozen paces 
from him now, and the postern door was 
half a dozen still in front. Oh! God, if it 
should be shut! For all the heat of his 
running, an icy sweat burst out upon him 
at the mere chance of that horror; and his 
eyes were well-nigh strained from looking 




The Ave Maria, 



53 



forward into the dark shadow, but he could 
not see. 

On, on, on; his feet were on the lowest 
step, but, ah! dear God! the oaken door 
was shut! Its panels filled the arched door- 
way, and lay against the door-sills all 
around. In frozen, icy despair, the monk 
Rudolph almost turned to face the foe. 
Was not that less terrible than to press 
against that sullen door, and be overtaken 
vainly knocking, where there was none to 
answer ? But, by Christ' s dear grace, he did 
not; hoping against dead hope, he stum- 
bled forward, and fell against the door^ 
and, joy! it yielded; it but lay to, and was 
not shut. Into the cloister he fell forward, 
and even that fall well-nigh cost him all. 
Before the door was quite closed, the 
wolves were leaping at the threshold. The 
cloister was narrow, and, with his^ feet 
thrust against the wall opposite, Rudolph 
pushed with all his might, and held the door 
against them; while he sent the two chil- 
dren to ring the great bell in the chapel, 
and rouse the brethren withal. 

vSoon through the dim chapel and dim- 
mer cloister the religious came to aid him. 
The door was pressed to and locked secure; 
then together they passed into the chapel, 
and sang the Te Deum in the silent night. 
As their eyes were raised to the picture 
over the high altar, greatly were the monks 
astonished; for the Christ- Child lay smil- 
ing in the snow, and the Gottes Mutter 
held two children in her arms. 

The rescued little ones themselves (who 
had been lost and benighted in the grim 
forest) were taken back on the morrow to 
their home, where they remained until they 
were of age. Then both of them took the 
habit of religion in the Monastery of Our 
Lady of the Wood, at Landen, where, in 
great observance, they lived to a blessed 
age. 

This is the legend of the miraculous 
picture of Landen. 



Parents who are ignorant of their duty 
will be taught by the misconduct of their 
children what they should have done.—/. E. 



Growing Older. 

BY ANtJELIQUE DE LANDE. 

" It is part of the gladness of growing older, not 
only that we are thereby drawing nearer to our 
first sight of Him [Jesus], but that we feel our 
dependence upon Him more and more." — Faber. 

if: ROWING older!— drawing nearer 
^ To the first entrancing sight 
Of the Saviour's matchless beauty, 

In His own fair realm of light. 
Growing older! — thoughts of gladness 

Gild the hours as swift they fly, 
Chasing ever3^ cloud of sadness 

From the Christian's sunset sky. 

Growing older! — daily, hourly, 

I^earning more our need of Him 
In the splendor of whose presence 

E'en the noonday sun grows dim. 
I^eaning more in dear dependence 

On the sinner's faithful Friend, 
Casting every care upon Him 

Who has loved us to the end. 

Year by year the milestones lessen 

As our birthdays come and go, 
Ploughing furrows on smooth foreheads, 

Flecking raven locks with snow. 
Growing older! — Blessed Master! 

lyifting trembling hands in prayer, 
Come we oftener to Thine Altar, 

Sure to find Thee waiting there. 

Growing older! — feebly groping 

Through that mystic, shadowy vale 
lycading unto Death's dark portal. 

Where the flesh and spirit fail. 
Aching hearts and wearied bodies, 

Battle-scarred and travel-worn, 
In the sleep of Christ's beloved 

Wait the Resurrection morn. 



We should let no day pass without some 
deliberate act of mortification, interior or 
exterior — some check to nature, to show the 
lower part of the soul that it is subject to 
the higher; as a coachman chucks the reins 
occasionally, for no special purpose, 
to remind the horses that they are 
ging along the road for their priv; 
fication. — Father .Tracey Clarke^ 




54 



The Ave Alaria. 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



aN^ 



III. 

WHO are the Percivals? The question 
seemed to haunt Philip. He was too 
proud to ask further information of Graham, 
after the latter had waived the inquiry and 
referred him to his uncle; but even at the 
moment he had felt that it would be im- 
possible for him to go to his uncle with 
such a question. Why impossible he did 
not know, except that Graham's tone had 
been very significant; and deep in Philip's 
own heart was a consciousness, which he 
did not acknowledge even to himself, that 
there might be things in his uncle's life 
that he would not wish to know. 

After parting with Graham he went to 
the ball ; but slight as the occurrence at the 
fair had been, it left a recollection which 
marred his pleasure; for, although he had 
not yet been forced to realize the fact in any 
keen degree, he was possessed of a nature 
so sensitively strung that it vibrated to 
every touch. And this touch had been 
deeper than he imagined. In the midst of 
the gay scene in which he found himself, 
he saw before him constantly the dark eyes 
and the stately head of the girl who would 
have declined to know him. Perhaps the 
interest lay there. It was so extraordinary 
that any one should not wish to know him. 
Philip had no rpore than his due share of 
vanity, but he would have been singularly 
obtuse if he had not recognized his own 
popularity, and appreciated the kindness of 
the glances which many bright eyes be- 
stowed upon him. 

It struck, him, however, that there was 
less kindness than usual in the glance of 
one pair of eyes. Constance received him 
rather coolly, and announced that her ball- 
book was quite full. The fact in itself 
"w^QU^ld not have concerned him, but it was 
a**"^'n'^ficant indication that she had been 
n4e4 by his refusal to accompany them, 
ri^gged his shoulders a little as he 



^Cei 



fo% 



e sj 



turned away. It was a pity : everything had 
gone wrong this evening ; and that, too, 
when he had been moved by the best in- 
tentions. Evidently, good intentions were 
not sufficient to insure satisfactoriness of 
result ir. a decidedly unsatisfactory world. 

This, which is an old story to most peo- 
ple, was rather new to Philip. Things had 
gone so smoothly with him up to this time 
— life had contained so few difficulties, 
complications, or perplexities — that even a 
slight jar seemed to him. a reversal rather 
than a fulfilment of ordinary conditions. 

The Percival question was the first 
thought in his mind when he waked the 
next day; but morning brought no light by 
which to determine how to solve it. He 
still felt it impossible to ask his uncle, as 
Graham advised. And indeed what reason 
was there why he should ask any one ? The 
Percivals, of whom he had never heard be- 
fore, certainly did not concern him in the 
least. He recognized that very plainly, and 
yet he felt that he would like to know why 
Miss Percival would have declined his ac- 
quaintance. 

It was, however, with the final determi- 
nation to put Miss Percival out of his mind 
that he went down stairs to breakfast. He 
found Mrs. Thornton in the breakfast- room, 
and the smile with which she greeted him 
did not indicate any consciousness of offence 
on her part. She made a pretty picture as 
she sat in a morning-dress of quilted violet 
satin, with a becoming lace trifle of a cap 
on her soft hair, by the side of the perfectly- 
appointed table. It occurred to Philip as 
he entered that twenty years hence Con- 
stance would look just like this, and cer- 
tainly no man could desire a more gracious 
presence to preside in his household. 

" If it is possible,' ' he said, as he sat down, 
' ' that your looks are an accurate indication 
of your feelings, I need hardly ask if you 
have recovered from the dissipation of last 
night." 

''Oh! yes, I have recovered," she an- 
swered. ' ' It was not very severe dissipa- 
tion. That is the advantage of being merely 
a chaperon — one is not fatigued much. ' ' 




The Ave Maria. 



55 



Ilk 



I am glad to hear there is some advan- 
tage connected with it," continued Philip. 
"It seems to me that it would be awfully 
fatiguing. But I doubt whether Constance 
looks as fresh as you do this morning. ' ' 

' ' Constance has not appeared yet, ' ' said 
Mrs. Thornton, smiling. "I fancy she will 
look fresh enough when she comes. ' ' 

"She looked very well last night," re- 
plied Philip. " I do not think I ever saw 
her look better. I was sorry that she would 
not dance with me." 

Mrs. Thornton glanced at him quickly, 
ut the easy quietness of his tone was re- 
flected in his manner. Evidently his regret 
was of a very composed nature. 

' ' That, ' ' she said, ' ' was your own fault. ' ' 

"If so," he answered, "that is chiefly 
why I am sorry — because it seems that both 
yourself and Constance thought I should 
have accompanied you. Believe me, if I 
had imagined such a thing for a moment, 
I would have done so. ' ' 

* ' I suggested that it would be well. ' ' 

"True, but since Bellamy was on hand 
I did not feel that I was needed, and I had 
made an engagement which I disliked to 
break. ' ' 

"It must have been a very special en- 
gagement," said Mrs. Thornton, a little 
dryly. 

' ' It was, ' ' he answered. ' ' I had promised 
to attend a church fair, of which it was the 
last night. ' ' 

"Oh! a church fair!" The smile Philip 
had anticipated came around her lips — a 
smile of mingled wonder and amusement. 
' ' That was very good of you, indeed, ' ' she 
said; but the wonder was evident in her 
tone. ' ' I hope it was — a success. ' ' 

' ' I don' t know, ' ' he replied ; ' ' but I hope 
so, too. At least I did my small endeavor 
to aid in making it so. I bought a number 
of things — screens and the like — out of 
which I hoped you might, perhaps, select 
something you would care to have. ' ' 

"Thank you," said Mrs. Thornton, look- 
ing at him kindly. His affectionate defer- 
ence had long ago made her very fond of 
him. "You must tell Constance why you 



did not go with us," she added, presently. 

"Pray mention it if you think it of suffi- 
cient importarkce, " responded Philip. "I 
could not have conceived that it would 
matter to Constance, who has always so 
many attendants. ' ' 

' ' Yes, she has a great many, ' ' said Mrs. 
Thornton; "but still— " 

She stopped, unwilling to repeat her 
words of the night before, that Constance 
should not be left too much to these attend- 
ants. If Philip did not see this for himself, 
Constance's aunt could not make it plainer 
to him. 

Her pause, however, was significant, and 
Philip looked at her as if expecting her to 
go on. When she did not, he said, lightly: 

' ' But still she does not like certain things 
to be disregarded? I understand, and I shall 
be more careful in future. Yet I could not 
have thought she would refuse to give me 
even one dance. I feel aggrieved about that, 
for there can be no doubt that she was the 
belle of the ball. There was no one pres- 
ent to compare to her. ' ' 

"/ thought not," said Mrs. Thornton, 
with delicate pride. 

But even as he spoke what perversity of 
recollection brought before the young man 
a different face and figure ? He looked at the 
fire, as if he saw it there, and was silent for 
a moment. Then he said, with an abrupt 
impulse : 

"Do you chance to know any people 
named Percival?" 

"Percival?" repeated Mrs. Thornton. 
' ' No — yes — that is, I had a slight acquaint- 
ance once with the man who was your 
uncle's partner. But I believe he is dead 
now." 

' ' I did not know that my uncle ever had 
a partner, ' ' said Philip, regarding her with 
surprise. "Are you quite sure?" 

"Oh! perfectly sure." She spoke with 
ease; evidently she knew no reason for 
shrinking from the subject or the name. 
"It was long ago. He brought the busi- 
ness, by some bad management, nearly to 
the verge of ruin. Your uncle had great 
difficulty in saving it. But Mr. Percival 



56 



The Ave Maria. 



acted very well. He gave up his property 
to make good what he had lost, and then 
he retired. ' ' 

Philip caught his breath. 

"But if he gave up his property, was not 
he ruined?" he asked. 

* ' He was much poorer, of course, ' ' an- 
swered Mrs. Thornton, composedly; "but 
that could not be helped. It was his own 
fault, you know. ' ' 

"Yes," Philip assented, with a vague- 
ness equal to that of the information he had 
received. He felt that upon such informa- 
tion as this no judgment was possible. It 
was entirely probable that his uncle had 
been in the right; for the sense of injury 
on the other side proved nothing. He knew 
— who does not know? — how wrong yet 
how obstinate people can sometimes be in 
the animosities which arise out of such 
transactions. . 

' ' I never heard of the man before, ' ' he 
said, after a short silence; "but I saw at the 
fair last night a very striking-looking girl, 
who, I was told, was a Miss Percival. ' ' 

' ' His daughter most likely, ' ' replied Mrs. 
Thornton. ' ' I remember that he married 
a very beautiful woman, the daughter of a 
Spanish consul. But they were never in 
society much, and of course dropped out 
altogether after his misfortune. ' ' 

' ' Do you know, ' ' said Philip, ' ' whether 
they — that is, he — blamed my uncle for his 
course in the matter?" 

Mrs. Thornton looked surprised. "I don't 
know at all," she said; "but I can not see 
how it was possible ; for your uncle was cer- 
tainly in the right. I assure you that Mr. 
Percival brought him nearly to the verge 
of bankruptcy. ' ' 

' ' Well, naturally ' who breaks pays, ' ' ' 
continued the young man. "But it does 
seem hard, ' ' he added, as if to himself: ' ' one 
to go on to such prosperity, the other to 
drop down to ruin. It is easy to fancy some 
bitterness on the other side. ' ' 

' ' Perhaps so, ' ' said Mrs. Thornton, indif- 
ferently ; ' ' but it was his own fault. ' ' 

His own fault ! The words echoed through 
Philip's mind after he left her, still sitting 



in the pretty, sunshiny room, and went 
himself into the bright, clear chill of the 
outer air. Was it his own fault ? Of course 
if so, it was right that he should have borne 
the consequences; or, at least, life was in- 
exorable in demanding such a penalty. 
But if — if it had been failure, mistake, or 
anything except deliberate wrong-doing, 
surely these consequences were hard. 

Philip had not been conscious at the time 
of observing what Miss Percival wore the 
evening before, but he remembered now 
that it was a simple black dress, relieved 
only by some soft lace at throat and hands. 
It was true that she had looked like a prin- 
cess even in this ; yet what a contrast when 
he placed her in imagination beside Con- 
stance in her exquisite toilette, flashing with 
diamonds ! The two figures seemed to sym- 
bolize and emphasize the wide difference in 
the fortunes of the two men who had once 
stood on an equal level. And while all things 
had prospered with one, the other had fallen 
— by his own fault? Yet why, then, had 
Graham said with so much significance, 
' 'Ask your uncle that question ' ' ? 

The idea of following this advice was as 
far from Philip's mind as ever. He won- 
dered a little whether he should ever know 
the exact truth of the matter, but he could 
imagine no circumstances in which it would 
be possible for him to ask an explanation 
of his uncle. "And, after all, how does it 
possibly concern me ? " he said to himself, 
with a sense of positive irritation. ' ' I wish 
I had never gone to the fair — I wish I had 
never seen that girl! No doubt if I had 
talked to her I should have found her com- 
monplace enough. And this old story of a 
broken business connection — what is it to 
me? I will not give it another thought." 

Such resolutions are, as a general rule, 
more easily made than kept, but Philip 
managed to keep this with tolerable suc- 
cess. His life was indeed too full of occupa- 
tion and pleasure to admit of much thought 
on matters that did not immediately enter 
into it. In the course of a few days he had 
almost forgotten the Percival matter; or, 
at least, it lay in abeyance in his mind, as 



The Ave Ma 



rta. 



S7 



SO many things do that we fancy forgotten, 
until some day they startle us by waking 
to vivid life. 

A considerable length of time elapsed, 
however, before the touch came which was 
destined to waken this. The gay season 
was at its height, and Philip was not again 
guilty of neglecting such degree of attend- 
ance as Miss Irving held to be due on his 
part. It was not very much, but enough 
to show the world his rightful place. That 
was all the young lady desired. Anything 
more might have indicated that she was 
bound in some degree, whereas she only 
wished it to be understood that Philip was 
at her service and disposal. 

To this Philip on his part had no objec- 
tion. He entertained no doubt that he would 
some day marry Constance, and, if the pros- 
pect did not fill him with rapture, it was 
not in the least disagreeable. If she had 
wished more devoted attention, he would 
have felt bound to oifer it; but his quickness 
of apprehension told him exactly what she 
did want, and he was somewhat relieved 
that it was no more. It left him free, and he 
did not wish to be bound just yet. 
(to be continued.) 



Palms. 



BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 



CHAPTER XV.— (Continued.) 

WHILE Nemesius and his little daugh- 
ter are speeding on their way towards 
the villa out on the Agro Romano, let us, 
anticipating their arrival, take a glimpse of 
the ancient structure. Its thick, extensive 
walls, which are twelve feet high — the 
bricks showing dark and mouldy where the 
plaster has dropped off, or where there are 
spaces clear of wild, clambering vines — 
would give it the aspect of a prison, were it 
not for the great trees waving above; and 
the roses that toss blushing, wanton sprays 
over them; and the odorous wall-flowers 
that grow out of the crevices of the crum- 
bling mortar. Evidently these ancient 



walls, with their deep-sunken, iron-ribbed 
gates, were built for protection in lawless 
times. 

The villa itself is a rambling structure, 
and originally had a tower at the north end, 
the upper portion of which had yielded to 
the tooth of Time, and tumbled in a mass 
of debris around it and upon its second 
floor, the stout timbers of which had with- 
stood the shock, and still upheld the heap. 
Vines with pendulous scarlet flowers, ivy, 
wild vetches, and blue wistarias, are in 
possession, draping the ruin in colors and 
overlapping folds more gorgeous than the 
rich tapestries with which the Jews were 
compelled by the imperial edict to decorate 
the Arch of Titus on the anniversary of 
the destruction of their holy city. The 
grounds, interfered with by art only so far 
as to prevent their becoming a tangled 
wilderness; the grass, like violet-starred vel- 
vet; the old, mildewed statues looking out 
here and there from green, shadowy places, 
and the antique fountains, are all aglow in 
the golden splendor of the newly-risen sun. 

Tertullus and his wife are not here; two or 
three old slaves move about lazily; and sev- 
eral peacocks, trailing their superb plumes 
over the grass, are the only signs of life 
apparent. Suddenly the sound of horses* 
feet and of wheels is heard outside; the 
porter springs to his post, draws back the 
bolts: the great gates creak slowly open, 
and Nemesius drives through. Slaves are 
ready to stand by the horses' heads as he 
draws up in front of the pillared entrance 
of the house ; and he alights, his toga draped 
over his armor, and lifts Claudia out of the 
chariot. 

"I will conduct thee," said a low, sweet 
voice at his side; and, turning, he sees 
Admetus, the choragus of the Aventine! — 
Was the boy ubiquitous? — He led the way 
into the vestibule, through the atrium into 
a wide corridor, which stretched through 
the villa, and ended in an apparently dead 
wall, panelled in wood that was black with 
age, where he stopped. One of the dark 
panels slid slowly upwards, and Nemesius, 
obeying the gesture of his guide, passed in, 



58 



The Ave Maria. 



holding Claudia's hand in the firm, tender 
clasp of his own. He had told her on the 
way thither that she was to live no longer 
in darkness — that her eyes were to be 
opened in a little while — and her face was 
radiant. No more darkness and groping 
and dread, but light! light! Oh! how she 
would love the power, the hand that gave 
sight to her blind eyes! She could think of 
nothing else; her heart was in a tumult of 
joy. 

A short walk through a narrow passage 
brought them to a door, which Admetus 
opened, and, having invited them to enter, 
left them, closing it after him. Looking 
around, Nemesius saw that he was in an 
oblong apartment, the windows of which 
were concealed on the outside by an inter- 
woven mesh of vines. At one end, in the 
centre, there stood, upon a dais elevated 
three or four steps above the floor, a large, 
curiously shaped chest, with two massive 
iron rings at each end. Three panels formed 
the front. On the central one, inlaid in 
gold, was the monogram I. H. S. ; on the 
one to the left was delineated a pelican 
feeding her young with the blood from her 
wounded breast ; on that to the right, a fish. 
On the top of the chest stood a narrow, 
arched cabinet, about two feet high, its 
doors plated with gold; and a silver lamp, 
suspended from the ceiling by a fi^twork 
chain of the same metal, burned with clear, 
steady light before it. 

On the top of the cabinet stood a crucifix 
of such realistic art, that Nemesius, as he 
gazed upon it, thought with a sudden thrill 
of what Fabian had told him of the death 
of the Christus^ that day in the ilex grove. 
Frescoed on the wall above the crucifix was 
the saintly face of a woman, her eyes up- 
lifted, her hands folded in an attitude of 
supplication, and there was a shadow of 
sadness and tears on the fair, virginal coun- 
tenance. Could this mean the Virgin- 
Mother foretold by sibyls and prophets, — 
the Virgin-Mother who brought forth Him 
hanging dead there upon the cross? Yes, the 
same — Advocata nostra^ as she was known 
from the earliest days of Christianity. 



There were some rude benches in the 
apartment, a cross-crowned chair, and about 
midway a sliding screen, which, when 
drawn together, concealed the altar — for 
altar it was ; a portable one, as the rings at 
each end signified ; such as were in use in 
the early Christian churches, which were 
not edifices built separate and apart to 
themselves, but the private mansions of 
rich converts, consecrated to the worship of 
God, and permitted by some of the heathen 
tyrants to be so used when the fires of per- 
secution were not abroad. 

The Church of St. Clement,* and that 
of St. Pudens, the friend of St. Peter and 
St. Paul, are still to be seen and venerated 
in Rome. And here in the villa of TertuUus 
was one of the few that had been left un- 
molested, because unsuspected and undis- 
covered; for who among the heathen, be 
his zeal ever so argus-eyed, would suspect 
such an abomination to exist in the dwell- 
ing of an officer of the Praetorian Guard? 
Even had such a suspicion arisen, Valerian 
Imperator would have thought twice before 
he ventured anything aggressive, knowing 
that the Praetorian Guard sometimes, with 
a word and a blow, made and unmade such 
as he. Still less was it dreamed that under 
the ruined, ivy-draped tower there was an 
opening through one of the old wine-vaults 
into the Catacombs. 

While Nemesius was observing the un- 
familiar objects around him, a survey of 
which required far less time than it has 
taken to describe them, a door opened, and 
the Christian Pontiff" entered. He wore the 
same white woollen robe as on the night 
of their first interview, with the addition of 
a stole about his neck. Nemesius, who had 
thrown aside his toga, bared his head with 
reverent salutation, which was returned by 
a whispered ''^Deo gratiasf'' and the holy 
Sign df the Cross made by the Pontiff"' s 
uplifted hand towards him. The anxious 
father then led Claudia forward. The lovely 
child was arrayed in soft white garments; 



* Under the foundation of the present Church 
of St. Clement. 



The Ave Maria. 



If 



her long, golden hair fell in shining curls 
over her shoulders; her fair face wore the 
innocence and purity of an angel's; and as 
the saintly Pontiff gazed upon her, an ex- 
pression of benign pity illumined his coun- 
tenance, and laying his hand upon her head 
he blessed her. 

' ' What wouldst thou have, sweet child ? ' ' 
he asked. 

Oh I sir, I am blind, and would see," 
as the pathetic answer. 

' ' i will give thee holy Baptism, my child, 
nd He who opens the eyes of the blind 
will enter thy heart, and teach thee to love 
and serve Him." 

"I will love Him!" she said; then turn- 
ing to her father, who pressed her hand 
more closely, she continued: "Oh! padre 
mio^ will we not both love Him who gives 
light to my eyes?" 

"x\nd to thy spirit," responded the Pon- 
tiff, who had among other supernatural 
gifts that of being able to discern spirits, 
and saw by the dispositions of the two be- 
fore him that they were already numbered 
with the conquests of Christ. 

He went to the altar, and, after kneeling 
in profound homage for a moment, opened 
the gold-plated door of the Tabernacle, 
and from one of its interior compartments — 
there were two — drew forth a crystal flask. 
Nemesius attentive to every movement, saw 
that it was filled with water; he knew not 
what Baptism meant, but supposed it to be 
one of the conditions without which his 
child would not receive her sight, and he 
silently consented to the Christian rite, 
whatever it might signify, moved by some- 
thing deeper than his natural desire for her 
blindness to be removed. 

The little girl stood silent, waiting; the 
sacred rite began; she felt a strange sign 
made upon her forehead, and beheld a beau- 
tiful One in shining raiment approach, 
whose presence was invisible to all except 
herself; and as the Pontiff poured the waters 
of regeneration upon her head, the Appari- 
tion touched her eyes,* and — she was no 



* It is so related. 



longer blind! She looked up, around, and 
uttered a cry of gladness; the darkness had 
disappeared, and there was light. It was a 
moment to be more easily imagined than 
described. She gazed into the saintly face 
of the Pontiff Stephen, into her father's, 
then flew to his embrace, crying: "At last I 
see thee!" 

The miracle opened the way — made 
straight the path for grace to enter the 
mind of Nemesius, who received the Truth 
as it is in Jesus Christ, nothing doubting; 
and, kneeling at the feet of the Pontiff, he 
asked for instruction in the Christian faith, 
and then for Baptism, which, it may be 
stated here, he received a few days after, in 
the same place. 

The child saw the crucifix, the sweet face 
of Advocata nostra; she knew them* not, 
but both were indelibly impressed upon her 
mind, and were not strangers to her when, 
a little later, she heard the wonderful story 
of Redemption. Glints of sunshine through 
the ivy that mantled the windows filled her 
with innocent delight, and the thought of 
all the beautiful things she was to behold 
so transported hey heart that she ran and 
knelt at the feet of the Pontiff, exclaiming, 
with sweet simplicity : 

" Oh ! sir, wilt thou thank Him for me 
who has given me sight? But tell me His 
name, that I too may thank Him in my 
thoughts every moment of my life. ' ' 

' ' I will, my sweet child. Jesus Christ is 
the name of Him who by His divine power 
removed thy blindness; keep His name in 
thy heart, and thank Him and love Him 
without ceasing. Thou art now His little 
neophyte; by and by thou wilt know Him, 
and the Father who sent Him. He has 
given thee a new name in Baptism,by which 
He will know thee among His little ones 
—the name of Lucilla, * meaning light." 
(to be continued.) 

^ "Little light." 



The most imperfect are usually the most 
fault-finding. — Felix. 



6o 



The Ave Maria. 



A Saint, Perhaps. 



THE humble soul whose virtues are about 
to be recorded here would have been 
greatly astonished, even alarmed, to see his 
name in print, and his conduct proposed as 
a model to fellow-Christians. But no such 
consideration need stay our pen; for he has 
been resting in a quiet grave — his soul, we 
hope, enjoying the beatific vision of the 
Master he served so faithfully on earth — 
many a long year. 

Of M. Ricoux's early life nothing is 
known, except that by his industry and 
honesty he contrived to lay up a small com- 
petency, sufficient for his modest tastes; 
that a sudden misfortune deprived him of 
this, and reduced him to a state of want 
bordering on penury. This trial seemed 
only to increase his zeal for God's glory and 
the relief of the poor; he devoted himself 
entirely to good works. He was an exem- 
plary member of the Third Order of St. 
Francis and of the Society of St. Francis 
Xavier ; the Communion of Reparation and 
the Association of Prayers and Penances 
found in him an untiring propagator; he 
lent also an active co-operation to the As- 
sociation of St. Francis de Sales, whose 
object is to multiply missions throughout 
France; but above all it was in the Noc- 
turnal Adoration that his burning love of 
God displayed itself 

In Paris the Blessed Sacrament is per- 
petually exposed — successively in every 
church during three days — and each night 
some members of the Adoration come to 
pray from sunset till daybreak. M. Ricoux 
spent nearly every night at the foot of the 
altar, always ready to replace any absent 
member. But this was not enough to satisfy 
his zeal : for several years he fulfilled, with 
admirable courage, the painful duty of car- 
rying from one church to another the mat- 
tresses used by the members in the intervals 
of rest. Nor rain, nor snow, nor the bitter 
cold of Winter, nor the scorching heat of 
Summer could daunt the pious man, whom 
the soldiers belonging to the Adoration 



called in their vigorous language, "Z^ satnf 
cheval du Bon Dieu. ' ' 

His house, which he had made a sanct- 
uary of prayer became the refuge of the des- 
titute. Although poor in the goods of earth, 
his heart possessed inexhaustible treasures 
of generous compassion, and often he had 
the heroic charity to reduce his own scanty 
food in order to relieve the suffering. 

There is a charming anecdote illustrating 
the measure of his practical charity. For 
over two years he had been the constant 
benefactor of an unfortunate family, but all 
his efforts to better their condition proved' 
vain, owing to the husband's misconduct. 
However, M. Ricoux determined to make a 
final attempt to lift them out of their strait- 
ened circumstances. The national fete of 
the 15th of August, 1863 — it was during 
the Empire — was at hand; the preparations 
were actively carried on throughout Paris, 
and especially on the vast Esplanade des 
Invalides, where the festivities were to be 
opened at daybreak by the booming of can- 
non, an honor much prized by the veterans 
of Napoleon I. "If that poor family could * 
only obtain license to sell wine in this 
thoroughfare," thought M. Ricoux, "they 
could earn enough to pay their rent and 
procure the necessaries of life. ' ' 

After some difficulty he obtained the 
wished-for permission, and immediately set 
to work to procure everything necessary 
for an improvised stall; the tables, chairs, 
glasses, with a barrel of choice wine, were 
purchased, and on the evening of the 14th 
all was in readiness to begin business early 
next morning. M. ^xo.oxxx' ^ protege was ap- 
pointed to watch over the precious barrel, 
the last hope of the unfortunate family; 
but, alas! when, before dawn, his wife and 
daughter came to help him, they found him 
lying in a state of insensibility, caused by 
copious libations ; the proximity of the 
temptation had been too much for him. In 
despair, they rushed to M. Ricoux, and re- 
lated the sad event. What was to be done? 

The good man saw there was no time to 
be lost ; he hurried to the church, heard the 
first Mass, and received Holy Communion ; 



IE 



The Ave Maria. 



6i 



then, overcoming human-respect, regardless 
of his reputation, and sacrificing the con- 
solations his piety would have derived from 
the solemn offices of the beautiful feast of 
Our Lady, of whom he was a devoted 
client, he resolutely took the place of his 
protkgk^ served the customers the whole 
day, in the midst of an uncongenial, noisy 
mob, arriving home late in the night, com- 
pletely spent after his sublime act of char- 
;ity and self-denial. 

And thus he lived in obscurity, ignored 
[by the world, though most deserving of its 
[admiration and gratitude; but he was great 
I in the eyes of God and of His angels, on 
^account of his wonderful gift of faith and 
the great number of his good works. 

His end was worthy of his noble life. 
On the eve of his death those about his bed 
heard him say : " I feel an indescribable joy ; 
I seem to be already in Paradise. I see thou 
sands of angels coming to meet me. ' ' Then 
he added, like one in ecstasy, "Heavens, 
open to me!" A very rare spectacle was 
witnessed at his funeral. An immense 
throng — people of all classes, young and old 
— followed a coffin conveyed in the hearse 
of the poor! And when the passers-by won- 
dered, and inquired whose funeral it was, a 
unanimous voice — the voice of the people — 
replied: "A saint's!" 



Mary. 

TY| AID-MOTHKR of humanity divine! 
^*^ Alone thou art in thy supremacy, 

Since God Himself did reverence to thee, 
And built of flesh a temple one with thine. 
Wherein, through all eternity, to shrine 

His inexpressive glory. Blessed be 

The miracle of thy maternity. 
Of grace the sole immaculate design ! 

Lo! earth and heaven— the footstool and the 
throne 
Of Him who bowed obedient to thy sway. 

What time in lowly Nazareth, unknown. 
He led of life the long-secluded way — 

Pause, till their tongues are tutored of thine 
own, 
*' Magnificat'' in wondering love to say. 

John B. Tabb, in The Independent. 



Favors of Our Queen. 

A FREE-THINKER'S CONVERSION. 

IN one of the principal commercial cities 
of the south of France lived a physician, 
whose extensive practice left no doubt as- 
to his learning and professional skill. But 
he was a man without any faith, and the 
Grotto of Massabielle (about which he 
had heard some wonderful things) was to 
him the source of many a merry joke. A 
great favorite with the youth of the city^ 

Dr. was always their chosen leader in 

social festivities. On one of these occa- 
sions he fell sick, very sick — so sick that 
neither his own skill nor that of any of his- 
medical acquaintances was of the least avail. 

Among Dr. 's friends was a certain 

priest for whom he had contracted an es- 
teem, and by whom he was often visited. "I 
believe, Feather, ' ' he said to him one even- 
ing, when suffering very acutely, ' ' that my 
only resource now is to drink some of the 
Water of Lourdes." This was said half 
in jest; however, some of the miraculous 
water was procured, and the Doctor conde- 
scendingly swallowed a few drops, thinking 
how can people be so foolish ! etc. , etc. To 
the surprise of the spectators, the Doctor's 
face soon assumed an air of unaccustomed 
gravity, and after a few moments he ex-> 
claimed, joyfully : ' ' My pains have ceased ! ' ^ 
No more was said in derision of Lourdes,, 
and the patient became very thoughtful. 

It was Mardigras — Shrove-Tuesday. A 
carriage was rolling past a crowd of masked 
revellers; a priest, in sacerdotal vestments,, 
bearing with him the Holy Viaticum, was 
seated in it. The carriage stopped at the 

house of Dr. . Yes : he had resolved 

that the anniversary of his greatest follies 
in the past should be consecrated by the 
reception of the Blessed Eucharist. 

The priest, on his arrival, found the sick 
man surrounded by a large number of 
friends, whose opinions in matters of relig- 
ion were as unlike as their faces. 

"■ Kind friends," said the prodigal,"! have 



62 



The Ave Maria. 



purposely assembled you here, that you may 
be witnesses of my repentance and of my 
return to faith. I am now one of those who 
believe that God can, when He chooses, 
effect as great spiritual wonders with water 
in its simple state as He does physical won- 
ders with the same water vaporized. This 
the water of Massabielle has proved to me. 
Do not ask me any more if I believe in God, 
in Jesus Christ, in the Church; I believe in 
them with all the powers of my soul — as 
firmly as I will henceforward believe in 
Our Ivady of Lourdes. To make this an 
indisputable fact is why I wished you all 
to be here to-day. May God grant you the 
grace to follow the example which I, in full 
possession of all my faculties, here give you! 
Now, in presence of you all, I am going to 
renew my First Communion." 

The company melted into tears, and the 
priest was so affected that he could scarcely 
hold the ciborium. 

The Doctor lived for several months 
afterwards. During his last moments an ex- 
pression of heavenly peace lit up his coun- 
tenance. ' ' You are not suffering now. Doc- 
tor?" remarked the Sister in attendance. 
*'How could I suffer?" was the reply; "I 
see Our Lady of Lourdes ! Oh, how beautiful 
she is! " And so saying he calmly expired. 



Footprints of St. Dominic. 

The Tablet. 

THKRE will, no doubt, be many amongst 
the pilgrims to gourdes who have a special 
•devotion to St. Dominic, and perhaps if they 
know how near they are to places around 
which still lingers the fragrance of his sanctity 
they will be glad to visit them. There is, 
indeed, little left in the old town of Faujeaux, 
or at Prouille, but memories; revolutions, 
spoliations, confiscations, and restorations, 
have stripped the churches of nearly all that 
would attract the outside world. But Faujeaux 
and Prouille are names that seem to awaken 
the spirits of the two heroes of the Albigen- 
sian wars — one a saint, the other a soldier: 
Dominic de Guzman and Simon de Montfort. 
As the traveller goes from Villa Savary 



across the rolling plain, that has a pastoral 
prettiness, Faujeaux, perched upon a lofty 
hill, dominates all the country about, remind- 
ing one of the "city set upon a hill, that can 
not be hid. ' ' The lower terraces are vineyards, 
and then begin the houses, and windmills with 
huge, flapping sails; and finally on the very 
top is the Gothic church, with a lofty spire that 
is high above all else; and when the sky is 
red and gold with the light of the dying sun, 
the silhouette of the city is lovely. 

The Blessed Jourdain of Saxony tells of St. 
Dominic's coming to Faujeaux, and of the 
dispute which he held with the heretics in 
presence of all the people; and that when no 
judgment could be formed, it was decided to 
cast the heretical books and St. Dominic's 
book into the flames, and that the doctrine 
which should survive the fire was to be de- 
clared the truth. This was done, and St. 
Dominic triumphed three times over his ad- 
versaries. If one goes into the church there 
in the square, one may see a log from the fire 
in one of the chapels. 

The Saint was convinced <hat one cause of 
the spread of the heresy was the skill with 
which the heretics managed the education of 
the young women. He resolved, therefore, to 
found a convent, and by direction of Our 
Lady, who indicated the fields of Prouille for 
the site, he built the Convent of Our Lady of 
Prouille, which he himself opened on St. 
John's Day, in 1206. And it was thither that 
he called his companions from Toulouse, in 
1216, to deliberate on the choice of a Rule to 
submit to the Pope. 

Prouille is, therefore, the birthplace of the 
Order of Friars Preachers. It grew in num- 
bers and in wealth; at one time the walls were 
adorned with fifteen stately towers, in honor 
of the Fifteen Mysteries of the Holy Rosary. 
However, the sacrilegious hands of a succes- 
sion of avaricious revolutionaries and heretics 
have plundered, scattered, and destroyed 
everything, so that now the humble convent 
with its few fields might easily be passed by 
unnoticed. 

It is best to come down from Faujeaux by 
the footpath and across the fields. This is the 
short cut which St. Dominic took for his visits 
to the convent; and at one turn in the way 
there is a stone cross to mark the spot where 
he was set upon by murderers, and miracu- 
lously delivered. Now in these lovely days 



Iff 



The Ave Maria, 



63 



the fields are brilliantly starred with prim- 
roses, and all the air is heavy with the smell 
of violets and almond blossoms, and the dron- 
ing of bees is restful. The road winds on 
past Prouille to Montreal, two leagues farther 
on. 

Just after crossing the stone bridge that 
spans a stream flowing from a holy well is to 
be seen the hermitage of the holy Prophet. It 
crowns a slight eminence, and is in the midst 
of ' * a vineyard that is laid waste ' ' ; the wall is 
broken down, and weeds have come up, and 
the vines bring forth no grapes. Father 
KenelmVaughan.whohasbeenin Prouille for 
some months past, preparing for the work of 
the Universal Expiation which he is shortly 
to take in hand in England, has bought it, 
and repaired the little stone house, dedicating 
it to the holy Prophet Jeremias, and setting 
up statues of the seven patrons of the great 
work in which he is interested; and it is now 
his retreat and oratory. 

It is on record that one Sunday, as St. 
Dominic was coming through the fields below 
Montreal, his indignation was stirred by see- 
ing the people at work, and he rebuked them. 
One of the men standing up to answer him, 
angrily grasped a handful of wheat, when he 
felt the warm blood trickling down his hand; 
and they all looked and saw that the hands 
of every one of them were in the same con- 
dition. The men were — so runs the legend — 
moved with fear, and followed the Saint into 
the church, where he preached and converted 
them. 

The church at Montreal is dedicated to 
St. Vincent, Deacon and Martyr, and was de- 
signed to be a splendid building, but it is still 
unfinished. One of the Gothic portals is very 
characteristic, and the ensemble oi the interior, 
owing particularly to the bold, simple con- 
struction of the arches, is very good; but a 
wave of restoration seems to have swept over 
the Aude, and a number of scene-painters let 
loose, so that much of the primitive beauty 
of the churches is either marred by or buried 
under their work, though now and then one 
still finds a bit of good old glass that is satis- 
factory. 

From Montreal there is a charming view 
of the majestic Pyrenees, that is worth a long 
tramp. Standing at an elbow of the road, 
with the well-tilled plain, green with sprout- 
ing wheat, and dotted with manors, chateaux, 



church spires, and villages, and off in the 
background the eternal hills, so great, so 
white, so severe, in their grandeur, the scene 
is one so unique that it can hardly be forgotten. 
But it is not improbable that many of our 
readers, whose eyes are turned to the shrine 
of Our Lady of Lourdes, will see all this for 
themselves. 



Leaves from Our Portfolio. 

A martyr's letter.^ 

CoREA, Sept. 10, 1857. 

REV. AND Drar Confrere: — Your kind 
letter of March 25, 1855, did not reach me 
till the end of January this year. It must have 
gone all around the world before I received it; 
but the pleasure its perusal afforded me easily 
reconciled me to the delay. 

When I read your account of the many 
journeys which during the last ten years you 
have made for the glory of God, I am almost 
tempted to envy you. I understand well the 
hardships of these voyages, and, consequently, 
their great merit, when, like yours, they are 
undertaken for the honor of Our Lord. 

I, too, have been travelling during these 
years. In October, 1854, 1 was on the point of 
being consecrated coadjutor of Mantchourie, 
when the Holy Father appointed me Vicar- 
Apostolic of Corea. Notwithstanding the 
pressing nature of his Holiness' orders, I was 
unable to leave Leoo-Tong before October, 
1855. Having recovered my health about that 



* This precious letter — a martyr's handwriting 
— is addressed to the Rev. L Baroux, formerly a 
missionary in the East Indies, but now attached to 
the Diocese of Grand Rapids. The thrilling story 
of Bishop Berneux's captivity and death is told 
in a volume translated from the French by Lady 
Herbert of Lea. Another priest in the United 
States, who studied under this holy Bishop when 
a professor in the Seminary at Le Mans, and had 
the honor of serving his Mass, tells us that he 
venerated him as a saint even then. One who ac- 
companied him on his voyages writes: "Never 
have I known a man with a nobler soul, with a 
more generous heart, or more passionately de- 
voted to the glory of God and the salvation of 
his fellow-creatures." 

■X- 

* * 
It was an oversight not to have stated that the 
remarkable letter on the "Claims of Science and 



64 



The Ave Maria. 



time, I went to Shanghai, and thence to Hong- 
long. I remained there a month, and then 
returned to Shanghai, whence I sailed for my 
new mission, arriving on the 27th of March, 
1856. 

If it cost me an eiFort to separate myself 
from the flock whom I had been instructing 
for twelve years at I<eoo-Tong, the good God 
has made me ample recompense. I have found 
great fervor among the faithful of my new 
charge, and among the pagans every disposi- 
tion to embrace the faith, although their do- 
ing so entails great sacrifices, on account 
of persecution. We have had five hundred 
baptisms of adults this year, and, if it please 
the lyord still to bless our work, we shall have 
a much larger harvest next year. I have with 
me five missionaries of our Congregation, be- 
sides a native priest. We all labor as we never 
did before, and yet it is only with great diffi- 
culty that w^e can answer all demands. 

I feel deeply thankful for the kind remem- 
brance that you retain of me, and for the pious 
prayers that you offer up to God every year 
in m}^ behalf. I have always stood in need of 
them, but never more than at present. Con- 
tinue your prayers, then, I beg of you, that God 
may enable me faithfully to accomplish the 
duties given to my charge; so that, after having 
preached to others, I myself ma}^ not become 
a castaway. As to yourself, kind friend, may 
the good God preserve and increase the zeal 
and charity with which He has inspired you 
— may He bless all your works! 

With sentiments of deep afi'ection and re- 
spect, I am 

Your most humble servant, 

+ S. BKRNHUX, 
Bp. of Copse, Vic.-Ap. of Corea. 

Faith," published under the above caption last 
week, was from the pen of a famous English 
divine and poet. Mr. Hawker's works are com- 
paratively unknown in the United States, none 
that we think of having ever been reprinted here. 
He died at Pl5^mouth,on the Feast of the Assump- 
tion* 1875. The day before his death he was re- 
ceived into the Church. He had always manifested 
great affection for the Blessed Virgin ; some of his 
sweetest poems were written in praise of her. For 
an interesting sketch of Mr. Hawker see Vol. 
XVIII. of The 'Ave Maria," page 401— "The 
Poet of the Cornish Coast." The letter above re- 
ferred to had probably never before been printed 
on this side of the Atlantic. 



Catholic Notes. 



The Rev. Father Sommervogel, a German 
Jesuit, has published an octavo volume, which 
is nothing more than a catalogue — but a most 
interesting and edifying catalogue — of the 
works written in honor of the Blessed Virgin 
by members of the Society of Jesus since its 
foundation. The list does not include the 
various treatises, panegyrics, and meditations 
found in the course of works on theolog}'-, 
collections of sermons, etc. ; it is confined to 
those works specially consecrated to estab- 
lish or to propagate devotion to the ever- 
blessed Virgin. They amount to the respect- 
able number of 2,207: — 93 on the life of the 
Blessed Virgin and the words which she has 
spoken; 206 on the grandeurs and privileges 
of Mary; 98 on the liturgy of Mary; 36 on her 
mysteries and feasts in general; 344 on the 
Immaculate Conception; 274 on the other 
feasts; 252 on devotion to the Blessed Virgin 
in general; 28 on examples of devotion to Our 
Lady; 1 17 on particular devotions — the month 
of May, the Rosary, Scapulars, etc.; 226 on 
the congregations and confraternities of the 
Blessed Virgin; 451 on pilgrimages, relics, 
and miracles; finally, 82 on music and the 
arts in the service of the Mother of God. 
Many of these works are still in manuscript; 
they are in all the languages of Europe — one 
might almost say in all the languages spoken 
upon the earth. The sons of St. Ignatius have 
given incontestable proof that they are faith- 
ful servants of Mary, and worthy of saluting 
her with the title they are in the habit of add- 
ing to her litanies: Regina Societatis Jesu, — 
"Queen of the Society of Jesus." 



Many of our readers may be pleased to know 
that the principal lamp burning before the 
Blessed Sacrament in the Lourdes Basilica 
comes from Ireland. There are, perhaps, a 
score of lamps before the high altar, but the 
Irish one is conspicuous b}- its size and its 
central position. 

A marble bust of Father de Smet, the fa- 
mous missionary among the Indian tribes of 
the Rocky Mountains, has been presented to 
the Chicago Historical Society. It is from 
the chisel of Mr. Howard Kretschman, of that 
city, and is highly praised as a work of art. 






The Ave Maria. 



65 



Baron von Hiibner, a distinguished German 
Protestant, famed for his extensive travels, 
writing of his stay in Oceanica, pays a de- 
served tribute to the saintly Prefect- Apostolic 
of the Fijian Archipelago: 

"Father Breheret, of the Congregation of Mar- 
ists, is a Vendean by birth. He has been carrying 
on his ministry here for forty years, never once 
visiting Europe. He is the type of an ascetic; his 
venerable features beam with gentleness and love. 
His garb, like the little church, the priest's house, 
and the school, bears the stamp of apostolic pov- 
erty. ' He is a saint,' said a Wesleyan missionary 
to me, and this testimony is confirmed by the 
unanimous verdict of the white population." 



The Most Rev. Archbishop Alemany is now 
in Valencia, Spain, where he is crowning a 
life of good works in re-establishing the Do- 
minican Order in that country. The vener- 
able Bishop recently wrote to an esteemed 
friend in New York, and, as all that relates to 
the personality of this zealous and amiable 
prelate has intense interest to many of our 
readers, we are glad to know that he is in good 
liealth and full of energy. ' ' I may, ' ' he wrote, 
' ' have to purchase some little property adjoin- 
ing our grand and large Dominican church, 
called El Pilar, where I practise my old trade 
■every day — that of hearing confessions. Sev- 
eral young men have called, asking to be re- 
ceived; but, although I have a novice-master 
-with me, we can not receive until the General 
sends me two or three more. The people of 
this city of St. Vincent Ferrer are very glad 
to see our habit, and when the time comes 
they will doubtless help us." 

There are a good many people here, and 
even more on the Pacific coast, who would be 
glad to see the habit of the venerable and 
venerated Titular Archbishop of Pelusium. 
Spain planted the Cross in America, and now 
America makes return by sending her an 
adopted American to strengthen faith in the 
country of his birth. The task of receiving 
young Spaniards into the Order which he has 
so loved throughout his life, is a blessing well 
deserved in his old age, and one of the sweet- 
est he has ever performed. — N. V. Freeman' s 
Journal. 

The Church of the Franciscan Fathers at 
Clonmel, Ireland, is one of those grand his- 
toric monuments to religion with which the 
* ' Isle of Saints ' ' abounds. It was built about 



the year 1269, and long ranked amongst the 
noblest ecclesiastical edifices in the land. It 
was the pride and glory of the town, and the 
adjoining monastery was the home of many 
a saint and scholar, who shed lustre on their 
native land, and who labored zealously to 
preserve the faith taught by St. Patrick. In 
the days of persecution, the Clonmel Abbey 
shared to the full in the calamitous fate of the 
other monastic institutions of the kingdom. 
Suppressed and plundered by Henry VIII.; 
rifled and unroofed by Cromwell; later on 
used as a stable by the troopers of King Wil- 
liam, its history has been an eventful one. At 
the beginning of the present century the 
tower and choir were the only portions that 
remained of the original church; but in 1827 
the Franciscan Fathers gained, by lease, a 
right to return to the place where their breth- 
ren had ministered before. Since then, the 
* 'Abbey ' ' (though not affording anything like 
decent accommodation) has been a favorite 
place of worship for the Catholics of Clonmel 
and the surrounding parishes. 

For years pastj however, signs of decay have 
been very apparent in the building, and in 
order that something may be done to restore 
it, and make it more suitable for its sacred 
purpose, the Friars appeal to the generosity 
of the faithful everywhere. The Holy Father 
has granted his Apostolic Benediction to all 
who aid in the good work. 



The Rev. Father Rigby, of Ugthorpe, York- 
shire, now in his ninetieth year, is the oldest 
priest in England. He has been attached to 
the Ugthorpe Mission for sixty years. 



Mgr. Eangenieux, Archbishop of Rheims, 
in an address delivered on the occasion of 
his recent elevation to the cardinalate, recalls 
the glorious history of the metropolitan See 
over which he presides. Since its apostolical 
erection, nearly eighteen hundred years ago, 
Rheims has been a seat of learning and piety; 
and its long line of prelates have rendered sig- 
nal services to their faith and their fatherland. 
Out of the hundred Archbishops of Rheims, 
thirteen are revered as saints, and eighteen 
have been raised to the dignity of cardinals. 
Four churchmen from the Archdiocese have 
occupied the See of Peter. With it is also 
associated the memory of the great Cardinal 
Gousset and the gifted Archbishop Eandriot. 



66 



The Ave Maria. 



But the new Cardinal, with a humility by 
which he proves himself truly great, makes all 
this glory serve as the reason of his own eleva- 
tion; and attributes to the merits of his illus- 
trious predecessors, and the brilliant records 
of the See of Rheims, the " exception ' ' which 
has been made in his favor. 



Although the head of the Universal Church 
has no army to enforce his commands, these 
obtain more ready assent than the most im- 
perative orders of any temporal sovereign. 
He has no iron- clad fleet to thunder forth his 
decrees, but his authoritative word, conveyed 
around the globe by the silent electric spark, 
secures the willing adherence of his countless 
flock.to the teachings of their Supreme Pastor. 
As the mind of man is far above his mate- 
rial part, so is the spiritual power of Peter's 
successor above the weak authority of mere 
human force. — Catholic Herald. 



His Holiness lyco XIII. has forwarded to 
the sanctuary of Our I^ady of RipoU, now 
under restoration in the diocese of Vich, in 
Spain, a magnificent painting of the Blessed 
Virgin. 

A special dispatch from Paris last week an- 
nounced the death of the venerable and illus- 
trious Cardinal Guibert. He was born at Aix, 
December 13, 1802, and early distinguished 
himself in his theological studies, which he 
completed at Rome Subsequently he became 
Vicar-General of Ajaccio and Bishop of Vivi- 
ers (Ardeche). He succeeded Mgr. Morlot 
as Archbishop of Tours, February 4, 1859, on 
the promotion of that prelate to the See of 
Paris, to which See he was himself promoted 
on the nomination of M. Thiers, President of 
the Republic, succeeding the martyred Mgr. 
Darboy. Pius IX. created him cardinal in 
December, 1873. He was nominated an Offi- 
cer of the Legion of Honor, August 11, 1859. 
R. I. P. 

The University of Pennsylvania has con- 
ferred the honorary degree of lyL. D. on Arch- 
bishop Ryan, of Philadelphia. The Inquirer 
of that city says: ''This is the first time in 
the history of the University of Pennsylvania 
that an honorary degree has been conferred 
by that institution upon a Roman Catholic. 
The act of conferring this degree of honor on ' 



Archbishop Ryan was not only a just and 
graceful recognition of his eminent learning 
and piety, but a wholesome indication of the 
broader and nobler spirit with which the Uni- 
versity has in these later days clothed itself 
withal. It is a spirit gracious, generous, and 
beautiful ; and the act which this spirit inspired 
conferred more honor upon this ancient seat 
of learning than upon the pious and learned 
Archbishop." 

Cardinal Gibbons is said to have been the 
youngest prelate at the Ecumenical Council 
in 1 870, when the entire Catholic hierarchy of 
the world — over 900 bishops — assembled in 
the Vatican to vote on the question of Papal 
Infallibility, and his youthful but intelligent 
and benign face attracted much attention. 



It has often st;-uck us that the events — 
deplorable from so many points of view — that 
brought about the despoiling of monasteries 
and the dispersion of religious orders in Rome 
and elsewhere, in our day, were permitted by 
God for the wise end of scattering the sowers 
and reapers of His harvest: so that they might 
go forth, weeping, if you will, but spreading 
the Gospel seed over the earth, to return one 
day carrying their sheaves of salvation. 



It may not be generally known that the 
maps of 300 or 400 years ago crudely recorded 
the chief geographical features of Africa as 
they have recently been found to exist. These 
old maps, unlike any modern maps previous 
to Stanley's journey in 1877, make the Congo 
issue from a lake in the centre of the conti- 
nent. A Spanish globe of the i6th century, 
now in Paris, reproduces in a remarkable 
manner the course of the river as laid down 
by Stanley. It shows the river issuing from a 
lake, flowing north, describing a large curve 
north of the equator, and then turning west- 
southwest to the Atlantic. There is no doubt 
that all this information was obtained by the 
early Portuguese traders and travellers, who, 
perhaps, crossed the continent, and certainly 
reached the great lakes in the i6th and 17th 
centuries. All they added to the map of Af- 
rica was wiped out by the doubting Thomases 
of a later age; but "old things have become 
new, ' ' and some great things the}^ discovered 
are now back again on the latest maps. — New 
York Sun, 



The Ave Maria. 



Obituary. 



**It is a holy and wfiolesome ikou^ht to pray for the dead." 

—2 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

The Rev. Camillus Imoda, S. J., formerly an In- 
dian missionary, but for three years past attached 
to the Cathedral, Helena, M.T., whose sudden 
death occurred on the i8th ult. Father Imoda 
was much beloved in Helena, and his unexpected 
death cast a gloom over the whole community. 

The Rev. Thomas Nolan, P.P., Abbeyleix, Ire- 
land, who departed this life on the 9th of May. 

The Rev. W. Revis, of the Archdiocese of Chi- 
cago, rector of St. Mary's Church, Maple Park, 111. 

The Rev. Francis J. Finn, a worthy young priest 
of the Diocese of Portland, who breathed his last 
on the 29th ult. , the second anniversary of his 
ordination. v 

The Rev. Father Niederkorn, a venerable priest 
of the Society of Jesus, well known in many parts 
of the West, who died at Florissant, Mo., on the 
6th inst. 

Sister Mary of St. Genevieve, a religious of the 
Convent of the Good Shepherd, Cleveland, Ohio, 
who yielded her soul to God on the 3d inst. She 
was in the forty-fourth year of her age and the 
seventeenth of her religious profession. 

Mr. Richard Courtney, of Baltimore, whose good 
life was crowned with a holy death on the 17th 
ult. He was a generous friend of the poor, and did 
all in his power for the maintenance of charitable 
institutions. 

Miss Cecilia Oliver, a daughter of the late la- 
mented Marquis Oliver, who passed away on the 
27th of June. Her death, which was most edify- 
ing to all who witnessed it, has caused universal 
regret in San Francisco. 

Mr. Louis W. Mitchell, who was drowned in 
Lake Washington, Minn., on the 12th ult. He 
was an excellent young man, very devout to the 
Blessed Virgin. 

Mrs. Alice Lyons and Miss Mary E.Carroll, both 
of New York. They suffered long and patiently, 
and died happy deaths. 

Mr. Patrick H. Cummins and Miss Nellie Agnes 
Cummins, his daughter, both of whom were called 
from this life during the month of June. Mr. 
Cummins came to this country in 1819, and was 
one of the most respected Irishmen in Boston. 

Katie F. Kelly, of Lewiston, Me., deceased on 
the 23d ult. She was a fervent Child of Mary, and 
her precious death will long be remembered by 
friends and relatives. 

Mrs. Elizabeth Sheridan and Miss Elizabeth 
McGrath, of Elizabeth, N. J. 

May they rest in peace! 




PrAHTMENt 



The Feast of la Sainte Enfance. 



On a sunny morning in the beautiful 
month of June the pious parish of St. Lam- 
bert was all astir, especially the juvenile 
portion of it, who were anxiously waiting- 
for the first stroke -^f the church bell that 
was to summon them to Mass, sermon, 
procession, and Benediction — all for them- 
selves ; for it was the Feast of la Sainte 
Enfance yVfhich falls regularly on the octave- 
day of the Ascension. 

Soon the sacred edifice was filled with 
hundreds of little children, boys and girls, 
from two years old to twelve. They were 
as good as they were pretty, and quietly 
seated themselves in the places assigned to 
them by the kind priests and devoted nuns, 
who smilingly directed the little flock. 
The children were very recollected, and 
prayed most fervently, their eyes riveted 
on the exquisite shrine of the Holy Infant 
erected before the high altar; it was all a 
mass of choice flowers and lights, tastefully 
arranged, and surmounted by a statue of 
the Child Jesus blessing the little ones. 

Suddenly the sound of drums was heard 
in the distance, gradually drawing nearer 
and nearer. It might be too much to assert 
that some little heads did not turn round, 
but the Child Jesus is indulgent; besides, 
the sight was proved irresistible even for 
old people. 

Two little drummers, about six years old, 
dressed as soldiers, followed by two oflicers 
decorated with gold embroidery, and wear- 
ing swords, led the march ; then came two 
little Chinese men and women, elegantly 
attired in the costume of the Celestial Em- 
pire. Whether they had come all the way 
from Pekin we had better not consider; but 
they pleased the audience quite as much as 
if this had been the case; at all events, the 
cues were genuine. 



68 



The Ave Maria. 



Tliese privileged personages, the heroes 
of the feast, reverently entered the sanctu- 
ary, and after a short prayer repeated by 
hundreds of baby voices, the Holy Sacrifice 
of the Mass was celebrated by the cure, 
in the grandest vestments, during which 
hymns were sung. The drums were heard 
again at the Elevation, as in a real military 
Mass. At the conclusion of the Holy Sacri- 
fice a missionary preached a most touching 
sermon on the excellent Work of the Holy 
Childhood, explaining how much good 
might be accomplished even with pennies, 
and what a happiness it was to be the in- 
istrument of salvation to the poor little Chi- 
nese, with whom he had lived so long, and 
whom he loved so well. 

After the sermon, the little French- Chi- 
nese, preceded by the suisse or beadle, went 
through the congregation, begging for 
their poor little heathen brethren. Then 
a procession formed, in which all the chil- 
dren took part ; it began with little tots, 
dressed in white, with wreaths of white 
roses on their golden locks, — each carrying 
a small pink or blue banner, ornamented 
■with gold designs, and bearing a pious 
motto or invocation — ^'' Notre- Dame de 
Lourdes^ priez pour nous^ ' ' ' ^ Notre- Dame 
dii Rosaire^ priez pour nous^ ' ' etc. Three 
girls, about ten years old, carried the beauti- 
ful banner of the Sainte Enfance\ then 
<:ame the four Chinese, bearing on their 
shoulders the statue of the Child Jesus — 
a real Bambino vestito; for it was envel- 
oped in a very effective red satin robe. 
These latter were escorted by the drummers 
and officers, followed by the little boys from 
three years to twelve, accompanied by the 
Christian Brothers. The clergy and the 
parish priest closed the march; last of all 
walked the holy missionary, whose ascetic 
face and deep recollection made those pres- 
ent whisper to each other: "A saint!" 

The ceremony ended with solemn Bene- 
diction of the Blessed Sacrament, and after 
a few words by the zealous parish priest, 
who complimented the children on their 
good behavior, the youthful crowd, quite 
delighted with their y?/f^, left the church in 



graceful ranks, the inevitable drumming 
keeping time with their measured step. 

Should any old folks who read these lines 
perchance find traces of levity and irrever- 
ence in this naive and childish ceremony, 
we can only wish they had been present, 
and witnessed the innocent delight and 
piety of the sweet little ones, of whom Our 
Blessed Saviour said: "Suffer little chil- 
dren to come to Me; for of strch is the 
kingdom of Heaven. ' ' 

A Friend of The "Ave Maria " in Paris. 



A Victory of the Cross. 



BY ElylZABETH KING, AUTHOR OF 
IvAND," ETC. 



MARIE CI.EVE- 



" You must make the Sign of the Cross 
first, papa," said a little girl, as she made 
the sacred sign before touching her frugal 
dinner. 

"Must I, dear?" replied the man, smil- 
ing, and patting his little daughter on the 
head. 

' ' You learned that at school, Mary, I 
think^" said her mother. "Alas! I some- 
times forget it, and many other pious prac- 
tices, since I left my native land. ' ' 

' 'Ah ! well, we have had a great deal to at- 
tend to," replied her husband, with a sigh. 
' ' We have had a hard struggle to feed our- 
selves, and it was a bitter trial to part with 
the little ones that are gone. ' ' 

' ' True, George ; but perhaps the darlings 
would have been left to us if we had kept 
stricter to our religion," returned his wife. 

" So I often think ; but I fear it is too 
late to begin now; isn't it, Mary?" added 
the father, as he saw his child's blue eyes 
fixed upon him, with a wistful, searching 
look. 

The child did not quite understand what 
her father meant when he said, ' ' It is too 
late to begin now," but she had a vague 
idea that his words had some reference to 
God, about whom she had learned a good 
deal lately at the Sisters' school ; so she re- 
peated : ' ' Papa, you must make the Sign of 




The Ave Maria, 



69 



the Cross first. Sister Agnes says we should 
bless ourselves before prayers and lessons, 
and other actions. ' ' 

' ' Yes, Mary, ' ' said her mother, ' ' you are 
quite right. I learned that at home, when I 
was a little child. But now, dear, run and 
play a while in the garden, before you go to 
school. ' ' 

Mrs. Weston felt ashamed of her gradual 
neglect of the exterior forms of our holy 
religion, without which the interior life 
soon grows cold. As her husband rose to 
go to his work, she said: "George, our 
child is right; I at least must make the Sign 
of the Cross, and begin to live a dififerent 
life; and then perhaps you will do so too." 

George Weston had begun life as a mason, 
with every prospect of getting on in the 
world; and in Kate Donovan he had found 
a worthy companion — virtuous, industrious, 
and frugal — who would aid him through 
the trials and difficulties before him. The 
young girl was a Catholic, and in her child- 
hood had been well instructed in the faith. 
But her parents were very poor, and during 
an unusually severe Winter they were forced 
to leave the cabin in which all their chil- 
dren had been born, and go to Australia, 
to work for their daily bread. Kate, the 
youngest, was left behind in care of a widow 
lady, who had taken a fancy to her, and 
offered to adopt her. 

The child received a better education 
than would have been given her had she 
gone with her parents, but still she was not 
happy. Her new mother had adopted the 
little girl from selfish motives. She made 
a plaything of her for a few years, and then 
procured a situation for her in a family 
about to leave for England. Shortly after 
arriving there, Kate became acquainted 
with George Weston, and married him. He 
was sober, steady, and industrious, but a 
Protestant, so that they had not a thought 
in common on the one great subject which 
alone can bind hearts together in perfect 
union. George gradually left off" going to 
church on Sundays; Kate often missed 
Mass; friends dropped in, or the couple 
went out visiting. Then trade was dull ; for 



two Winters George had been out of work, 
and he had to look for employment in a 
distant country 'town. The children grew 
sickly, and died one after another. The 
expenses of removal, the doctor's fees, etc., 
incurred heavy debts. 

This was the state of things when little 
Mary first saw the light. She came in the 
hour of sorrow. This was probably the 
reason why she was graver than most chil- 
dren of her age. Her mother's tears often 
fell on her infant head; the sad tones of her 
father's voice sounded in her ear like the 
solemn music of a requiem. But still Mary 
was not a melancholy child. There was a 
natural element of joy and a vein of humor 
running through her blood, which she in- 
herited from her Irish mother. She would 
sing merrily at times; then, at the sight 
of her mother's tears, she would suddenly 
cease, and steal softly to her side. 

Mary had been baptized a Catholic, and 
was named after a baby sister that had died 
in its infancy. But soon after the child's 
birth Mr. Weston lost his situation, and the 
family again removed to a distant town, 
where there was no Catholic church. For- 
tunately, when Mary was five years old a 
mission was opened, and a school estab- 
lished by the Sisters of Mercy in the little 
market town, and Mrs. 'Weston easily per- 
suaded her husband to place their, little 
daughter under the care of the good relig- 
ious. 

When Mr. Weston came home in the 
evening of the day on which his child had 
so impressed him by her remark about 
the Sign of the Cross, he found her care- 
fully studying the Catechism. He took 
the book out of her hand, and read some 
pages, then gave it to her again, with a sigh. 
He had learned one great truth, at least — 
that he was created to love and serve God 
here on earth, and to be happy with Him 
forever in heaven. But the man felt that he 
did not love God, and for some years he had 
ceased to serve Him. 

He sat musing over his evening meal, 
as was his custom ; but how changed was 
the current of his thoughts! When he went 



70 



The Ave Maria, 



to rest that night, it was not to sleep, tired 
as he was. How sweet is the sleep, after 
a day of toil, which the good Catholic en- 
joys, however poor he may be ! His last act 
is the Sign of the Cross, his last words to 
commend his soul into the hands of his 
Creator. 

(CONCIyUSION IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.) 



From Tipperary to Texas. 



The Adventures of Tibby Butler. 



BY T. F. GALWEY. 



IV. 



The night was intensely cold, but the 
moon shone brilliantly through the clear, 
frosty air, as Colonel Lynch and Tibby 
Butler, well wrapped, walked together up 
and down the platform in the railroad depot 
at Jersey City. Alongside of them was the 
train for the West^ waiting for the signal of 
departure. 

It was now but a week since Tibby' s ar- 
rival in America, and here he was waiting 
to begin a journey that would carry him 
three-quarters of the distance across the 
Continent. 

As we have seen, he had most favorably 
impressed the Colonel on the morning 
when he cleared the snow from Father 
Fitzgerald's sidewalk; so favorably indeed, 
that the Colonel told his friend the priest, 
there and then, that he would like to take 
the boy with him to his ranch in South- 
western Texas, -where he would be a com- 
panion for his own son Philip. With Fa- 
ther Fitzgerald's approval, he offered Tibby 
a home and opportunities for advancement 
if he would come. 

Colonel Lynch was such a man as a boy 
like Tibby would naturally take to, — a man, 
a gentleman, and a good Christian in every 
word and action, yet perfectly simple and 
unaffected. 

Tibby' s chief difficulty, however, was his 
want of experience with horses; for, though 
he came from a "horsy" neighborhood, 



owing to his circumstances, he had never 
yet sat on a horse. And now he was told 
that in Texas he would spend half the day 
in the saddle. 

"Why, Tibby," said Father Fitzgerald, 
"you are too innocent for a horse to play 
tricks with, but you are no fool. A horse 
is a very intelligent animal, and it is seldom 
it runs away with any rider who is not 
afraid of it, and does not think himself to 
be a very sharp fellow, who knows every- 
thing." 

"Then it's more intelligent," said Tibby, 
"than the pair of animals that ran away 
with my money." 

The matter had been speedily arranged, 
and Tibby' s little portmanteau had been 
brought from Fritz Schnupfer's "Harp of 
Erin," and now, along with the Colonel's 
effects, was hidden amid a pile of trunks 
in the baggage- car of the "Western Ex- 
press." 

When Father Fitzgerald bade the Colonel 
and Tibby good-bye on the steps of his 
house, he gave them his blessing, and re- 
turned indoors, with a feeling of relief that 
so promising a lad as Tibby was on his way 
to a region where the surroundings would 
be more suitable than those of a great city 
like New York. Tibby had given him his 
word that he would never neglect his re- 
ligious duties, and that he would always 
endeavor to be courageous in one form par- 
ticularly — in doing his whole duty well at 
all times, and in refraining from evil of all 
sorts, no matter what others might say or 
do or think. 

Bang! goes the gong. "All aboard!" 
calls out the conductor; and as Colonel 
Lynch and Tibby climb the steps and enter 
the door of the Pullman, the train moves 
slowly and smoothly out of the long shed, 
and begins its winding course through and 
across Jersey City. 

As Tibby, following the Colonel on the 
way to their seats, was going through the 
narrow alley at the end of the car, he saw 
the porter in an excited discussion with a 
passenger as to the location of a berth. 
The passenger was a sour-looking individ- 



The Ave Maria, 



7* 



II 



li 



al, and was talking to the porter with a 
snarl in his voice, and using language that 
was both unnecessary and offensive. 

" Dey ain't no sorter use fer to abuse me, 
boss," said the porter, in reply. '*Ef dey 
done didn't gib yer a ticket fer a middle 
berth,' tain' t my fault, nohow. Go and talk 
o de corndoctor; he's de man to fix things 
f dey ain't right." The porter was evi- 
dently wrought up to a high pitch of pas- 
sion by the passenger's insulting manner, 
and so thought Tibby, who was staring at 
him aghast. 

He tapped the porter on the back, saying, 
gently and sympathizingly: "It's harm 
you'll be doing yourself if you give way to 
your temper like that. Don't mind the 
man at all. Sure you're black in the face 
already ! ' ' And he followed up this speech 
by begging the passenger to look at the 
porter's face, and desist from provoking 
him any further. 

In the mean time the Colonel, who had 
been busy stowing away the various va- 
lises, travelling shawls, umbrellas, etc., 
missed Tibby, and went back in search of 
him. But not a moment too soon ; for both 
the porter and the passenger, forgetting 
their own quarrel for the instant, had turned 
upon the boy, annoyed by the apparent 
impertinence of his remarks. 

"What is all this disturbance about, 
Sam?" the Colonel asked the porter, whom 
he knew from having repeatedly ridden in 
his car. 

"Well, Cunnul," said the porter, "dis 
yer gemman and myself we jes talkin' 'bout 
some business, w'en dis yer young Irisher 
comes up, an' right away begin to gib me 
sass." 

' ' How is this, Tibby ? " the Colonel asked. 

Tibby was dreadfully perplexed, and 
looked inquiringly from one to the other 
of the three. ' ' Sure, then, ' ' said he, ' ' the 
guard must be out of his mind entirely! 
And don't you see how black he has 
turned ? " he insisted, trying to interest the 
Colonel. 

But his horror at the porter's color was no 
greater than his astonishment at the indif- 



ference — the cruel indifference, it seemed 
to him — which both Colonel I^ynch and 
the passenger displayed in the presence of 
this dire misfortune to the porter. 

Colonel Lynch was mystified at first, but 
only for a second. He raised his face tow- 
ards the ceiling, and emitted a shout of 
laughter that drew the attention of every- 
body in the car. Grasping Tibby, he led 
him forward to their seats. 

"What in the world," said he, "do you 
think is the matter with the porter, or the 
' guard, ' as you call him ? Have you never 
seen a darky before ? ' ' 

"Oh, that's it! It's an Ethiopian he is, 
is it?" 

"Yes, Tibby," said the Colonel, whose 
frame still quivered with merriment. ' ' But 
we don't call them Ethiopians in this coun- 
try. Where we are going they are as thick 
as blackberries on a blackberry bush, and 
some of them as black. And so you thought 
the fellow was turning black from anger? 
Oh! Tibby, Tibby! you must learn to ob- 
serve without too quickly making up your 
mind; and, above all, you must not be too 
ready to volunteer your opinion or your 
advice. ' ' 

"But if I have hurt the man's feelings 
through my ignorance, I ought to go and 
make an explanation to him, ' ' said Tibby. 

"Leave that to me," answered the 
Colonel ; " I will attend to the explanation 
myself." 

Tibby submitted gracefully ; for he obeyed 
readily those who had authority over him. 

The Colonel had probably made the 
' ' explanation ' ' ; for he seemed to be enjoy- 
ing himself immensely in the smoking 
compartment, with a little knot of fellow- 
travellers, when the porter approached 
Tibby' s seat to make up the berth. 

"Is it the roof of the car you're pulling 
down ? ' ' Tibby asked the porter, in sur- 
prise, when he saw that functionary lower- 
ing the panel which sustains the upper 
berth. 

"YeSj" the negro answered. "Da's 
whar de Cunnul says yer to sleep — up on de 
roof An' w'en yer done tunned in, I'm 



The Ave Maria, 



gfwine to shut yer da fer de night, so's none 
ob dese yer sharp Yankees doan carry yer 
off for to show yer roun' de country. ' ' 

''I hope I'm not such a curiosity as that, 
indeed," said Tibby, without the least re- 
sentment. "But, now, \i you went to Ire- 
land y^u'd make a fortune, I've no doubt, 
after a while. May I be asking what is 
your name?" 

' ' Samuel Johnson O' Sullivan, ' ' answered 
the negro, spreading out a mattress across 
the lower berth. 

"O'Sullivan!" exclaimed Tibby. ''That's 
a queer name for you. Sure I thought you 
were from Ethiopia. The O'Sullivans are 
thick in Cork, and I believe there are many 
of them in Kerry." 

The negro, who was now holding the 
edge of a pillow between his teeth in order 
to slip the pillow-cover over it, turned his 
back to Tibby, so as to hide his amusement, 
and mumbled: "I reckon my folks done 
come f 'om de Lakes ob Killahny, in de fus' 
place. ' ' 

Tibby was finally stowed away in his 
"upper, ' ' and, after saying his prayers, slept 
fairly enough, considering that it was his 
first night on a railroad. He awoke sev- 
eral times, however, and at each awakening 
listened with some awe to the melancholy 
music which the car- wheels played on the 
track as the train spun along, around the 
many curves on the way through the Alle- 
ghany Mountains. Sometimes, on the steep 
grades and sudden bends of the road, he 
almost fancied himself at sea again, in the 
steerage of the Oceanic^ as his heels went 
up and his head went down, or the reverse; 
and as his body was tossed from right to left, 
and from left to right. More than once he 
opened his eyes wide, and sat bolt upright, 
when the locomotive, entering a tunnel or 
approaching a turnpike, gave out a partic- 
ularly piercing shriek. But his eyes would 
close again, and the monotonous tippety- 
tuppety-tum-tum-tum of the jolting rails, 
and the occasional shoo! — bangity-bangity- 
shoo! of a bridge rapidly passed, lulled him 
into deep slumber once more, from which 
he finally awoke early in the morning. 



Sam was pulling at his foot. "Boss, ye'd 
better be gittin' up. De Cunnul's dressed 
and waitin' fer yer. ' ' 

"I'll come as soon as I've said my pray- 
ers. And is this Texas?" 

"Texas!" said the porter. "Sho', now, 
boy, I ain't got time tostan'yer larkin'. 
Dis yer's Pittsburg w' at we're comin' nigh. 
Texas! W'y, we ain't come to Cincinnati 
yet, let alone Texas ! ' ' 

"Sin-sin naughty, eh? Well, you're a 
strange man indeed ! I dOn' t know what you 
mean. But I suppose your heart is whiter 
than your face. ' ' And as, amid the general 
confusion of taking apart and closing the 
berths, he finished his little morning prayer, 
he said, "It's getting up I am now!" and 
he dropped lightly to the floor. 
(to be continued.) 



A Faithful Guide. 



What a strange thing it is, that * ' still, small 
voice" which speaks so continually to our 
hearts, approving when we do good, and re- 
proaching when we commit evil! This quiet 
monitor has no articulate language, and its 
admonitions come to us without sign or sound; 
but we are cognizant of all it tells us just as 
well as though it spoke in sonorous tones, 
audible to everybody around. 

Conscience, dear children, is the personal 
and particular director which God has given 
every soul. It points ever to the path of right, 
as the compass-needle points to the pole of its 
attraction. A degraded reason or diseased 
imagination sometimes embarrasses and inter- 
feres with the holy guide's freedom of action; 
but through all it faithfully maintains its nat- 
ural tendency — the character of divine mentor 
is never wholly lost. 

Listen, then, young friends, to the zealous 
promptings of this voice of virtue's guardian 
pleading with your hearts. Never neglect to 
do that which it urges, or avoid what it con- 
demns. In obeying it you not only please 
God, and merit reward hereafter, but you se- 
cure for yourselves here that exceeding hap- 
piness, "the joy of a good conscience," with 
which no other earthly delight can in any 
wise compare. — Catholic Weekly. 




Vol. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, JULY 24, 1886. 



No. 4. 



[Copyright :— Riv. D. 

The Influence of the Church on Art. 




ERTiVIN critics of our day, inspired 
by the spirit of the modern Revo- 
lution, have attempted to obscure 
the glories of the Church in her relations 
to art. Taine, Renan, Michelet, Viardot, 
and others, try to prove that the fine arts 
never spread the wings of their inspira- 
tion, and consequently never soared to the 
regions of the beautiful, until they freed 
themselves from the trammels of Catholic 
dogma; then, free and emancipated, they 
explored all the fields of human knowledge, 
in search of that enthusiastic inspiration 
to which we owe the great works of art. 
"When people begin to understand the 
words free examination, civil liberty, and 
human dignity, ' ' said Viardot, ' ' then it is 
that the independence and the personality 
of the artist begin to show themselves. ' ' 

Fortunately, these false judgments of im- 
pious critics have not been as generally 
accepted as their authors imagined when 
they conceived and began to propagate 
them; and the chief reason of this is be- 
cause it would be necessary to close one's 
eyes to the light of evidence before one 
could fail to recognize the great benefits be- 
stowed on the arts by Catholicity, whilst 
the world is full of marvellous productions 
which are the admiration of artists. Never- 
theless, when assertions of this kind con- 
tinue to be repeated in books, magazines, 
and newsx^apers, they can not but have 



E. Hussov, C. S. C.] 

some influence, particularly in a country 
like ours. 

Although the idea that during the Mid- 
dle Ages the arts were enslaved under the 
oppressive yoke of the Church has not been 
fully accepted — because it could not be, — 
and the absurd doctrine of free and eman- 
cipated art has not become naturalized 
amongst artists, yet the spirit of these er- 
rors has been imbibed, and modern painters 
have sought to widen the horizon of their 
inspirations by extending it to all known 
ages and nations, and to all the religions 
and civilizations that have existed on the 
earth. ' ' Do not confine your fertile genius 
within the beautiful but narrow limits of 
positive religions, ' ' was said to artists ; "do 
not submit your inspiration to the yoke of 
Christian dogmas, nor to the precepts of 
Christian morality; your horizon is the 
universe, your wings the human spirit free 
from all oppressive shackles; from the in- 
finite and the eternal, of which you catch 
a glimpse in the shadows of doubt, to the 
limited and the transitory, which you see 
with your eyes, all belongs to you, because 
the world of art has no boundaries." 

There has been much talk about the 
emancipation of art, and this is the surest 
way to bring discredit or ruin on it. But 
rationalistic criticism needed to support its 
assertions by facts, and, in the absence of 
real facts, it had to resort to inventions. 
Hence those absurd judgments pronounced 
on the great works of art, and especially 
on Italian painting, which we meet with 



74 



The Ave Maria, 



in the writings of certain anti- Catholic 
authors. Looking on the beautiful paint- 
ings of the 1 6th century, it is evident that, 
through the prejudices of the rationalistic 
school, they have lost the marvellous colors 
that were spread upon them by the pencil 
of Christian artists. 

Renan will tell you that in the spiritual- 
ized pictures of Giotto and Fra Angelico 
you may see ' ' the awakening of the pro- 
fane life, liberty expanding under the full 
light of the sun, humanity coming forth 
from the hypogea^ Taine discovers in 
the massive forms and compact muscles of 
Michael Angelo's figures the energetic but 
repressed expression of genius of the artist 
held under subjection by the intolerant 
dogmas of the Church. Another makes of 
Raphael an enemy of the Popes, and of 
Domenichino a pagan painter, because he 
painted Diana Huntmg. A volume would 
be required to enumerate the errors con- 
cerning the lives of the great artists, and 
especially in regard to the character and 
merit of their works, that have been propa- 
gated by rationalistic critics in their ef- 
forts to adulterate the history of art, for the 
purpose of depriving the Church of the 
glory of having inspired its masterpieces. 

A great Catholic Spanish writer, the 
learned Rio, has vindicated Christian art 
against these accusations, and in his work 
entitled ^''Arte Cristiano^^ he has ren- 
dered to Italian painting, and to art in gen- 
eral, a most important service. Following 
this distinguished guide, modern artists 
must learn to judge for themselves those 
dicta of false criticism — errors that are 
most fatal to their genius as well as to the 
public taste. They must form their own 
opinions of the great works of Christian art; 
because when they see how incomparably 
beautiful these productions are, they can 
not but feel the powerful attraction of the 
beauty that shines forth in them. A journey 
through Italy can hardly fail to remove their 
prejudices, if they have contracted any, and 
will make them understand the salutary 
influence always exercised by the Church 
over artists and over the progress of art. 



Who have done more than the Popes to 
disinter the works of ancient art buried be- 
neath the ruins made by barbarians, and to 
encourage the progress of modern art, by 
throwing open to artists their churches and 
palaces wherein to deposit the admirable 
productions of their genius? Who have 
raised more monuments to learning and 
virtue, and gathered around them a more 
brilliant and numerous galaxy of painters, 
sculptors, architects, and poets to embellish 
those monuments with the graces of all the 
arts united, and to hold up to the world's ad- 
miring gaze the beauty which Christianity 
brought down to the earth, to elevate the 
hearts of men to the lofty and pure regions 
of heaven, where the fountain of all arts, the 
principle, centre, and end of the universe 
of the Beautiful is to be found ? 

Inseparably joined to the names of Ra- 
phael and Michael Angelo appear in the 
history of art those of Julius II. , Leo X. , 
Clement VII., Paul III., Julius III., Paul 
IV., and Pius IV., Pontiflfs of the Church, 
and great promoters of the culture of their 
days. It was Paul III. who, being inspired 
by God Himself (in the strong language of 
Vasari), named Michael Angelo architect 
of St. Peter's, that he might raise aloft in 
the air the pantheon of Agrippa. Julius 
II. charged the same artist to paint the ceil- 
ing of the Sistine Chapel, already enriched 
with works of Signorelli, Boticelli, Rosselli, 
and Perugino; and to this same Pontiff we 
are indebted for the marvellous pictures 
with which the stanzas of the Vatican are 
adorned — the most remarkable works of 
Raphael, the intimate friend of Popes and 
Cardinals, from intercourse with whom he 
derived that profound biblical knowledge 
so apparent in his best paintings. 

But how shall we attempt to enumerate 
the benefits bestowed by the Popes on the 
great artists of all times, since to do so 
would require us to go through the entire 
history of the Church, from Leo III., who 
saved the monuments of ancient Rome from 
being destroyed by Attila, to Leo XIII. , 
the last restorer of the arts in modern 
Rome? 






The Ave Maria, 



75 



To be fully convinced of the salutary in- 
fluence exerted by the Church on art, it is 
only necessary to visit the rich museums 
of Italy. There we shall see to what class 
belong the most notable works of the artists 
educated in her schools, from the Byzan- 
tine painters, who created the first school 
of Pisa, such as Giunta, Ventura, Orcagna, 
Berlinghieri, and Margaritone — who filled 
the churches with their Madonnas and re- 
ligious pictures, in which, notwithstanding 
the rigidity of the forms and the dryness of 
the tones, shine forth a candor and purity 
without equal — to the restorers of ancient 
tasle in modern times; amongst them Over- 
beck and Vogel, Miiller and Cornelius, who 
have rendered to Catholicity the testimony 
of their love, first accepting her dogmas, 
and then dedicating to her their marvellous 
productions. 

Suppose for a moment that European 
art desired to institute a contest for the 
purpose of rewarding her most brilliant 
geniuses, where would the judge's stand be 
erected but in the loggias and stanzas of 
the Vatican, covered with the Christian 
productions of Raphael d'Urbino? At this 
contest would appear Fra Angelico, with 
his Descent from the Cross; Masaccio, with 
his Martyrdom of St. Peter; Perugino, 
with his Burial of Christ; Andrea del Sarto, 
with his Dispute on the Holy Trinity; 
Leonardo, with his Last Supper; Titian, 
with his Death of St. Peter ^ Martyr; Tinto- 
retto, with his Miracle of St. Mark's; Paul 
Veronese, with his Martyrdojn of St. Jus- 
tina; Correggio, with his Ascension; Man- 
tegna, with his St. Euphemia; Bellini, with 
his Glorious Virgins; Caravaggio, with his 
Descent from the Cross; Giorgione,with his 
Mystical Allegory; and numbers of other 
painters of the different Italian schools, 
some eminent for magic of coloring, others 
for correctness of drawing; one for the ef- 
fects of chiaro-oscuro^ another for the grace 
of composition ; but all, without one solitary 
exception, surpassing themselves in relig- 
ious subjects, — a horizon of light wherein 
their pencils blended the most beautiful 
colors that were ever seen, and their genius 



soared aloft to the highest and sublimest 
inspiration of art. 

The princes 'of Italian painting having 
assembled for this noble contest, who could 
fill the judge's seat more acceptably than 
Julius II. , the friend and protector of Ra- 
phael, to whom art is indebted for incom- 
parable treasures? 

It is thus that Italian art pays homage to 
the beauty of Catholic dogma, and places 
on the brow of the Popes the crown of real 
civilization, — the daughter of the Cross, 
which has redeemed the world, and poured 
out upon mankind the light of uncreated 
beauty, — the mother of art. Let rational- 
istic criticism strive as it will to blot out 
from the paintings of the Middle Ages the 
Cross that shines upon them like the sun in 
the heavens. Vain attempt! Christian art, 
by the lustre of its beauty, scatters the 
clouds with which impiety would darken 
it, and its immortal works will be handed 
down from generation to generation, so that 
all peoples may admire them, and all may 
sing the glory of God and the triumphs of 
His Church. 



St. Anne. 



BY M. A. 

I pi DEAR St. Anne! well may we deem 
^ We little know of thee, 
For thine was such a hidden life 

In far-off Galilee. 
Yet through the clouds that intervene 

To hide thee from our sight, 
Thou shinest like the polar star, 

With soft and steady light; 
And there is not a saint in Heaven, 

Whoe'er that saint may be,- 
Whom, as a model for our lives. 

We should prefer to thee; 
Because thou wert the first to love 

Mary, the Virgin blessed, — 
And such a love as thou didst feel 

Few since have e'er possessed. 
Thine was a glorious destiny. 

For God to thee had given 
The sweet and holy motherhood 

Of Mary, Queen of Heaven, j 



76 



The Ave Maria, 



Within thine amis her infant form 

Close to thy heart was pressed; 
Her eyes looked into thine, her head 

Was pillowed on thy breast. 
'Twas thine to guard her infant hours, 

To watch her mind unfold, 
Her more than angel purity. 

Her thousand charms untold. 
Then surely thou dost fill in Heaven 

A fair and radiant throne, 
Near hers who is so dear to thee. 

Who was on earth thine own. 
And she must love thee still, for all 

Thy tenderness and care; 
lyove surely can not die in Heaven — 

Its native hoine is there. 
If Jesus loves His Mother blest, 

And yields her honor due. 
Will not His imitator best 

I^ove her own mother too ? 

O dear St. Anne! ray Patroness, 
Wilt thou not plead for me ? 

Thy daughter is the Queen of Heaven, 
And she will list to thee. 



Alberto il Beato. 



BY OCTAVIA HENSE;L. 



UNDER the magnolia blooms of Isola 
Bella, that loveliest of the Borromean 
Islands, we .sat one summer evening, watch- 
ing the waves of Lago Maggiore break in 
silver foam on the stone copings of the 
garden wall. The rose light of the Alpen 
glow rested on the snow peaks of the Sim- 
plon; Pallanza, its soil once dedicated to 
Pallas Athene, lay like a silver bow on the 
western shore; to the southeast, the grace- 
ful curves of that glorious mountain Sasso 
del Ferro rose in their dark green splendor 
from the purpling crimson of the waters 
of the lake; and farther to the southeast 
gleamed like gates of pearl the convent 
walls of Santa Catrina. 

Five centuries ago the foundations of 
those walls were placed there by one whose 
repentance for sin, renunciation of worldly 
wealth, and devotion to Our Blessed Lady, 
won for him the name of Albert the Saint. 



It is the old, old story, common enough in 
days of martyrdom and Holy Faith trium- 
phant. 

Alberto Besozzo, a young nobleman, 
reared in luxury and affluence, while still 
very young came into possession of great 
wealth. A period of dissipation, followed 
by years of avarice and cruelty to the poor 
on his estate, made him the terror of all the 
country around. One day, while crossing 
the lake on an errand of extortion and 
greed, he was overtaken by a fearful hurri- 
cane near the base of the rocks upon which 
the convent now stands. * One moment his 
boat floated in the awful calm, then the 
black tempest burst upon it with furious 
force. The frail skiff" was dashed in pieces, 
and the crew, engulfed by the waves, were 
swept far out into the lake. Alberto heard 
their cries of horror and despair, as a huge 
wave, dashing landward, raised him on its 
crest. The selfishness and sin of his past 
life flashed upon his memory. In agony 
and terror of the cruel rocks against which 
the waves bore him, he called upon Our 
Blessed I^ady to save him. Even as he 
prayed the stormy waters rose high in air, 
and flung him ashore in a cave of the rocks. 

His resolution to repent, and live a life 
wholly consecrated to God, was instantly 
formed. He never left the cave to return 
to the world. For thirty-four years his 
austerities and his prayers proved his pen- 
itence. All his subsistence came from pass- 
ing boats, to which he used to let down a 
rush basket for a dole of bread. His repu- 
tation for sanctity spread, and faith grew in 
the efficacy of his prayers for the sick and 
afflicted. 

About this time (1348) the terrible pes- 
tilence called the "Black Death" spread 
over Europe from Asia. Commerce ceased, 
agriculture was suspended ; all social bonds, 
all human ties were dissolved. Huge pits 
were insufficient for the dead. ' 'A dense and 
awful fog was seen in the heavens, rising 
in the East, and descending upon Italy," 

* Storms on Lago Maggiore are appalling in 
their severity and suddenness, especially near 
Pallanza and Sasso del Ferro, 



The Ave Maria. 



chronicles a writer of the 14th century. 
Multitudes soug-ht the Hermit of the Rock, 
and implored his prayers for their deliver- 
ance. The survivors of that dreadful plague 
attributed their safety to his intercession, 
and spoke of him as ''Alberto il Beato." 

After his death pious pilgrims erected a 
small chapel over his remains, which were 
placed in a stone coffin; and later the outer 
church and convent dedicated to St. Cath- 
arine were built, and first occupied by the 
Augustine Brotherhood. The Carmelite 
Order succeeded them, but they have met 
the fate of all the religious in Northern 
Italy — dissolution by authority of Govern- 
ment. A single priest is the only represen- 
tative of the Order. He says Mass daily, 
and performs the duties of parish priest in 
the surrounding district. 

An excursion to the old convent is de- 
lightful. The sail over the lake in the 
morning is like gliding over rainbows and 
through crystal seas. Opaline cloud-shad- 
ows dimple the waves, and emerald lights 
from Sasso del Ferro gleam through the 
sunshine sparkling over the sapphire wa- 
ters. It is indescribable : no pencil can paint 
the exquisite colors of the distant haze, and 
the ever-changing surface of Lago Mag- 
giore. 

Beneath the cliff from which the convent 
rises, the immense depth of the water * ren- 
ders its surface as smooth as a mirror, and 
in it are perfectly reflected the convent and 
its surroundings. Beneath the cliff are seen 
two or three upright rifts; one communi- 
cates with the cave in which the hermit 
lived, and farther on is the landing-place, 
and staircase to the convent. The ascent 
occupies but a few moments. We pass a 
curious old wine-press, and the outlying 
buildings and offices of a well-ordered old 
convent, in which the Brotherhood made 
all and cultivated all that they needed. 

Each delicately vine-traced arch of the 
winding arcade that leads upward to the 
convent is filled with sublimely beautiful 



* At this point the deepest lake in Europe— 
2,615 feet. 



views of lake, island, and mountain. Ex- 
ternally the church is ornamented with 
frescos illustrating the martyrdom of St. 
Catharine, and in the arcade leading to it 
are remains of a series of paintings showing 
the Dance of Death^ terribly significant of 
the deadly plague of 1348. The church, 
very simple internally, encloses an inner 
chapel — the nucleus of the convent. 

In this chapel a wonderful phenomenon 
presents itself An immense rock, appar- 
ently unsupported, hangs downward from 
the roof One is afraid to touch it for fear of 
dislodging its huge bulk. Overhead, other 
massive rocks are seen pressing down upon 
it. These crags, which fell three hundred 
feet from the hill- top above, crashed through 
the roof, and then, as if all laws of gravity 
had been suddenly suspended, remained in 
their present position. 

Three hundred years ago, when the body 
of the hermit Alberto was temporarily oc- 
cupying the recess in the wall behind the 
high altar that stood beneath the now pen- 
dant rock, and while a priest was in the act 
of giving Benediction, masses of rock came 
hurling down the hill-side, and crashed 
through the roof of the chapel ; but their 
fall was suspended miraculously by the 
interposition of Our Blessed Uady, upon 
whom the kneeling Brotherhood called. 

The body of the hermit now lies exposed 
to view in a gilt shrine near the altar. The 
entrance to his cave is beside it, in the floor 
of the chapel. For several yards we were 
compelled to crawl on hands and knees 
through a dark opening in the rock, and 
then let ourselves down by ropes to a shelv- 
ing floor in a narrow crevice. Looking 
through a rift, we see the lake laving the 
base of the rock-wall beneath us; in the 
distance the lovely Piedmontese shores are 
gleaming in misty sunlight, and far above 
and beyond them towers the Monte Rosa 
rxnge. 

Ten feet farther down is the cave in 
which the hermit lived for thirty-four years, 
and on its sloping, shelving floor he died. 
The descent is too dangerous to be at- 
tempted by tourists in these days; but a 



78 



The Ave Maria. 



lighted torch in the hand of our guide 
clearly revealed to us the desolate, dreary 
abode of the Hermit of the Rock, whose 
high resolve and firm, unflinching faith, 
and saintly self-sacrifice, gained for him the 
noblest title on earth— "II Beato." 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



IV. 



SO the weeks rolled by; the season drew 
near its end as Lent approached, and 
Philip would have said that he had forgot- 
ten the Percivals, when a slight incident 
occurred which had a very direct influence 
in reviving the recollection. It chanced one 
evening, at a social gathering, that he was 
asked to sing, and complied with the re- 
quest. The song selected was "Z^i- Ra- 
meaux^^'' and he sang it in a clear, mellow 
voice, which left little to be desired in the 
way of natural quality, and was fairly well 
cultivated. When he turned from the piano 
a lady of great musical taste, whom he knew 
very well, and who chanced to be also a 
Catholic, beckoned him to her. 

' ' You have an excellent voice, ' ' she said, 
as he sat down beside her. "What do you 
mean by making no use of it?" 

Philip raised his eyebrows. ' ' What use 
should I make of it?" he inquired. "Do 
you think I ought to join an opera troop? 
I am afraid it is not good enough for that. ' ' 

' ' Hardly, perhaps, ' ' she said ; ' ' though I 
have heard voices on the stage that were 
no better. But I was thinking of something 
else. Do you know that we need good voices 
very much in the Cathedral choir?" 

"Well, yes," he answered, smiling; "I 
may say that I am aware of it. I gener^^lly 
go there on Sunday. ' ' 

"And you have never thought of help- 
ing us to better things — you with such a 
voice ? ' ' 

" No," he said, honestly, " I never thought 
of it; but if I had, what then? You would 
not expect me to go to the director and say, 



'Your choir is very bad: I offer my voice 
to improve it' " 

"The director would have been much 
obliged if you had done so. He bewails in 
touching terms his inability to render good 
music as it should be rendered. He will 
welcome you — I think he will embrace you 
— when he hears you sing. You must go 
to him." 

"My dear Mrs. King!" — Philip was a 
little dismayed — " I should like very much, 
of course, to assist, but I have really no 
time; and to be bound to attendance in a 
choir — I fear that it is quite impossible." 

"Why impossible?" asked Mrs. King, 
looking at him with bright, keen eyes. 
"What have you to do that should make 
attendance in a choir difficult to you? Oh, 
how indifferent people are! " she added, as 
if thinking aloud. ' ' What a great privilege 
it is to take part in offering the solemn wor- 
ship of the Church to God! Yet here is a 
young man, with nothing in the world to 
do, who says he has not time for it. ' ' 

Philip flushed. "Are you quite sure I 
have nothing in the world to do ? " he asked. 

She made a little gesture of indifference. 
' ' You have a few things, I presume, ' ' she 
said; "but nothing that could interfere 
with this. Oh! I know your life, and that 
of others like you. You have time for every 
amusement, every demand of pleasure and 
business, but none for anything relating to 
the service of God. Well, it is an old story ; 
but I thought you might be willing to 
give such a little thing as your voice now 
and then. It seems I was mistaken, so we 
will say no more about it. ' ' 

"No," said Philip — who had a con- 
science which sometimes stung him a little 
— "you were not mistaken. When you 
put it in that light, I can only say that my 
voice is at your service. But you really 
must not expect me to go and offer it to the 
director, especially since there is danger of 
his embracing me." 

' ' Oh ! ' ' she said, smiling, ' ' I will see him, 
and arrange the matter. He and I work and 
groan over the music together. But we 
have secured a fine soprano lately, and now 



The Ave Mar 



rta. 



79 



with your voice I feel encouraged. Come 
to my house the first evening that you are 
disengaged, and we will try some music. I 
do not think you will regret your decision." 

It is generally rash to indulge in proph- 
ecy, but Mrs. King proved to be right in 
saying that Philip would not regret his de- 
cision. He had a real love for music, and 
was soon deeply interested in the great har- 
monies placed before him. The director 
of the Cathedral choir chanced to be not 
only an accomplished musician, but one 
whose taste and knowledge had been formed 
in the best schools. Words were hardly 
strong enough to express his contempt and 
disgust for the operatic order of music, 
which is unfortunately so common in Cath- 
olic churches. And yet he did not go to the 
other extreme, and demand only Gregorian 
tones. He recognized that between these 
two lies the world of majestic harmony, that 
has taken its inspiration from the solemn 
tone of the Church's chant, yet lends to it 
the grace and variety of figured music, and 
of which Palestrina is the supreme master. 

But a surprise that was altogether apart 
from the music, awaited Philip on the first 
Sunday that he made his appearance in the 
choir-loft of the Cathedral. Among the 
eyes turned curiously toward him was one 
pair, that sent something between a thrill 
and a shock through him, — a pair of unfor- 
gotten dark, lustrous, Spanish eyes. ' 'Ah ! ' ' 
he said to himself, "Miss Percival!" He 
did not know whether he was glad or sorry 
to see her again, to have the question which 
he could not solve reopened, and to ask 
himself vainly once more whose had been 
the fault in that past transaction. He found 
now that he had not forgotten it at all; his 
interest had only been laid aside, as it were ; 
and one glance from the eyes, which did not 
wander toward him again, had been suffi- 
cient to revive it. 

He had some thoughts to spare for the 
present, however. He wondered a little if 
Miss Percival, like himself, was a newcomer 
in the choir, and felt tolerably certain that 
she must be. . Surely none of the indifferent 
voices to which he was accustomed to listen 



had been hers. "She does not look like a 
person who would undertake to do a thing 
unless she could do it well," he said, men- 
tally, with a glance at the face, which was 
not less noble in its lines than he remem- 
bered it to be. 

He felt -justified in the accuracy of his 
judgment when the music began. Never 
before had the clear soprano, which rose 
above all the other tones, sounded through 
the arches of the roof that now echoed its 
cadences. Philip, who had not much to sing 
on this his first appearance, held his breath 
to listen to those soaring notes, so thrilling 
in their sweetness, so crystalline in their 
purity. "She sings like a seraph!" was 
his thought; for what power was there in 
the tones that seemed to carry the soul up- 
ward in adoration? It is a power which 
the finest voices more often lack than pos- 
sess, since the possessors of fine voices are 
usually thinking rather of themselves than 
of what they sing; but one hears it now 
and then, especially among religious. And 
hearing it once, it is easy to realize how 
music may become truly the handnjaid of 
religion, lifting the soul on wings of divine 
harmony to the very gates of Paradise. 

As he listened, Philip found himself look- 
ing toward the distant altar with a new 
sense of devotion; a spark of .living fire 
seemed to touch his tepid feelings, his in- 
different heart. When, after the Elevation, 
this voice rose alone through the hushed 
silence, in the exquisite solo of the Bene- 
dictus from Gounod's Messe Sole jtne lie ^ it 
seemed like a call to worship, which no soul 
could disregard. ''''Benedicttis qui venit in 
nomi7te Domini^^^ sang the silvery tones, 
and they helped one heart at least to realize 
with quickening force Who had come in 
the Name of the Lord on that altar, before 
which the priest stood so silently, and 
around which the acolytes with their shin- 
ing tapers knelt like sculptured figures. 

V. 

When Mass was over, Philip encountered 

Mrs. King at the door of the church, and 

she at once took possession of him. "One 

did not hear much of j^*//," she said; "but 



8o 



The Ave Maria. 



is not the new soprano a great success? I 
had no idea how beautiful her voice was 
until I heard it to-day." 

" It is very beautiful, ' ' said Philip. ' 'And 
there is a quality in it that I never heard 
before — a silver purity that makes one fancy 
what the voices of angels may be. • One did 
not think that one was listening to an opera 
to-day." 

"No," said Mrs. King, with a smile. 
* ' There is no operatic suggestion in Alice 
Percival's voice or style. She sings like one 
of the boy soprani who have been trained to 
the servdce of the Sanctuary — so devoutly, 
so simply, and with such an' utter lack of 
self-consciousness. ' ' 

' ' She brought to my mind, ' ' said Philip, 
"the description of a voice which I saw 
the other day in a French novel, ' les sons 
donnaient la sejisation d^une musique trop 
ids ale pour etre humaine; on eM dit une 
dme qui chantait. ' " * 

' ' That is very pretty, ' ' said Mrs. King. 
* 'And the secret of the whole thing is that 
it was a soul that sang. With most people 
it is only a voice. But her soul has a part 
in all that Alice Percival does. ' ' 

' ' You know her, then — personally ? ' ' 

' ' Oh ! yes, very well. She is as charming 
as her voice, and quite original too — alto- 
gether a girl in a thousand. ' ' 

"And yet one never meets her in soci- 
ety," said Philip, half interrogatively. 

"They are poor, you know," replied 
Mrs. King; "and society — your order of 
society — is not partial to poor people. Be- 
sides, she has no time for it. ' ' 

"What does she do?" 

' ' She teaches music — you can judge how 
well — and takes care of her mother, who is 
an almost helpless invalid. ' ' 

"Does the family consist only of the 
mother and daughter?" 

' ' That is all. The father is dead. ' ' 

Philip was aware of the latter fact, but 
he had thought that there might be a son — 
half a dozen sons, perhaps, for that matter 

* The sounds were those of music too ideal to 
be human ; it might be said it was the soul that 
sang. 



— and it was with something of a shock 
that he heard of two women left alone to 
face the world. His countenance settled 
into grave lines as he walked on silently. 
The question that had tormented him be- 
fore returned, and he asked himself again 
whose had been the fault. Granting that 
it was entirely that of the dead Percival, 
surely, for the sake of old association, his 
uncle might have done something for the 
widow and daughter whom he had left. 

After parting with Mrs. King, these 
thoughts haunted him, as he walked along 
the fashionable avenue, lined with hand- 
some houses, which led to his home. Well- 
dressed throngs from the different churches 
filled the sidewalks, but, a-^ he acknowl- 
edged salutation after salutation, his mind 
was far away. He was asking himself if it 
was not possible that his unck might yet 
do something — if he knew. Even if it were 
true that Percival had once brought him to 
the verge of ruin, he had so successfully sur- 
mounted that danger, his fortune was now 
so secure and so large, that he could well 
afford to forget the danger, and think only 
of the need of those who were the innocent 
victims of past wrong- doing. 

"And I surely believe that he will!" 
the young man said, hopefully, to himself. 
' ' Who has such good reason as I to know 
how liberal he is? And if, as may readily 
be, they will not accept aid directly from 
him, there are ways and means of helping 
people without their own knowledge." 

It was an attractive castle in the air — a 
castle in which Alice Percival no longer 
needed to give music-lessons, and her in- 
valid mother had every comfort — that he 
had erected by the time he reached the 
stately house, set in spacious, well-ordered 
grounds, on the outskirts of the city, where 
life moved on such easy wheels of luxury 
and wealth. As he approached he looked 
at it as a stranger might have looked, and 
perhaps for the first time there occurred to 
him an idea of what life would be without 
the great lubricator, money. A stern, a nar- 
row, a repulsive thing, he felt, shuddering 
a little; and the thought only quickened 



The Ave Maria. 



8r 



his desire to relieve those who had fallen 
into the hopeless slough of poverty. 

When he entered the house, voices and 
soft laughter issuing from the drawing-room 
seemed to invite him to enter; and turning 
in under the rich curtains that draped the 
open door, he found that Miss Irving and 
Bellamy were the occupants of the room. 
•The young lady was still in her out-door 
ostume — a becoming toilette of dark-blue 
velvet, that enhanced all the delicate fair- 
ness of her tints — and Bellamy, in attire 
equally suggestive of fashionable dress- 
parade, sat near her, holding his hat on his 
cane while he talked. Evidently they had 
both just come in. As Philip entered, his 
foot- fall on the soft, thick carpet did not 
attract their attention for a moment; then 
Constance turned her head, saw liinl and 
said: 

"Oh, here is Philip!" 

Mr. Bellamy looked up and nodded eas- 
ily. ''I hope you possess as much conscious- 
ness of virtue as we do," he said. "We 
have heard two sermons this morning." 

"Have you?" replied Philip. "No: that 
is a point in virtue beyond me. How did 
you manage it?" 

"We have heard one sermon and the con- 
clusion of another," corrected Constance. 
"Some of the churches have services half 
an' hour later than the others, you know; 
and as we were coming from St. Athana- 
sius', we thought we would just drop in at 
Emmanuel, hoping to hear the choir. The 
preacher was concluding his sermon when 
we went in, but I did not hear much of it." 

"/ did," said Bellamy; "and he seemed 
to be pitching into the very doctrines that 
we had just been informed at St. Athana- 
sius' were the right ones to believe. ' ' 

"I am sure you did not hear a word!" 
said Constance, coloring and casting a 
glance of rebuke at him — for, while they 
have no hesitation in acknowledging their 
differences among themselves, there are few 
Protestants who do not endeavor to ignore 
them in the presence of a Catholic. — "But 
the choir sang an anthem, and it was very 
good," she went on. " They have several fine 



voices. One was very like 3'ours, Philip." 
"Thanks for the implied compliment." 
"Oh! I did not mean merely to imply 
it; of course you know that your voice is 
.good. I only wish you would consent to 
sing in our choir at St. Athanasius'." 

"My dear Constance," answered Philip, 
gravely, "I am an indifferent Catholic, it is 
true, but still a Catholic; so it is quite im- 
possible for me to oblige you. If you wish 
to hear me sing, you must come to the Ca- 
thedral. I have made my debiU in the choir 
there to-day." 

"Have you indeed?" she asked, with in- 
terest. "We must go to hear you some day." 
"I used to drop into the Cathedral oc- 
casionally to hear the music." said Bellamy; 
' ' but it has fallen off' so much of late that 
I have discontinued the habit. I hope there 
is to be a change for the better. ' ' 

' ' I think so, ' ' replied Philip. ' ' The choir 
has a new director, and several new voices 
have been added lately, — one divine so- 
prano," he continued, without reflection. 

"Who?" asked Constance. "Any one 
that I know?" 

"No," said Philip, a little vexed with 
himself; "you are hardly likely to know 
her. She is — a — Miss Percival." 

"Miss Percival!" repeated Constance. 
She shook her head. ' ' I never heard of her 
before. ' ' 

' ' But I have, ' ' said Bellamy, so suddenly 
that Philip started, and looked at him ap- 
prehensively. "A very handsome, dark- 
eyed girl, with a divine voice, as Thornton 
says. Oh! yes, I know who she is, and I 
have heard her sing at one or two musical 
houses. She ought to go on the stage." 

' ' I disagree with you, ' ' said Philip. ' ' Her 
voice is not suited to the stage; but it' is 
perfectly in place where it is." 

' ' No doubt, ' ' replied Bellamy. ' ' You are 
in luck to have secured her. I shall resume 
my visits to the Cathedral after this infor- 
mation. ' ' 

"But who is she?" asked Constance. 
"Surely a professional person, since I have 
never met her?" 

Philip left Bellamy to answer, but he was 



82 



The Ave Mm-ia. 



distinctly conscious that the latter avoided 
his eye in doing so. 

"Well, no — not exactly professional," 
he replied; ''though I believe she tesches 
music or singing. It is a case of reduced 
circumstances, you see." 

' ' How sad ! I am always so sorry for peo- 
ple who have been rich and become poor, ' ' 
said Miss Irving, with the composure of 
one to whom the idea suggested was like 
thinking of a cannibal feast on the other 
side of the globe — something quite dread- 
ful, but too far off to excite very lively emo- 
tion. "You are not going?" she said, as 
Bellamy rose to his feet. "Why not stay 
to luncheon?" 

' ' Because I have a conscie'nce, and that 
conscience suggests that I should not be- 
come a regular institution of your Sunday," 
the young man replied. "But suppose we 
make an appointment to go to the Cathedral 
for Vespers this afternoon, and hear Thorn- 
ton and Miss Percival sing?" 

"You will not hear me," said Philip, 
shrugging his shoulders; ' ' but I am unable 
to answer for Miss Percival." 

"I will go on the chance of hearing 
her," said Constance. "You" (to the last 
speaker) "shall take me, so you^^ (to Bel- 
lamy) "need not feel bound to go." 

"I shall be there, nevertheless," he said, 
and bowed himself out. 

(to be continued.) 



Palms. 



BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 



CHAPTER XV.— (Continued.) 

THE words of the holy Pontiff impressed 
themselves indelibly upon the little 
girl, especially the Holy Name of Jesus, 
which became as a glowing spark in the 
very centre of her innocent heart. It seemed 
altogether fitting that with the new life so 
wonderfully opened upon her she should 
have a new name, and that it should signify 
light, — the light that had dispelled her 
darkness. 



Claudia wondered what had become of the 
One in shining raiment who had touched 
her eyes as the baptismal water was poured 
on her head, at the moment she received 
her sight; but she did not ask; she could 
comprehend nothing yet, except that she 
had been blind all her life and could now 
see, and that her heart was glowing with 
love towards Him whose name was en- 
shrined therein. Raising her eyes, spark- 
ling with joy, she gazed on the Pontiff's 
saintly face, and said, with simple trust: 

"Oh! sir, I would thank thee for open- 
ing my blind eyes if I knew how; but tell 
me who thou art, and thy name, that I may 
keep it in my heart with the Holy Name 
thou hast taught me." 

"I am Stephen, a priest of the Living 
God, my child," he replied, laying his hand 
on her head; " and I now bless thee in the 
Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of 
the Holy Ghost. Go in peace; faith has 
been given thee: knowledge will presently 
follow, with the fulness of heavenly gifts." 

Obeying a swift impulse, she knelt at his 
feet, kissed his hand, and laid her cheek 
for an instant upon it; he raised her gently, 
and she stood, happy to wait, near him. 

"Thou wilt soon," he said to Nemesius, 
as he touched his gleaming corselet, "put 
on the armor of Christ for the overthrow 
of idolatry, and the establishment of His 
kingdom upon earth." — The Pontiff spoke 
with emotion, for the winning of this noble 
soul to God filled him wit'h unspeakable 
joy. — "I would not delay thy Baptism. On 
the morrow, when the clepsydra shows the 
hour of noon, seek me here, and we will 
confer together before the rite. The wife 
of Tertullus will guide this little lamb into 
the green pastures of the one true Fold, 
of which Christ is the Shepherd. Now go 
in peace, giving thanks to the Almighty 
Father of all for the grace of faith." 

On. their way home, the blue skies, the 
golden sunlight, the green, flowery stretches 
of the Campagna, over which cloud-shad- 
ows were skimming; the beautiful moun- 
tains, trees, ' flowers, butterflies, men and 
animals — all seen now for the first time — 



The Ave Maria. 



filled the child's mind with wonder and in- 
expressible delight. 

"Oh! but for Him whose name is in my 
heart I had never seen all this or thee, 
padre miof'' she said, her voice tremulous 
with excess of happiness. ' ' Oh ! ho w I love 
Him ! — but tell me who is God ? ' ' 

"He is the Creator of all things — the 
heavens, the earth, and all who live; and 
beside Him there is none other. He is the 
one, holy. Supreme Being, while the gods we 
have worshipped are false deities, who de- 
lude men to their destruction. Henceforth, 
my child, we will adore and love and serVe 
the one Supreme God, by whose power thy 
blindness has been removed, and the dark- 
ness of my understanding enlightened," he 
answered, she listening, with her eyes fixed 
on the far-off sunlit spaces, believing yet 
not comprehending what his words con- 
veyed. 

When they reached the villa, and Neme- 
sius drew rein in front of the portico, Zilla 
was waiting under the trees to receive her 
blind charge, to lead her in, watchful of 
every step, and to perform for her all those 
services of affection which her faithful heart 
was ever ready to bestow — to be eyes and 
hands for her at every turn, and anticipate 
every want. But when she saw her spring 
unaided from the chariot, and come run- 
nino^ to meet her, the woman stopped as if 
spellbound; while the child, radiant with 
happiness, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks 
glowing, threw herself into her arms, ex- 
claiming: 

' ' Oh ! Zilla — niadre bella mia! I can see ! 
I can see ! Let me look into thy dear face ! ' ' 

' ' See ? Have the gods at last opened thy 
€yes, my child?" said Zilla, who grew in- 
stantly white, and was almost unable to 
speak, the suddenness of the news was so 
overwhelming. 

"The gods? No! Listen, Zilla mia! 
There are no gods. Hast thou ever heard 
of Him called the Christies f He gave me 
my sight in an instant; my blindness is 
g-one, and, oh! I can see! Is it not good 
news?" cried the child, her voice ringing 
with gladness. 



But Zilla could not reply; she staggered 
from Claudia's embrace, and stood as if 
turned to stone, her countenance wearing 
an expression of pain and horror. All that 
she had longed and prayed for had come 
at last; the blind eyes of the only being she 
loved in the world had sight given them — 
but how? Rather had she remained blind 
all her days than to have her sight on such 
conditions! To be a Christian — that was 
what it all meant! And now — now — when 
it was death to deny the gods! 

Zilla wished to go away, and be alone to 
look this terrible misfortune in the face; she 
tried to move, but her trembling limbs re- 
fused to bear her, and she would have fallen 
to the earth, had not one of the female 
slaves, who was passing at the moment on 
some domestic errand, sprang forward, and 
caught her in her strong arms. She was 
not unconscious, but dazed, prostrated, and 
bewildered, like one in a nightmare. 

Frightened, Claudia ran in, through the 
atrium — she did not know where — in search 
of some one who would get her wine for 
Zilla, and, in a well-lighted corridor, she 
almost ran against Symphronius; startled, 
she stopped and gazed steadily in his face. 
It was an old, wrinkled face, with a fringe 
of white hair and beard around it; his great 
black eyes protruded, his nose was so large 
that it gave a grotesque character to his 
countenance, and his complexion was like 
parchment. He stood a moment aghast. 

"What has happened, and how is it that 
thou art running about all dXovL^^donsellina 
7nia?^-^^ he gasped. 

"Now I know thee by thy voice," she 
said, not yet recovered from her astonish- 
ment at so strange-looking an apparition: 
' ' thou art Symphronius, the steward. I am 
not blind, and I was looking for thee to get 
some wine for Zilla, who is ill." 

' ' Not blind ? When — thou wert blind a 
few hours ago, domellina mia! ' ' he ejacu- 
lated. 

' ' I was, but now I see, ' ' she sweetly an- 
swered. 



* My little lady. 



84 



The Ave Maria. 



The old steward felt as if a leathern pipe 
from one of the aqueducts had been sud- 
denly turned down his back; for the news, 
although so joyful, gave him a shock that 
staggered him ; and, not knowing what to 
say, he leaned against the wall, and made 
the Sign of the Cross. 

The child had seen the Pontiff Stephen 
make that sign when he pronounced the 
Holy Names; he had made it on her fore- 
head, and again when he blessed her; and 
she was conscious it was the sign of Him 
whom her heart knew and loved. 

' ' It was He who made me see — the C^rw- 
^?^5," she said, sweetly. "Oh! it is good 
to find some one here who knows Him!" 

' ' I am His unworthy servant, donzellina 
mia,''^ said the old man, with quavering 
voice; "but I can not speak for joy; lean 
only lift up my heart, and give thanks to 
Him who has brought salvation to this 
house. Rest here, cara donzellina^ while I 
get wine for Zilla. ' ' 

' ' I will come with thee, ' ' she said, taking 
his tremblings hand as he turned to gfo to 
the wine-closet ; ' ' and presently, when Zilla 
is better, other good tidings await thee. 
Give me the wine; I will run back with 
it." 

He gave her a flask of rich red wine and 
a crystal cup, then stood watching her in 
speechless emotion as she ran swiftly down 
the corridor. "Truly, truly," he at last 
whispered, bowing his head and crossing 
his hands reverently upon his breast, ' ' the 
Lord God is a mighty God, and merciful in 
His ways." 

When Claudia — as we will still call her 
— reached the atrium^ she saw her father 
leading Zilla in, her face as white as a snow- 
drift, her eyes half closed, and her steps 
lagging and uncertain; he led her to a 
couch, and gave her wine; she felt the 
child's soft lips upon her hands, her caress- 
ing arms about her neck, and heard the lov- 
ing accents of her voice, which had always 
been as sweetest music to her ears. She 
opened her eyes and gazed for an instant 
into those so lately blind, now full of life 
and intelligence, shadowed by a half-won- 



dering look of distress; then the woman 
whispered: "Leave me a little while, cara 
7nia — until I am better." 

"It is her voice — but can it be Zilla? I 
thought she would be glad — so glad when 
she heard I could see!" she mused, as, 
obedient to a look from her father, she left 
them, and wandered out under the trees^ 
where, with wonder sweetened and bright- 
ened by faith, she gazed with delight on 
the beautiful things of nature. 

The sweet child felt, without formulating 
it, how good it was that sight and knowl- 
edge should have come together, and how 
much less complete one would have been 
without the other. The thought of Zilla 
troubled her; it was all so different from 
what she had expected; it was the first drop 
of bitterness in her brimful cup of happi- 
ness, and disturbed her, until she whispered 
the Holy Name that was enshrined in her 
heart, — the Name which so uttered is an 
appeal for help, which brings swift response, 
in strength to bear if not to heal. The 
child's Christian life was only a few hours' 
old; the mysteries of divine grace were yet 
unknown to her; but, although given in 
measure proportionate to her littleness, in 
their effects they were the same in kind 
as to one further advanced in supernatural 
knowledge. 

When Zilla recovered somewhat, heathen- 
like, she was ashamed of her weakness, and 
by a strong effort of her will arose to leave 
the presence of Nemesius; but he detained 
her by requesting her to resume her seat; 
he wished her to learn from his own lips 
the wonderful things that had taken place 
that day, and to understand that he and 
the child were no longer worshippers of the 
gods, but Christians. 

The woman knew him too well to in- 
dulge the faintest hope of his falterinof in 
the fatal course he had adopted, and his 
language was too lucid and coherent to 
afford a doubt of his sanity. She listened 
in silence, the iron entering deeper into her 
soul with every word he uttered, while the 
consequences of his apostasy gathered in 
frightful array before her. It was terrible; 



The Ave Maria. 



85 



but Zilla was a woman whose maternal in- 
stincts had been fostered into unusual ten- 
derness by the helplessness of the charge 
which, under peculiarly sad circumstances, 
had devolved upon her, and she presently 
found how indestructible her love was, and 
how it would at last triumph over herself. 
And, now that he had told her all, Neme- 
sius added: 

"It will be difficult, I fear, for thee to 
remain longer with us; for thou art still a 
worshipper of the dcemons known as gods; 
for thy own happiness, then, it may be 
better for thee to return to Thessalia, before 
the storm breaks. Thou shalt be provided 
.with ample means and a safe guide — nay, 
do not decide too hastily. Later, I may 
not have power to serve thee ; for we both 
know that to become a Christian means 
death." 

"I care not for death; but for her, my 
child, I would plunge this stiletto into my 
heart; and, happen what may, I will never 
leave her." — She had snatched the gleam- 
ing, keen-edged thing from her hair, which 
fell in a dark, waving mass nearly to her feet. 
— "I know of no other way than the one I 
was born to — no other belief; but, gods or 
no gods, I will never be faithless to the 
promise I made to the dying," she said, in 
hard, bitter tones. 

"If such be thy choice, thy idolatrous 
belief must be kept in thine own heart, nor 
ever referred to in her hearing. It would 
be better to part, unless thou wilt open thy 
mind to receive the Truth — which is the 
highest good I can wish for thee," replied 
Nemesius, in his firm, even voice. 

"O Nemesius! thou who didst worship 
the gods, and with loyal mind didst punish 
their enemies with fire and sword! It seems 
too incredible for belief that thou shouldst 
all at once abandon the religion of thy vir- 
tuous and pious ancestors for a delusion ! ' ' 
she exclaimed. 

"I have abandoned a delusion, by the 
grace of God, for the eternal Truth. My 
child's blind eyes and the blind e^^es of my 
spirit were opened at the same moment, by 
the grace and power of God; henceforth 



we are Christians!" answered the noble 
soldier. 

"But, alas! Hast thou considered her?" 
she wailed; "thy delicate, lovely one, on 
whom no rough wind of fate has ever blown,, 
who has been sheltered on my breast and 
in my arms from every ill my watchful care 
could avert! Ah, pity her! Is her tender 
flesh fit for the rack or the teeth of pan- 
thers? Ah, gods! what madness! And art 
thou ready to give up fortune, fame, life?" 

"All — everything!" was his firm, low- 
voiced reply, as he turned away and walked 
out of the atrium^ his nature stung in the 
tenderest spot, but his resolve and faith 
unshaken. 

The woman felt as if the crowning woe 
of her life had come. She would as soon 
have expected the sky to fall as for that to 
happen which had happened this day. With 
her head bowed down, her face covered 
with her hands, her hair fallen like a som- 
bre veil around her she sat there benumbed^ 
without the power or wish to move, until 
soft arms stole around her, and the voice 
most dear to her said, in tones of tender en- 
treaty : 

"Wilt thou not raise up thy head, Zilla, 
and let me look into thy face? Hast thou 
forgotten that I can now see, and does it 
not make thee glad?" 

Zilla's hands fell; she raised her w^an 
face, and tried to smile into the bright, 
beautiful eyes that scrutinized her counte- 
nance, and beheld in its grief-stricken lines, 
its stern white aspect, a first glimpse of 
human sorrow; frightened, the child drew 
back, saying:, "Speak, that I may know if 
thou art Zilla!" 

(to be continued.) 



By cutting off the sprouting leaves con- 
stantly, the root of the plant is gradually 
killed; for nature is unequal to this inces- 
sant reproduction of foliage. So with our 
faults and the particular examen. Nip off 
the first tender shoots — the little outward 
ebullitions of pride, etc. — and the root of 
the evil — the passion within — in the end 
dies out. 



86 



The Ave Maria. 



To B. I. Durward.* 



BY ELIZA ALLEN STARR. 



BARD of the wild rose! never verse like 
thine 
Hath sung this fairest blossom of the dell; 
No poet's eye hath ever caught so well 
The artless marvel of its chaste outline, 
Each blushing petal's mystical design, 

The virgin freshness of its breath, the swell 
Of anthered coronal, of honeyed cell, 
Wherein such precious symbols flush and 
shine. 

Plead for him, wilding rose, unto that Heart, 
Heart of our hearts, in which we move and 

live. 
That of Its treasures It may freely give; 
Replenishing his soul with sacred fire, 
Attuning still for God his sweet- voiced lyre, 
To bear in seraph choirs a poet's blissful 
part. 



The Relics of St. Anne. 



AS one descends the tortuous course of 
the Little Rhone, or Rhone de Saint- 
Gilies, the horizon gradually expands; the 
mountains disappear from view; vegetation 
becomes scant, and when the sea is ap- 
proached the country is a veritable desert. 
Soon the current of the Rhone is no longer 
discernible ; the waters of the river, the 
pools which spread out on both sides, the sea 
itself — all seem blended in one far-reach- 
ing plane. Nothing more desolate can be 
imagined, nothing more sterile than the vast 
expmse, whose sickly flora consists only 
of a few clusters of rushes and tamarisks. 
One day — it was more than 1800 years 
ago — some poor fishers who were watching 
their nets on the coast of this dreary sea, 
saw approaching them a strange bark con- 
taining persons with whose customs and 
language they were wholly unfamiliar. 
These strangers were the principal mem- 
bers of that blessed family of Bethany with 
whom our divine Saviour had been for 

* Author of "Wild Flowers of Wisconsin." 



three years the guest and friend. Driven 
from Judea by the persecution, in which St. 
James the Less, Bishop of Jerusalem, had 
fallen a martyr, they confided themselves 
to the mercy of the waves, and, wafted by 
the breath of God, they reached the hos- 
pitable shores of Provence. 

This little colony of saints and apostles 
spread "the glad tidings" throughout all 
Provence. Before separating they took care 
to divide the relics — the last and cherished 
mementos of their native land — which they 
had been able to save from the profanation 
of the Jews. These were particles of earth 
from Calvary impregnated with the Blood 
of the Redeemer, some articles of clothing- 
worn by the Blessed Virgin, several bodies 
of the Holy Innocents, and the mortal re- 
mains of St. Anne, mother of Mary, and 
near of kin to some of the fugitives. Ac- 
cording to tradition, the body of our Saint 
fell to the lot of St. Lazarus, who carried it 
to Marseilles. But one of his successors in 
that episcopal see, fearing that the precious 
relic was not safe enough in a city so ex- 
posed to persecution, entrusted it to St. 
Auspicius,who became first Bi.^hop of Apt. 
This Saint, a patrician by birth, was 
formed to the ministry of the Gospel by 
Pope St. Clement, and consecrated by him. 
Fired with zeal for the conquest of souls, 
he quitted Rome travelled through Tus- 
cany and Liguria, crossed the Alps, passed 
over to Marseilles, and, towards A. D. 97, 
under the empire of Nerva, arrived and 
established himself a^ Apt. 

The preaching of St. Auspicius, aided 
by the grace of God, won over innumerable 
souls to the faith. Very soon the house of 
Corilus in which he had taken up his abode, 
no longer sufficed to contain the crowds that 
flocked around him: 'the public squares be- 
came his places of reunion; .a milestone at 
the cross-roads served him for a pulpit, until, 
having converted nearly the whole city, he 
laid the foundation of a magnificent basilica 
on the ruins of the amphitheatre. 

Persecution, alas ! soon arose to arrest the 
work of conversion, and nip in the bud 
this yet scarcely- blown flower of salvation. 



The Ave Maria. 



87 



\uspicius, then fearing that the relics of 
5t. Anne might be profaned by the pagans, 
:oncealed them in the walls of the rising 
church, and prepared himself for martyr- 
dom, which he shortly afterwards suffered 
under Trajan. (August 2, 102.) 

From this period iip to the middle of the 
8th century no further mention is made of 
the relics of our Saint. If, as many think, 
they were again exposed to the veneration 
of the faithful w^lien the persecution was 
over, the frequent and terrible invasions, 
first of the Lombards, then of the Saracens, 
would have obliged the possessors to hide 
them anew. 

When Charlemagne was gloriously reign- 
ing in France, it pleased God to reward his 
faith and zeal by their discovery. Being at 
Apt, on his return from one of his brilliant 
victories, this Prince was assisting at the 
celebration of the divine mysteries, sur- 
rotmded by the vassals of his court and an 
immense concourse of people. A boy named 
John, about fourteen years of age, blind, 
deaf, and dumb from his birth, whose father 
was a Baron of Caseneuve, suddenly made 
signs with his hands and feet to those about 
him that they should look under the place- 
on which he stood. The people began to be 
excited; the Emperor, anticipating some- 
thing unusual, ordered them to act in ac- 
cordance with the boy's directions. 

The investigation began as soon as the 
Holy Sacrifice was concluded. At the first 
stroke of the pick a subterranean noise re- 
sounded under the flags. The workmen 
redoubled their efforts, and ere long came 
upon a chapel, in which St. Auspicius was 
accustomed during the persecutions to cele- 
brate Mass, and preach the word of God to 
the people. 

The blind deaf mute was the first to 
enter the sanctuary. By supernatural in- 
spiration he went directly to the spot where 
the relics had beeu concealed, and made a 
sign to dig again. He was obeyed, and 
soon a luminous ray proceeded from a cleft 
made by the pick. Guided by this light, 
they penetrated into a lower crypt, where 
all saw with astonishment a lighted lamp 



standing before a depression in the wall. At 
the same moment the Emperor, the clergy, 
and the nobles hurried forward to the vault. 
The boy instantaneously and miraculously 
received the use of his eyes, ears, ^nd tongue, 
and in transports of joy cried out: ''Here 
repose the remains of St. Anne, mother of 
the Blessed Virgin, the Mother of God!" 

A slab of marble fixed in the depression 
was then removed, and a cypress case con- 
taining the relics was revealed. They were 
enveloped in a cloth, on which were written 
the words: Corpus BeatcB Annce^ matris 
Virginis Marine ^ — "The body of Blessed 
Anna, mother of the Virgin Mary." The 
moment the cypress box was opened a most 
agreeable perfume issued from it, filling the 
whole church. Then, being no longer able 
to control his joy, the Bishop intoned the Te 
Deum^ which was taken up by all present. 

Devotion to St. Anne was thus revived 
throughout all that country; thence it 
crossed the seas, and to-day it is practised 
in every part of Christendom. 



Favors of Our Queen. 

ROSEY O'TOOLE'S MIRACULOUS MEDAL. 

MANY persons wear the miraculous medal 
who never heard of its origin. If to the 
countless instances of its wonderful power we 
add the story of two, personally known to our- 
selves, it is with the hope that they may in- 
crease the piety of those who already wear it, 
and induce others to do the same. 

But first a word about its history. In the 
year 1830, at Chatillon, Zoe lyaboure, in relig- 
ion Sister Catharine, a Daughter of Charity, 
was twice favored by apparitions of the 
Blessed Virgin. On the second occasion (No- 
vember 17) Our Lady appeared, standing as it 
were upon a globe, with rays of glory stream- 
ing from her hands; tokens, she said, of the 
graces she gives to those who ask them. 
"Then," to quote the words of Sister Catha- 
rine, "there formed round the Blessed Virgin 
a glory, somewhat oval in shape, from which 
shone out in golden letters the words, 'O Mary, 
conceived without sin, pray for us who have 
recourse to thee! ' " Our Lady then bade the 



88 



The Ave Maria. 



Sister have a medal struck according to the 
appearance of the vision, and promised abun- 
dant graces to those who should wear it with 
confidence in her. Hence the medal with 
which all Catholic eyes are so familiar. 

About twenty years ago a zealous Redemp- 
torist Father, when giving a mission in the 
south of Ireland, was the guest of a pious and 
excellent Catholic family of the name of 
O' Toole. As was his custom on taking leave 
of his hosts, he presented each member of the 
household with a medal of the Immaculate 
Conception. The little Rose, then six years 
old, received the gift with eager delight. The 
good priest told her its history, and she prom- 
ised always to wear it, and not to forget, every 
night before going to bed, to say three times, 
"O Mary, conceived without sin, pray for us 
who have recourse to thee ! ' ' Rosey not ouly 
promised, but faithfully kept her word. 

When about fourteen years old, she went 
with the rest of the home party to spend the 
Summer in a village by the sea-side. One 
sunny afternoon, Rosey and one of her sisters 
rambled far along the lonely beach, collecting 
shells and sea-weeds. When at a considerable 
distance from any habitation, they resolved to 
bathe, and were soon gaily disporting them- 
selves in the calm and sparkling water, never 
dreaming that the firm, smooth sands be- 
neath their feet were of unequal depth, swept 
into deep hollows by recent storms. Terror- 
stricken, they suddenly found themselves 
without a footing, and, neither of them being 
able to swim, struggled for the dear life in 
water beyond their depth. 

Death seemed inevitable. They were almost 
exhausted, when Rose, clasping the medal 
fastened round her neck, cried out, "O Mary, 
conceived without sin, do not let us be lost! 
Pray for us who have recourse to thee." 

Strange, but true! At that moment a tall, 
strong woman, in the garb of a fish-wife, 
plunged into the water, and, firmly grasping 
the two girls, brought them senseless to the 
shore. They were taken to a hut among the 
neighboring sand -hills, where the woman 
tended them until animation was restored, and 
a few hours later they were at home, kneeling 
in thanksgiving before the image of their Im- 
maculate Mother. 

Not far from Rose's home lived a Protestant 
family, with whom her parents were intimate. 



They professed the latest form of ' ' High 
Church ' ' principles produced by the Anglican 
Kstablishment, and sincerely lived up to such 
light as they had. Their eldest son, George, a 
University man, whose college career had 
done him credit, was a frequent visitor at the 
O'Tooles'. Rosey herself, who was an intelli- 
gent child, became an especial favorite of his. 
It was at the time of the Redemptorist's visit 
that George, having obtained a commission in 
the army, called to tell his friends the news. 
Rose, hearing him enter, flew down stairs to 
meet him. ' ' See, ' ' she exclaimed, ' ' what Fa- 
ther Paul has given me — a lovely medal of the 
Blessed Virgin! And if I wear it, and say the 
words it has upon it, she will save me in every 
danger. I wish you had one too." 

George, however, had no faith in the medal, 
and was half amused at the fervor and con\'ic- 
tion of his little friend. 

Rosey rather resented the smile, which she 
felt implied doubt, and perhaps a gentle de- 
rision. 

Shortly afterwards George left to join his 
regiment, and remained abroad for six or seven 
years. He then married a good and charm- 
ing English lady, sold his commission, and 
settled in Australia. One day, when the morn- 
ing mail came in, as he and his wife were at 
breakfast in their pleasant Queensland home, 
George exclaimed, glancing through the let- 
ters: "Here is a sign of life once more from 
my old friend Rosey. The child must be four- 
teen or fifteen by this time. How time flies! " 
he moralized, as he opened and began to read 
her letter. Presently he laughed. 

"Well?" said his wife, looking up from 
her share of the morning's budget. 

" Do 3^ou remember, Mary, my telling you 
about some miraculous medal a priest had 
given Rose, and how she would have hung it 
round my neck, as a preservative in all dan- 
gers, present or to come? And now here she 
is still harping on the same string! " 

After reading the letter to the end, he added, 
more gravely: "By Jove! but she and Nora 
have had a narrow escape! — hauled in, in the 
very nick of time, to save them from drown- 
ing; and this, she declares, all because of the 
medal. See, she encloses one of these wonder- 
working amulets, and begs again that I will 
wear it — it would make her so happy! " 

"Upon my word, George, I shall begin to 
pout if this young lady threatens to encroach 




The Ave Maria, 



89 



)n my prerogative, ' ' said his wife, smiling, as 
ihe took the offered letter to read for herself. 
' You are pretty well looked after already, I 
should say! " 

After reading Rosey's story to the end, " It 
is certainly remarkable," she added; "and, 
believing as the girl does, I am not surprised 
at her attributing a miraculous power to the 
medal. Do you mean to wear it? " 

"No: I could not bring myself to do any- 
thing I should consider so irrational. If it 
were simply a brass coin, I should not mind 
wearing it to please her; but with this relig- 
ious element attached to it, I should feel as if 
I were abetting or pretending to superstition. 
What's r^Jz/r view of the case ? ' ' 

"I should say wear it as you would a coin, 
and forget the religious element. It can't do 
you harm, if it does you no good; and you 
will please your little friend." 

"You are a wise woman, wifey. I'll 1:ell 
her for her sake, and for auld lang-syne,I will 
wear it as she requests; but that if I ever feel 
a scruple about doing so, she must leave me 
free to take it off, and put it carefully by as a 
keepsake." 

On hearing of this arrangement, Rosey ac- 
cepted the compromise; and George acted ac- 
-cordingly, wearing the medal for a time, and 
then consigning it to his dressing-case. 

After some peaceful and happy years this 
loving couple were visited by sickness and 
sorrow. The young wife fell ill of malignant 
fever, and her husband, after a few weeks of 
intense anxiety and anguish, was left — dis- 
tracted and despairing — alone. 

His ceaseless watching day and night by 
his dying wife, loss of rest, and distaste for 
food, told heavily, not only on his bodily 
health, but for a time endangered his reason. 
Kneeling for hours in silent agony by the bed 
on which she had died, he could neither weep 
nor pray. When he tried to bow before the 
inscrutable will of God, he was beset by the 
frightful suggestions of the tempter, that his 
Maker was cruel and unjust in depriving him 
of his dearest treasure. Being religiously dis- 
posed, these thoughts distressed and alarmed 
him, and he would sometimes cry out, bitterly, 
"OGod! if I could only pray ! " or he would 
pace the room like a man beside himself, call- 
ing on his darling to come back, or take him 
whither she was gone. 

One day, opening an inner drawer of his 



dressing-case, he came upon Rosey's long-for- 
gotten medal. He took it up, and exclaimed, 
as he looked intently on the figure of Our 
Lady, "O Mary! Mother of God, if you can . 
hear the cry of a broken heart, hear me now! 
Obtain for me the grace of prayer, and I will 
no longer doubt your power." 

Strange but true! we must say again^. At 
that moment the poor mourner felt his soul 
flooded, as it were, with a comfort and conso- 
lation he had never known before. A calm- 
ness strange and sweet came over him, and 
his misery was soothed to rest. Tears — the 
first he had shed since his bereavement — now 
streamed from his eyes, while, with thankful 
reverence, he knelt down and prayed with 
fervor and in peace. Once more he placed the 
medal round his neck, never to be removed. 
The light of faith, which that day dawned on 
his mind, was fanned by study and instruction 
into a bright and lasting flame, and, after due 
preparation, he was received into the Church. 
He has since joined a religious order, in which 
at this moment he holds a high and responsi- 
ble position, and is unwearied in his labors 
to bring others to know and have confidence 
in the power of the Immaculate Mother of 
God. — Messenger of the Sacred Heart. 



Catholic Notes. 



A decree of the Congregation of Rites, 
approved by his Holiness I^eo XIII., and sol- 
emnly published on the Feast of St. Camil- 
lus of Lellis (July 15th) proclaims that Saint, 
with St. John of God, protector of all hospi- 
tals and of the sick in general. The names 
of these two heroes of charity will be added 
to the Litany of the Dying. They were es- 
pecially remarkable for their tender devotion 
to the sick and suffering. 

The churching of Queen Christina of Spain 
took place in the Church of Our Lady of 
Antocha, in Madrid, — the sanctuary which 
Spanish sovereigns are accustomed to visit 
every Saturday to invoke the intercession of 
the Mother of God. The ceremony was per- 
formed by the Archbishop of Toledo. At the 
same time the young King was solemnly con- 
secrated to the Blessed Virgin. The altar was 
ablaze with light, and by the Queen stood the 
members of the royal family, the Cardinal Pri- 
mate, the bishops, and the leading clergy of 



90 



The Ave Alaria. 



the Cathedral and re-alni. Around were the 
grandees of Spain, the diplomatic corps, the 
ministers, the great officers of the throne, the 
representatives of the Army and Navy in 
brilliant uniforms, the principal authorities of | 
the capital and the provinces, with deputa- 
tions of the Cortes and the great cities. 

The following extract from a letter written 
recently by a devoted religious, who has been 
privileged to visit the shrine of Our Lady at 
lyourdes, will be read with particular interest 
by those of our readers familiar with the nar- 
ratives of ' ' The Miracle of the Assumption ' ' 
and "The Cabinet-Maker of Lavaur," so 
graphically told by M. Henri Lasserre in ' ' The 
Miraculous Episodes of gourdes ' ' : 

"The first thing that attracted our attention 
at the Grotto was the marble slab in front of the 
altar, near the place of the Apparition; it is thus 
inscribed: 

"Surge et Ambui^a (Luc, v., 23). 
Victor-Marie de Musy, Pretre 

DU DlOC^SE D'AUTUN, 

Gue:ri le 15 AouT, 1873. 
Little did we dream, when reading the touching 
narrative in Our Lady's Journal, that we should 
ever see this testimonial of his gratitude, among 
myriads of others. In the Basilica, too, observing 
the beautiful stained-glass windows showing the 
eighteen apparitions of our dear Lady, we saw 
the one representing Francis Macary, the cabinet- 
maker, taking off his heavy bandage with a proud 
smile (which must have been a pretty loud laugh, 
for one can count every tooth in his head), his 
wife appearing in the half open door, lost in as- 
tonishment at what she beheld. We saw the house 
of Bernadette, the bed used by her, read some of 
the letters (in her own handwriting) to her brother 
and sister, both of whom we met also. We were 
fortunate enough to secure some little relics of 
the favored child of Mary. We visited the tomb of 
Mgr. Peyramale, the Blessed Virgin's priest, and 
obtained a few flowers placed over his marble 
tomb by loving hands." 

On Sunday, the nth inst., the Rev. Au- 
gustus Tolton, the first colored priest that 
America has given to the Church, sang High 
Mass and preached his first sermon in the 
Church of St. Benedict, the Moor, Bleecker 
Street, .New York. Father Tolton was born in 
Missouri, in 1854. His parents were slaves, 
and he himself was born in slavery. The out- 
break of the war released them from their con- 
dition, and their home was made in Quincy, 
111. From an early age he showed great tal- 



ents and industry, teaching Catechism in 
Sunday-school, and studying at the college 
of the Franciscan Fathers. In 1880 he was 
sent by Bishop Baltes to the College of the 
Propaganda in Rome, where he studied Phi- 
losophy two 3^ears, and Theolog}^ four years. 
On Ember Saturday, June 19th, he was or- 
dained priest by Cardinal Parocchi. and the 
following day celebrated his first Mass in St. 
Peter's, at the altar over the tomb of the Chief 
of the Apostles. A few days afterwards he 
left the Eternal City for the scene of his mis- 
sionary labors in America. A letter from Eng- 
land to the Pilot states that Father Tolton 
stopped at Southampton, having a letter to a 
leading Catholic Irishman of that city, named 
Dunne. Mr. Dunne took the black priest to 
his house, "thinking it a great blessing that 
he might say he had kept the first colored 
priest of America at his home. ' ' Father Tolton 
arrived in New York on the 6th inst. , and 
passed some days with the Rev. Father Corri- 
gan, rector of St. Mary's Church, Hoboken, 
who had known him as a child. There he said 
his first Mass in America, but declined an invi- 
tation to preach, saying that Cardinal Parocchi 
had advised him to preach his first sermon to 
those of his ovva race. This he did, as above 
stated, in St. Benedict's Church for colored 
people, in New York, where his bearing and 
address commanded attention and respect. 
Father Tolton has been appointed to the 
charge of the parish of St. Joseph's Church at 
Quincy, the congregation of which is wholly 
made up of colored people. 

His Holiness Leo XIII. has granted, on the 
ordinary conditions, a plenary indulgence to 
priests on the oct:asion of their first Mass, as 
well as to their relatives, to the third degree 
inclusively, who are present thereat. To all 
others who assist at the Mass is granted an 
indulgence of seven years and two hundred 
and eighty days. 

Although there is not much to be found in 
Nevada that is of interest to the antiquarian, 
still there are to be seen in Lincoln County, 
at no great distance from the Colorado River, 
some interesting traces of an extinct civiliza- 
tion. One of the most remarkable of these 
relics is in the Kingston range, near the 
summit of Clarke Mountain. On the eastern 
face of this mountain stands a perpendicu- 
lar cliff of limestone 250 feet in height. On 




The Ave Maria. 



91 



the face of this cliff, about loo feet above its 
base, is engraved the following inscription: 
"t I 1/ D." The cross and letters are of 
mammoth proportions, being not less than 
sixty feet in height. The characters are cut 
into the rock to a depth of over two feet, and 
are to be seen at a great distance. The letters 
must have been cut for a guiding sign of some 
kind, yet the amount of work required for 
their engraving seems disproportionate for 
utility for such a purpose. The Indians have 
no tradition in regard to this curious relic, but 
the fact of the inscription being made in Ro- 
man letters, and preceded by the figure of the 
cross, indicates that the work was done by 
white men and Christians. At Ash Valley 
and on Indian Creek are to be seen traces of 
the walls of adobe buildings, and about Pah 
Tuck Springs are found blocks of hewn gran- 
ite. It is known that there were Jesuit mis- 
sions about the mouth of the Gila River, some 
of which are indicated on a map dated 1757, 
but there is no account of the missionaries hav- 
ing pushed so far North. The Indians in this 
region how signs of having once been sub- 
jected to the influences of civilization: they do 
not rove about, but live in permanent villages. 



On the Feast of Corpus Christi, in the 
mother house of her Order at Namur, Sister 
Mary of St. Francis (in the world the Honor- 
able Mrs. E. Petre) went to her reward. For 
the last thirty-five years this good religious 
watched over the establishments of the Sisters 
of Notre Dame in England, and proved her- 
self a great benefactress to the cause of Cath- 
olic education. In 1850, in the prime of life, 
though possessed of an ample fortune, she 
renounced every attraction that the world 
could offer, and sought a retreat in which she 
could spend her life and all she had for God 
and for His poor. There was then one Con- 
vent of the Sisters of Notre Dame in England; 
now, through her zeal and devotion, there are 
twenty, in which thousands of poor children 
are instructed in their religion by the Sisters 
of her Congregation. In particular the Train- 
ing College for school-mistresses, which she 
founded at lyiverpool in 1856, will be a lasting 
monument of her zeal for Catholic education. 
Her funds provided land and buildings, and 
she spared neither money nor pains to create 
an institution as perfect and complete of its 
kind as she could make it. In the interval of 



thirty years this one institution has sent forth 
1,275 students as Catholic teachers. The loss 
of Sister Mary Francis will be keenly felt in 
all the convents o'f her Order, but the benefi- 
cent fruits of her active and devoted life will 
long remain. R. I. P, 



It is but three years since the Maori mission 
at Wanganui, New Zealand, was established 
by the Rev. Father Soulas, and already its 
success has surpassed all hope. The Rt. Rev. 
Bishop Redwood lately visited Wanganui and 
the neighboring Maori missions of Keremite, 
Jerusalem, and Ranama. At the first-named 
place he blessed a new church, and gave the 
veil to three religious, who are devoting their 
lives to the welfare of the Maori children. A 
banquet was prepared for the Bishop, at which 
the venerable Maori chief, Pontini, made the 
following address: "Father, good-day to you, 
— good-day to you surrounded by your new 
children! Had you been here at a feast in the 
days of my youth, you would have been 
offered human flesh. You would have found 
yourself in the midst of intractable and savage 
men. Here, three years ago we were infidels, 
full of vice; to-day, thanks to Divine Provi- 
dence, and the labors of the good priests sent 
to us by you, we are a Christian people. True, 
we are but of yesterday, but our desire is to 
persevere. Behold the church: it has cost us 
great sacrifices; it stands there as a witness to 
our faith, and a promise of its endurance; we 
shall never abandon prayer. I^et the priest, 
then, remain in our midst, to guide and en- 
lighten us. Good-day, Father! Great is our 
happiness at seeing you.— 7~>^^ Pilot. 



Obituary. 

"It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead." 

— 2 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

Sister Mary Joseph, of the Sisters of St. Joseph, 
who departed this life at the House of Providence, 
Dundee. She was in the forty-second year of her 
age, and the twenty-fourth of her religious life. 

Mr. John Maher, brother of the Rev. Richard 
Maher, C. S. C, whose happy death took place on 
the 23d ult., at Anamult, Parish of Danesfert, Co. 
Kilkenny, Ireland. 

Mr. Joseph Mullen, of San Francisco; Mrs. J. 
Silver, and Mrs. Anna Scull}^ Santa Clara, Cal. 

May they rest in peace! 




parTmenT 



^r<^- 



BY ELIZABETH KING, AUTHOR OF 
"MARIE CLEVELAND," ETC. 



(Conclusion.) 

Next morning little Mary Weston was 
very feverish, and too ill to go to school that 
■day ; in the evening she became worse. The 
poor family could not afford to pay for 
medical advice, but after a while the state 
of the little patient grew alarming, and a 
doctor was called in. He said the child was 
suffering from inflammation of the lungs, 
and was too weak to rally. Mr. Weston fairly 
hroke down. "I can not bear it, Kate," 
he said, when the doctor had taken leave; 
' * I shall lose my mind ! ' ' 

"Oh! do not talk so, George; have cour- 
age, and try to keep up, for my sake, at 
least," answered the afflicted wife, hiding 
her tears. 

Mr. Weston then arose and left the house. 
He could not eat the dainty meal his wife 
had prepared for him. He was sad and de- 
jected, and, alas! sought, as many do in 
the hour of trial, to drown his grief in the 
fatal cup, that is ever in the poor man's 
way at the corner of almost every street 
in every town in England. 

Oh! you well-to-do people, who can pro- 
cure so many alleviations in the hour of 
sickness and sorrow, do not judge the poor 
man too harshly when he yields to the 
temptation that is ever haunting him. 
When you see an inebriate, pray for him, 
and do your utmost to destroy the snares 
that lie in his path. 

When Mr. Weston returned home in the 
evening his poor wife saw at a glance how 
he had passed the day. But he was sober 
now, and sank down on his knees by the 



side of his dying child. She opened her 
large blue eyes, and laid her little hand on 
his head. 

"Father Byrne and the good Sisters have 
been to see her, George, ' ' said the weeping 
wife. "We ought, perhaps, to be thankful 
if God should take her to Himself in her 
baptismal innocence. Still, it is hard to say, 
'Thy will be done.'" 

The poor, heart-broken father groaned. 

' ' Papa, pray, ' ' gasped the sinking child. 

"You must pray for me, my little angel; 
/can not pray." 

"You must make the Sign of the Cross 
first, papa." 

These were her last words. Oh! how 
they haunted the fond parent for days and 
weeks after this last and choicest gift from 
Heaven had been laid in her little turf-clad 
grave! It seemed like a dream that this 
delicate flower had been cut off", so suddenly 
did she droop and die. 

Father Byrne and the Sisters of Mercy 
were very kind to the bereaved family. 
They sought out a better situation for Mr. 
Weston, and procured needlework for his 
wife. They visited them occasionally, and 
offered the consolation and encouragement 
which only Christians who love God can 
give. Gradually the poor father and mother 
became resigned, feeling assured that their 
little darling was praying for them in Par- 
adise. 

Mr. Weston did not enter the tavern 
again. Whenever the temptation came — 
and come it would— the words of his dying 
child rang in his ear — "You must make 
the Sign of the Cross first, papa. ' ' And al- 
though, strange to say, he had not yet suc- 
ceeded in making that sacred sign, he was 
always trying to do so. The human heart 
is ever deceitful and perverse. Mr. Weston 
was a proud man, and there was something 




The Ave Maria. 



93 



humiliating, he thought, in the very sight 
of a cross. Truly did holy Simeon proph- 
esy that the divine Child was a sign that 
should be contradicted, and the symbol of 
the Cross is a terror to those who fear to 
follow the Crucified One. 

One night Mr. Weston had a singular 
dream. He thought he was sitting on the 
bank of a stream, bordered on the opposite 
side by a beautiful garden ; lovely flowers, 
such as he had never seen before, grew there 
in luxuriant profusion, diffusing their deli- 
cate perfume through the soft, summer air. 
' ' How sweet, ' ' he sighed, ' ' it would be to 
remain here forever, with Kate and the 
little ones!" Presently his angel- child ap- 
peared on the opposite bank, and held out 
her hands, as if beseeching him to come to 
her. He arose to swim across, but was held 
back by some invisible power. He tried 
to tell Mary he wished to come but could 
not. In a voice of unearthly sweetness the 
child said: "You must make the Sign of 
the Cross first, papa. ' ' 

Then he awoke, and — lo! it was only a 
dream ; but, like Jacob's dream, it impressed 
him. Three times in her life his precious 
child had said those same words to him. 
Now it seemed as if she really spoke from 
the spirit world. 

Mrs. Weston was grieved to see how ob- 
stinately her husband refused to make the 
sacred but simple sign of our holy Faith. 
She knew not the cunning devices Satan 
makes use of to hinder souls from entering 
the port of salvation. Pride and self-will 
held the poor man captive. 

One morning Mr. Weston did not come 
home at eight o'clock to his breakfast, as 
usual. A quarter of an hour passed, another 
quarter, and he did not appear. Mrs. Wes- 
ton grew very uneasy, and was just prepar- 
ing to go to the place where her husband 
worked, when he came up to the door. 

"I fear I have alarmed you, dear, but 
you'll be glad to hear that I have been to 
Mass. When passing the church I could 
not resist going in ; and as Father Byrne, at 
the end of the service, turned to the people 
with upraised hand and made the Sign^of 



the Cross, I dropped on my knees and made 
it too." 

The poor wife burst into tears. "Our 
angel-child has been praying for us. Father 
Byrne and the Sisters said she would not 
fail to do so." 

Mr. Weston carried Mary's Catechism in 
his pocket, studying it in his leisure mo- 
ments, until he finally received the Sign of 
the Cross on his brow in conditional Bap- 
tism, and was made a child of the Church. 

When, after a time they rose to better 
circumstances, the good couple adopted the 
little daughter of two emigrants from the 
Green Isle, who had died of fever within a 
week of each other, and with their latest 
breath had requested Mr. and Mrs. Weston 
to take care of their little girl. Faithfully 
the childless parents fulfilled the trust, and 
they loved the gentle orphan for the sake 
of Him who said, ' ' Of such is the Kingdom 
of Heaven." 

In that day when the Sign of the Son of 
Man shall appear in the heavens, little Mary 
may welcome her parents in the land where 
the Cross will be exchanged for a beauti- 
ful and unfading crown. 



From Tipperary to Texas. 



The Adventures op Tibby Buti,er. 



BY T. p. GAI^WEY. 



V. 



Colonel Lynch and Tibby were standing 
on the ' ' Texas ' ' of the Marquette^ as that 
steamer cleared from the levee at St. Louis. 
Such an expanse of river Tibby had never 
seen before; and, as the steamer's head was 
turned fully down stream, the mighty bridge 
uniting the States of Missouri and Illinois, 
making the great measure of that expanse 
all the more apparent, came in for a share 
of his admiration. 

' ' Now, my boy, ' ' said the Colonel, swell- 
ing with Southwestern pride, "here is a 
river for you! There is nothing like it in 
the Old Country, nor in the Bast either, for 



94 



The Ave Maria. 



the matter of that. This is the Great West 
— the land of great things!" 

''It's little land I see here," said Tibby, 
musingly, "but a deal of water certainly. 
I saw the Shannon once, but it's nothing 
to this; and as for Thomond Bridge at 
lyimerick, I'm thinking it wouldn't make 
a span of that bridge. ' ' 

" That church off to the left,' ' the Colonel 
said, pointing to a little cross-tipped spire 
projecting above the fringe of woods on the 
low-lying Illinois shore, "is in Cahokia, a 
settlement made by Catholics about two 
hundred years ago. ' ' 

Tibby respectfully raised his hat as he 
caught a glimpse of the ancient fane. ' 'Are 
they all Catholics in this Great West? " he 
asked. 

' ' No, indeed, ' ' the Colonel replied ; ' ' but 
Catholics are numerous here. It was Cath- 
olics who discovered, explored, and first 
settled all this vast region. The first white 
men to see this great river and to navigate 
it were the chivalrous Spaniard De Soto, 
and those noble Christian heroes, Father 
Marquette, a Jesuit priest; Father Henne- 
pin, a Franciscan friar of the branch called 
* Recollects ' ; and that adventurous and 
high-minded Norman, Robert Cavelier de 
la Salle. In fact, there is scarcely a river, 
lake, mountain chain, valley, prairie, forest, 
or desert of importance in North America, 
that was not visited, mapped, and described 
by Catholics before even a Protestant settler 
appeared. ' ' 

And thus on the course down the Missis- 
sippi River, the Colonel from day to day 
gave Tibby much interesting and valuable 
information regarding the geography, his- 
tory, and present condition of the States 
they passed on their way. Tibby mean- 
while was exercising his powers of observa- 
tion to the utmost. 

The ' ' Ethiopians, " as he still continued 
to call the colored folk, were a never-ending 
delight and amusement to the boy. At 
some of the plantations the levee' would 
swarm with them, on the approach of the 
steamer, like flies in a sugar-barrel. Such 
black faces as some of the pickaninnies had, 



and such immense black eyes as they turned 
on Tibby! And when they opened their 
mouths to laugh at his wondering expres- 
sion, his wonder increased at the size of 
their mouths, the whiteness of their teeth, 
and the redness of the yawning caverns 
beyond, of which their mouths seemed to 
be merely the orifices. 

After a few days at New Orleans, the jour- 
ney was resumed by railroad. Instead of 
the wintry skies which Tibby had watched 
a week before in the North, all here was in 
the season of early Summer. The land in 
most places teemed with richness, yet no 
one seemed to be at work. Great mobs of 
people, white and black, crowded the plat- 
forms at almost every station they passed, 
just as if they had never seen a railroad 
train before. 

Colonel Lynch slept in his seat a great 
. part of the day, but Tibby could never have 
been induced to close his eyes for an in- 
stant. There was too much that was strange 
to be seen. But the gray moss hanging from 
the cypress trees in the gloomy swamps, 
through which the road runs in South- 
western Louisiana, saddened him, and 
caused him to think of death and funerals. 

' ' Oh ! the Lord between us and harm ! ' ' 
he muttered, excitedly; "what's that? Is 
it a frog? And is that the sort of beast they 
say St. Patrick drove out of Ireland ? Oh ! 
but I am glad there are no frogs at home ! 
And are all the frogs here black, like so 
many of the people ? ' ' 

The Colonel had opened his eyes from a 
hap the moment before, and he looked out 
the car window in the direction indicated 
by Tibby' s finger, at something that was 
moving slowly out of the water upon a little 
island tufted with coarse grass. ' ' That is 
an alligator," he said, laughing; "and if 
you keep a good lookout — as I have no 
doubt you will — you will see more of them 
before the day is over. These swamps and 
bayous in the neighborhood of the Gulf of 
Mexico are full of them. ' ' 

For the next two days, after crossing 
the Sabine River into Texas, the way lay 
through a generally flat country. Grassy 




The Ave Maria. 



95 



plains stretched out, and over these innu- 
merable herds of cattle roamed without 
seeming let or hindrance. 

"What queer bullocks they are, to be 
sure!" remarked Tibby once, as these ani- 
mals scampered oflf on the approach of the 
flying railroad train. ' ' See the little bodies 
of them, and the great horns! Between the 
horns and the hoofs I am thinking there is 
little room for beef. They are not like the 
cattle we have at home. ' ' 

"You mean the cattle the landlords in 
Ireland have!" said Colonel Lynch, dryly. 
' ' The cattle in Ireland are fat, and the peo- 
ple lean. But in this great New World of 
ours, though our cattle run to horns and 
hoofs, the people seldom want for beef" 

Occasionally the Colonel directed Tibby' s 
attention to wide, enclosed fields, where 
negroes were cultivating cotton or sugar; 
but the boy's interest was chiefly centred in 
the cattle, and in the fine horsemanship of 
the vaqueros, or cowboys, who now and then 
reined up their little horses to take a look 
at the passing train, or dashed in among 
their herds. 

"I'll never be able to ride at all, I am 
afraid; and certainly not like that," said 
Tibby, in a discouraged way, as he observed 
how these cowboys sat their horses. ' 'At 
honle, when a man rides he has the knees 
bent, and he can rise from his stirrups as 
he likes. But these might as well have no 
stirrups at all, though their stirrups are 
big enough and gay enough with all that 
leather. 111 be bound ! ' ' 

' ' There is a great difference, ' ' the Col- 
onel replied, ' ' between the American style 
of riding and that you have been accus- 
tomed to see in the Old Country. But if you 
were to attempt the Old Country style with 
one of these little broncos., or ponies, the 
beast would have you over its head in an 
instant. Then the American sits down on 
his saddle, and steers with his legs, and 
thus gives the horse's mouth some mercy; 
and the American who knows how to ride 
at all looks like a horseman. But your Old 
Country rider squats on his stirrups, and 
bobs up and down like a 'Jack-iu-the-box.' 



Oh! I've no fear, Tibby, but you'll ride 
like a Texan before next Christmas ; and I 
think Texans and Mexicans the finest horse- 
men in the world for general service. ' ' 

The sun was setting behind the rugged 
foot-hills as Colonel Lynch and Tibby 
alighted from the stage, which had carried 
them a day's journey from the railroad. A 
dozen horses or more formed the back- 
ground of a welcoming group, which in- 
cluded Mrs. Lynch, a pleasant- faced lady; 
Philip Lynch, the Colonel's oldest child; 
and two little ones, besides a baby carried 
in the arms of a fat negress, its nurse. The 
rest of the party were Dan Carroll, origi- 
nally from Kentucky, who was the foreman 
of Colonel Lynch' s ranch, and a half-dozen 
vaqueros^ some of them ' ' Mexicans " — that 
is to say, Texans of mixed Spanish and 
Indian blood — and the others Americans. 

There were many congratulations, and 
amid them it was evident that curiosity as 
to Tibby was mingled with gladness at his 
safe arrival; for the Colonel had written 
on in advance to prepare them for this re- 
cruit for the establishment. Even the thin- 
nosed, colly dogs, that were runniug in and 
out among the excited party, after taking 
a sniff or two at Tibby's legs, appeared to 
be satisfied that he was made of the right 
material. 

When the first hearty greetings were 
over. Colonel Lynch led Tibby forward, 
and said : "In order to save time, allow me 
to introduce to you all Master Theobald 
Walter Butler, late of Tipperary, but now 
of Texas. He is to be one of my family,, 
and I have no doubt you all will be as; 
much pleased with the young gentleman as 
I am. Now prepare to mount!" 

Within a few minutes Tibby and Phil 
Lynch were as thick as two peas in a pod. 

"That's a long halter you have on your 
saddle," said Tibby to Phil, pointing to 
the coil of smooth rawhide line that hung 
on the saddle which Phil was carrying, as 
the two boys went to take their horses. 

"Now, Tibby," Phil answered, "pop 
has written to us that you are what we 



96 



The Ave Maria. 



call down here an 'amusin' cuss,' but I 
reckon you'd better not begin to make 
sport of me, because 1 have not travelled as 
much as you have. I am to go to college 
next year, pop says. That is a lasso, if you 
please, not a halter." 

The entire party began to mount. The 
Colonel assisted Mrs. I^ynch to her saddle, 
and placed the baby on the great horn of 
the saddle in front of her. One of the tod- 
dlers he placed behind the black nurse on 
another horse, the other he took with him- 
self on his own horse. Tibby, after some 
little trouble, having been adjusted Texan- 
fashion to his seat on a little sorrel nag, 
the Colonel gave the word, and all heads 
were ^ turned towards the foot-hills, where 
the buildings of Connemara Ranch were 
just visible through the clear atmosphere of 
the semi-tropical twilight. What a race it 
was! How the men hurrahed and the dogs 
yelped in the helter-skelter run for home! 

"Sure, I'll split on this saddle, Phil!" 
Tibby shouted. 

' ' I reckon you' d better not split, " shouted 
back Phil, who was several lengths in ad- 
vance. "There would be two of you then, 
and that would be more of fun and of Tip- 
perary than the ranch could stand. It is a 
good thing you haven't spurs on, or you'd 
drive that bronco wild," he added, as he 
reined up, and critically examined the man- 
ner in which Tibby managed his legs and 
feet. ' ' Lower your heels, and turn out your 

toes." 

(to be continued.) 



One Father's Course. 



' ' If more fathers would take a course with 
their sons similar to the one my father took 
with me," observed one of the leading busi- 
ness men of Boston, "the boys might think 
it hard at the time, but they'd thank them in 
afterlife." 

' ' What course was it ? " asked a bystander. 

' ' Well, I was a young fellow of twenty-two, 
just out of college, and I felt myself of con- 
siderable importance. I knew my father was 
well off, and my head was full of foolish no- 



tions of having a good time. Later on I e^t- 
pected father to start me in business — after 
I'd ' swelled ' round a while. Like a wise man, 
father saw through my folly, and resolved, if 
possible, to prevent m^'^ self-destruction. 

" 'If the boy's got the right stuff in him, 
let him show it, ' I heard father say to mother 
one day. ' I worked hard for my money, and 
I don't intend to let Ned squander it, and ruin 
himself besides.' 

' ' That very day father handed me fifty dol- 
lars, remarking, ' Ned, take this; spend it as 
you choose, but understand this much: It's 
the last dollar of my money you can have till 
you prove yourself capable of earning money, 
and taking care of it. ' 

* ' I took the money in a sort of dazed man- 
ner, and stammered out: ' I — why — I — I want 
to go into business.' 

"'Business!' exclaimed father, contempt- 
uously; 'what do you know' about business? 
Get a clerkship, and learn the A, B, and C, 
before you talk to me of business.' 

' 'And father left me to ponder on his words. 
And that fifty dollars was the last money he 
ever gave me, till at his death I received my 
part of the property. I felt hard and bitter 
then — felt that my father was a stingy old 
fogey, and mentally resolved to prove to him 
that I could live without his money. He had 
roused my energy — ^just what he intended, I 
suppose. I looked about for a situation, and 
finally accepted a clerkship in a large retail 
store, at four hundred dollars a year. 

"Another bit of my father's 'stinginess' at 
this time was demanding two dollars a week 
for my board through that first year. At the 
end of my first year I had laid aside two hun- 
dred dollars, and the next year, my salary 
being raised a hundred, I had five hundred 
laid by. At the end of four years' clerking I 
went to my father with fifteen hundred dollars 
of my own, and asked him if he was willing 
to help me enter business. Even then he 
would only let me hire the money — $2,000, 
at 6 per cent, interest. To-day I am called a 
successful business man. Those lessons in 
self-denial and industry which he gave me 
put manhood into me. 

"Years afterwards, father told me it was 
the severest struggle of his life to be so hard 
with his boy; but he felt it was the only 
course to make a man of me. Many a time 
we laughed over that two-dollar board bill." 




Vol.. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, JULY 31, 1886. 



No. 



I 



[Copyright :— Riv. D. 



Vivam in Dies. 

BY E. P. RYDER. 



llj HAT shall J^efall me on my onward way 
^^ I know not, and am glad I do not know. 
Enough that I may clearly see each day 

The measure of the journey I must go. 
Did not the dear I^ord kindly veil our eyes, 

Forthcoming ills would seem too great to 
bear; 
And we should Ipse the sense of glad surprise 

That comes as we His generous blessings 
share. 

"This day our daily bread!" 'Tis thus we 
pray; 

The morrow with the present hath no part; 
So, if I plainly see my path to-day, 

What need have I to further vex my heart? 
So, Lord, with simple faith I rest in Thee, 
Content to go where'er Thou leadest me. 



Devotion to the Blessed Virgin in 
Ireland. 




BY JAMES KEEGAN, 



HE world at large is learning a 
good deal worth knowing about 
the ' ' Isle of saints and sages, ' ' yet 
there is still much to be told, not less use- 
ful or interesting. The thought that most 
naturally arises to one's mind who has 
carefully read Irish history is, How there 
can be an Irish nation at all — how the peo- 



E. HmiBOH, C. S. C.] 

pie could have remained Catholic through 
such terrible slaughter, famine, social deg- 
radation, and enforced ignorance; above 
all, how it is possible that they have made 
such an impress on the civilization of other 
countries. Causes in plenty are assigned for 
all this. Macaulay thought the Irish re- 
mained Catholic out of hatred for England 
— a very foolish opinion for a wise man. 
Their enemies always seem rather annoyed 
at their survival, but, when pressed for a 
reason, fairly give it up for a puzzle that 
passes comprehension. The great Father 
Burke came nearer to the real solution of 
this question than any writer that I have 
met with. He ascribed the survival of the 
Faith in Ireland, and consequently of the 
Irish people, to the saying of the Beads. 

Of all outside the Church of God I know 
none, except Mr. Ruskin, who any longer 
seem able to see the hand of God working 
out His will through the actions and de- 
signs of men. In the case of Ireland, a 
man must admit, if he have any perception 
of the spiritual, that to Irish faith Irish 
nationality owes its existence. The strug- 
gle of Ireland is, and ever has been, that 
of the Faith against heresy, of law against 
rebellion, of Catholic loyaity against sec- 
tarian selfishness, and at last it has resolved 
itself into that of religion against irreligion. 
The Irish religious influence is among the 
greatest active forces in the world to-day. 
Ireland is a fountain-head of faith unde- 
filed, and of fervor glowing like the sun. 
That all this should be owing to her de- 



98 



The Ave Maria, 



votion to Our Blessed Lady is not a little 
encouraging and consoling to her children 
all over the world. 

Once more — and it may be for the hun- 
dredth time — it becomes necessary to refer 
to the English persecution of the Irish 
Faith. Under Elizabeth this became for the 
first time perfectly and completely organ- 
ized. Elizabeth was not a religious woman ; 
neither were her ministers, courtiers, nor 
Protestant clergymen at all God-fearing or 
pious men. The ablest English Protestant 
writers of this century have called these 
Elizabethan "reformers" a party of the 
greatest hypocrites and scoundrels that the 
world has seen; they cared little about the 
souls of the Irish, but they cared a great 
deal about their lands. They knew very 
well the Irish would not apostatize, and so 
they made their adhesion to the Faith 
treasonable, and punishable by fine, confis- 
cation, and death. The Elizabethan wars 
were the most barbarous and brutal carried 
on in Europe since the time of the Huns 
and Vandals. They destroyed one-third, 
or, as some say, one-half of the population 
of Ireland. The total number of human 
victims from the sword, or famine caused 
by the deliberate contrivance of the Eng- 
lish leaders, has been reckoned from one- 
half to over three-quarters of a million. 

Poor S. Hubert Burke, in one of his admi- 
rable books, tells how the English slaugh- 
tered eight hundred women and children 
sent to one of the north- coast islands for 
safety. The husbands and fathers saw this 
diabolical deed from the main-land, and 
went nearly mad with grief and rage; but 
when Elizabeth heard it she was especially 
pleased. This stony-hearted woman was a 
terrible scourge to Ireland. Under her, 
priests, monks, nuns, teachers, and bards 
were put to death, and in every way exter- 
minated, so that there would be none to 
teach, encourage, or exhort the people. 
Eight hundred bloodhounds were trained 
by Essex to hunt down these malignants. 
Books were destroyed wherever found; 
learning was as much as possible stamped 
out; and the native noblemen who sheltered 



and encouraged teachers and writers were 
all killed, beggared, or exiled. Then such 
of the poor people as survived were left as 
sheep without a shepherd. 

This was the first terrible blow. After 
the ' ' Cailleach ruah ' ' had gone to her ac- 
count, the Scotch pedant, James II. , came 
on the scene, to confiscate Ulster, and per- 
secute all Ireland during the remainder of 
his infamous life. Then reigned and raged 
Charles Land his minion, the rascally, black 
Tom Wentworth, who suffered for his mis- 
deeds at the hands of far greater tyrants 
and more villainous misdoers. After him 
came the ' ' Curse of Cromwell. ' ' Cromwell 
died, but Ireland's woe lived on. Under 
the vile and ungrateful Charles II., new 
penal laws were enacted against the Irish 
Catholics. William of Orange broke the 
Treaty of Limerick, and coniiscated Ireland 
once more, and Anne renewed the penal 
laws. So it has gone on even until our days. 

It is very consoling to think that our 
fathers withstood all dangers and under- 
went all persecutions for their Faith; and it 
is our glory that they preserved it. All this 
is grand and glorious, encouraging and con- 
soling; but may God in His mercy grant 
that, until the end of the world, no other 
people shall have to suffer what they suf- 
fered! I have read much about these per- 
secutions in books, and I have heard still 
more that never was written or printed; 
and, during a residence of more than twenty 
years on the border of one of Ulster's Orange 
manors, I have witnessed somewhat of the 
evil spirit that animated these persecutors. 
In my childhood my ears were familiar 
with tales of underground caves, of long 
knives and bloody blankets, of murdered 
priests and burned monasteries; of the vain 
vow of the Englishman who swore he would 
not leave a crucifix, beads, or drop of holy 
water in Ireland; of the proposal of that 
other, who suggested that the right hand 
should be cut off every male child in the 
island, to prevent him from making the 
Sign of the Cross. What wonder, then, is 
my wonder that an Irish Catholic survives 
in Ireland? 




The Ave Maria, 



99 



In those years so great was the desolation 
of the Catholics, and so many the difficul- 
ties of practising their religious duties, that 
whole parishes were months without seeing 
a priest, and all this time there were loose 
among them the emissaries of a creedless 
faith and an altarless Church. Moreover, 
they were ' ' forbid to read, ' ' and when 
master and pupils met, it was on the wild 
mountain-side ' ' feloniously to learn. ' ' All 
the old Irish books that told of saints and 
heroes were ruthlessly destroyed, and in 
their stead were scattered over the land 
those Protestant tracts, that reeked with 
filth and blasphemy. 

How, then, did the Irish keep the Faith 
— without teachers, without books, without 
churches, almost without priests — on oc- 
casions when it was treason to love and 
death to defend the Cross? And yet they did 
keep it. Keep it! There is faith and fervor 
enough in Ireland to-day to convert the , 
whole world. When I consider this pre- 
cious treasure, that no persecution could 
take from my people, and its vigor and vi- 
tality, and look abroad, I raise my hands 
and thank God for all our sufferings; for 
the prize was worth the pain. 

When the prelates and nobles were al- 
most all banished and slain, and the few 
priests who remained had to live and cele- 
brate the Divine Mysteries in pits, caves, 
and quarries; when the books were all de- 
stroyed, and learning stifled or banished; 
when there was no church standing in 
the island, but a price set on the head of 
priest and Catholic schoolmaster; when all 
earth had deserted Erin, one hope and help 
and stay remained — the glorious Queen of 
Heaven. • 

He who has knelt at an Irish farmer's 
fireside, and joined in the Rosary offered up 
in Gaelic, will understand how that favor- 
ite devotion was able to supply the place 
of church, priest, book and sermon, when 
and where these were not to be had. I have 
heard prayers said piously in many lan- 
guages, but never anything like these- 
Gaelic Rosaries. The prayers and responses 
were recited in a chanting tone, which very 



much resembled the tone in which our 
college choir used to sing the Lamenta- 
tions of Jeremias during Holy Week. The 
poor people put all the hope and trust 
and sorrow of their hearts into these pray- 
ers. You felt that they knew they were 
not praying to a Father who was far away 
from them, or to a Mother who took little 
care of them. They realized the presence of 
God as we do that of a tangible, visible 
human friend. Their love for the Mother 
of God was something that can be appre- 
ciated by sympathetic hearts, but can not 
be described in words. In those terrible 
times they had neither picture nor statue 
of the sweet Madonna, but they seemed to 
need none. 

This veneration for the Blessed Virgin is 
as old as the Faith in Erin. I have met in 
very old poems Our Lord's title as "Son of 
the Virgin Mary." There is a famous Old 
Irish lyitany of Clonsost, composed about 
A. D. 725, that in beauty, fervor, and piety, 
surpasses all others except that of Loreto. 
One of its petitions runs: A bhantigherna 
chumachtach nimhe acas talmhan dilegh ar 
cinta acas ar pecdai! — "O powerful Queen 
of Heaven and Earth, wash off our crimes 
and sins! " Here, again, is a stanza from a 
beautiful poem by Aengus O'Daly, Abbot 
of Boyle, that was written about the time 
Henry VIII. was driving out of England the 
veneration of Mary : 

' ' Ni maith thuilHni teagh nimhe 
D'fhaghail, acht le a h-irapidhe; 
Righ an tiglie nar threigidh me 
'Snar threigidli, Muire mese! " * 

From the following passage of the ' * An- 
nals of Loch Ce " we learn that before the 
so-called Reformation Ireland abounded 
with representations of the Blessed Virgin : 
"The most miraculous image of Mary — 
which was* at Baile Atha Tricim^ and which 
the Irish people all honored for a long time 
before, — which used to heal the blind, 
the deaf, the lame, and every disease in 



^ I do not well deserve to obtain the home of 
heaven; but, through Her intercession, may the 
King of the household abandon me not, and may 
Mary not forsake me! 



loo 



The Ave Maria. 



like manner — was burned by the Saxons. 
And not only that, but there was not a holy 
cross, nor an image of Mary, nor other 
celebrated image in Erin, over which their 
power reached, that they did not burn.' ' So 
the Irish had images of Mary held in high 
honor before the * 'civilization" of the burn- 
ing Saxons! The Saxons destroyed all the 
material representations, but they could not 
burn the image deeply graved on the peo- 
ple's hearts. 

It was once charged against O'Ruark, 
Lord of Breffni, that he who so highly rev- 
erenced the image of Mary, Mother of God, 
and of the saints, dragged Queen Eliza- 
beth's picture at his horse's tail; whereon 
the doomed hero replied: "Ah! but there 
is a great difference between our saints and 
your Queen!" 

The persecutions of the Irish for con- 
science' sake brought those dangers to faith 
and morals that always follow in the wake 
of barbarous and long-continued wars. The 
Irish were not the men to stand quietly by 
while themselves and all they loved, rever- 
enced, and hoped for on earth and in heaven 
were being destroyed and blasphemed. 
They fought like brave men in the field, as 
long as there was a chance, and when the 
open war was over, and the work of Saxon 
•' legal ' spoliation commenced, seeing them- 
selves hunted down like wild beasts, they 
prepared schemes of resistance and ven- 
geance. Were it not for religious influences, 
they would have slaughtered the English 
planters — men, women, and children — on 
highway and byway, as the planters slaugh- 
tered them. But, as an American gentle- 
man once said to me, "Irishmen have too 
much conscience to become dagger revolu- 
tionists." In those terrible times of passion 
and cruelty, well might every Irishman say, 
in the lines of the lapiented John Keegan: 

"The land that I fly from ivS fertile and fair, 
And more than I ask for or wish for is there; 
But I must not taste the good things that I see: 
There's nothing but rags and green rushes for me. 
O mild Virgin Mary! 
O sweet Mother Mary! 
Wht) keeps my rough hand from red murder but 
thee?" 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN RKID. 



VI. 



IT would have been difficult to imagine 
a more unimportant conversation, Philip 
would have said, had his opinion respecting 
it been asked. But this opinion would only 
have proved how little he, in common with 
many others, was able to judge of what 
was truly important; for this trivial con- 
versation became the means by which the 
subject of the Percivals was opened to his 
uncle. 

It was Constance who began to talk at 
luncheon about Miss Percival and her voice. 
"Philip and Jack Bellamy say that it is 
quite wonderful," she observed to her aunt. 
' ' I wonder we have never heard of her. ' ' 

' ' We have not come in the way of it, ' ' 
Mrs. Thornton answered, composedly; but 
Philip observed that she gave a quick 
glance at her husband. 

"Well, I am quite determined to come 
in the way of it," continued Constance. 
' ' Philip says that she sings in the Cathe- 
dral choir, and I am going there to hear 
her." 

"I did not know that you were so much 
interested m fine voices," said her aunt. 

"I am just now — for a purpose," the 
young lady answered. "We are going to 
get up an operetta after Easter for — really 
I forget what, but some charity. So of 
course we want all the good voices we can 
find. We shall count on yours," she added, 
with a glance at Philip. 

' ' Who are ' we ' ? " he asked. . 

Constance ran over half a dozen names 
of ladies who were conspicuous in fashion- 
able society, and in the discussion which 
ensued nothing more was said of Miss Per- 
cival and her voice. Mr. Thornton, with an 
impassive countenance, had altogether ig- 
nored the conversation, but Philip felt that 
it made an opening for the suggestion he 
wished to offer. 

Still, even with this opening, it was not 



The Ave Ml 



ana. 



loi 



an easy task that he proposed to himself, and 
his heart was beating a little more quickly 
than usual when he followed his uncle into 
the library, where the latter usually re- 
treated on Sunday afternoon. He was sit- 
ting by one of the windows in a large chair, 
a paper open on his knee, and a cigar in his 
fingers, when Philip entered. His ruddy 
face, with its whitening hair and beard 
stood out in relief against the dark back of 
the chair, and he looked up with a smile 
as his nephew entered. 

"Well, Phil," he said, "have you come 
to join me in a quiet smoke?" 

"With your permission, sir," the young 
man answered. "And also, if you do not 
object, to speak to you on a particular sub- 
ject." 

"By all means," said Mr. Thornton, 
looking interested. ' ' What is the subject ? ' ' 

Philip hesitated an instant, but he felt 
that it was better to make a bold plunge at 
once. 

"It is about — the Percivals," he an- 
swered. 

If Philip had ever doubted whether the 
subject of the Percivals would be displeas- 
ing to his uncle, those doubts were settled 
by the change that came over Mr. Thorn- 
ton's face as soon as he heard the name. His 
smile vanished instantly, his brows drew 
down in a frown, and there was anger as 
well as astonishment in the eyes that looked 
sharply at his nephew. •* 

"And pray what do you know of the 
Percivals?" he' asked. 

" Very little, " the young man answered, 
quietly. "Only that you had at one time 
a business connection with the head of the 
family, who is now dead, and that the wife 
and daughter whom he left are in very 
reduced circumstances. ' ' 

"Well?" said Mr. Thornton, dryly, as 
he paused. 

"Well," Philip went on, though his 
courage sank; "I thought perhaps — if you 
know this — you might like to — aid them. 
Even if the man deserved nothing from 
you, thCvSe are helpless women, and I know 
how generous you are — " 



He paused, for there was little encour- 
agement to proceed in the hardening face 
before him. What a stern face it might be 
the young man realized at this moment for 
the first time. No offender looking at it 
but must have felt the uselessness of any 
appeal for mercy. Philip understood, even 
before the close-set lips opened, that his 
suggestion had been made in vain. 

' ' It strikes me, ' ' said Mr. Thornton, very 
coldly, "that, granting my generosity, I 
might be allowed to select the objects on 
whom to exercise it. If these Percivals, 
in whom you take a very singular interest, 
are in reduced circumstances, that is al- 
together the fault of the man who ruined 
himself, and very nearly ruined me, by 
unprincipled speculation. I am not in the 
least bound to aid or to provide for them. " 
"Bound— no," replied Philip; "I only 
thought that you might wish to do so. The 
man who ruined himself did not ruin you, " 
he said, involuntarily glancing around the 
luxurious room. 

' ' Because I was able to take care of my- 
self," answered Mr. Thornton. "You do 
not feel it necessary to support the thief 
who attempted to rob you of your purse 
because he failed in doing so? The case is 
parallel. Percival did not ruin me, because 
I looked in time after my own interest. But 
he jeopardized my whole fortune, and gave 
me so much anxiety and trouble that I 
never wish to hear his name mentioned." 

"You must pardon me for mentioning 
it, ' ' said Philip. ' ' I could not know that 
you regarded the matter in such a light. I 
only knew that the man had been associated 
with you once, and that he had failed in 
life, while you — succeeded." 

The florid color left Mr. Thornton's face, 
and there was a sudden light of something 
almost like defiance in his eyes as he lifted 
them. 

"That he failed was his own fault," he 
repeated. ' ' But I have reason to ask an ex- 
planation of your interest in these people. 
How is it that you have come to know 
them?" 

"I do not know them," Philip answered. 



I02 



The Ave Maria, 



* ' I have only seen the daughter, and heard 
of their circumstances. It occurred to me 
that you might like to aid them, and so I 
spoke. Pardon me if I have taken too great 
a liberty." 

"You have made a mistake, which I 
hope you are not likely to repeat, ' ' said the 
other, coldly. ' ' I allow no interference in 
my private affairs, and suggestions are of 
the nature of interference. What I think 
best that I do, without regard to the opin- 
ions of people around me. I dealt with 
Percival in a manner which some meddlers 
condemned, but I paid not the least hied 
to them. What he owed me I exaclei. How 
he fared afterwards was no concern of mine; 
and if his wife and daughter are destitute, 
they have no claim on my compassion or 
•my purse. Now I trust that you are satis.- 
fied, and I must request that the subject 
shall not be opened again. ' ' 

" I can not possibly have any desire to open 
it again," answered Philip, in a low tone. 

He said nothing more, but, turning, 
walked across the room and stood for a 
minute or two before the fireplace, looking 
down at the red brands on the hearth. He 
was strangely unnerved by the revelation 
which had just been made to him, — a rev- 
elation that seemed to destroy all his former 
conception of his uncle, and put in its stead 
a hard, cruel nature, immovably set toward 
self-interest. Every generous impulse of 
the young man's soul revolted, even while 
he strove to subdue the feeling that over- 
mastered him. He knew that an instinct 
had always warned him of this side of his 
uncle's character; and yet it was no less a 
shock when fully revealed. Speak of the 
Percivals again ! How had he ever been so 
foolish as to speak of them at all, he won- 
dered, as he gazed absently downward, 
where his fancies of the morning seemed 
lying among the dead ashes of the fire. 

Mr. Thornton glanced at him once or 
twice with the frown still on his face, but 
it was some time before he spoke. At last 
he asked, abruptly : ' ' Did I understand you 
to say that you have no acquaintance what- 
ever with these people?" 



"Not the least," Philip answered, look- 
ing up with a start. 

"You are very quixotic, then," said the 
other, grimly. " It is a fault of youth. But 
the sooner you begin to cure it the better. 
The man who wishes to succeed in life can 
not afford to indulge in sentiment of one 
kind or another. It will be well to remember 
that." 

He opened his newspaper, and Philip left 
the room, with those last words echoing in 
his ears. They seemed a fitting close for 
the brief interview. And were they not a 
warning as well as an admonition? He felt 
that it was likely; and he also felt, with a 
force which was fairly overwhelming, that if 
ever he was driven to contest with his uncle 
any point of that high sentiment which 
derives its force from conscience, he would 
find him as immovable as granite, and that 
he would have to choose between yielding, 
or seeming to outrage affection and grati- 
tude by resistance. 

There are people to whom neither horn 
of the dilemma would have been very ter- 
rible — natures which find compromise easy, 
or that are strong and hard enough to dis- 
regard the feelings of others. But Philip 
was cast in a mould that rendered him as 
sensitive to those feelings as to the higher 
claims of conscience; and he knew that 
should the two ever be arrayed against each 
other, the struggle within him would be 
-hard, the suffering keen. 

It was a relief to put away such thoughts, 
to hope that an issue so fraught with pain 
might never come to pass, and to go out 
into the bright afternoon with Constance, 
who persevered in her desire to go to the 
Cathedral for Vespers. On their way she 
began to speak of Miss Percival. 

"It seems that I made a mistake in! 
talking of her at luncheon," she said. ' 
' 'Aunt Lucia told me afterwards that Uncle 
James does not like to hear of the family. 
The father acted very badly to him once. 
Did you know of it?" 

' ' I have heard something of it, ' ' Philip 
answered. "But it is hard to learn the ex- 
act truth of old stories, and until to-day 1 






The Ave Maria, 



103 



\ras not any more aware than yourself that 
ay uncle would not like to hear the name. ' ' 

"And how did you find it out to-day? — 
lid he speak to you about it?" 

"Yes — or, rather, I spoke, and he — an- 

: wered me. There is no doubt of his dis- 

ike to the Percivals; and, on the whole, it 

vill be well to avoid discussing them be- 

ibre him in future." 

"One can not easily discuss a subject of 
which one knows nothing, ' ' said Constance. 
' ' You forget that I never heard of them 
before, and all that I know now is that Miss 
Percival has a voice. How much more do 
you know?" 

"Not anything at all," Philip answered, 
with a laugh, which was somewhat directed 
against himself For surely it zvas quixotic 
to have concerned himself so much about 
people of whom he knew so little, and with 
whom he had not the slightest acquaint- 
ance. 

' ' Well, I am interested in her voice,' ' pur- 
sued Constance. ' ' I hope it will prove to be 
fine, and that she will agree to sing for us. ' ' 

Philip's instinct told him that Miss Per- 
cival would not agree to do anything of the 
kind; but, since an instinct is not author- 
ity, he made no reply, and they presently 
reached the Cathedral. 

As he had anticipated, and warned Con- 
stance was probable, the voice which the 
latter, at least, had come to hear was not 
heard in Vespers or Benediction. As the 
beautiful hymns of the latter service began, 
Philip found himself listening for the silver 
tones which he thought would have ex- 
pressed so well the deep devotion of the 
O Salutaris and the Tantzcm Ergo; but he 
listened in vain. Miss Percival was plainly 
not in the choir. 

They met Bellamy as they came out, and 
Philip resigned Miss Irving to him, plead- 
ing an engagement on his own part. It may 
have occurred to him, as with a ^ense of 
relief he saw them walk away together, 
that his sentiments were very far from be- 
ing those of a lover; but he reminded him- 
self that it was impossible he could feel any 
lover-like eagerness to monopolize Con- 



stance's society, when he could enjoy as 
much of that society every day as he liked. 

Certainly the -engagement by plea of 
which he had escaped was not a very im-. 
portant one. Mrs. King had told him when 
they parted in the morning that she had 
some music for him. "Come soon and get 
it," she had said. It seemed to him that 
this afternoon was a very good time to go. 
Accordingly he ascended the steps of a 
house in the neighborhood of the Cathedral, 
rang the door-bell, and was ushered into a 
drawing-room filled — rather too much filled 
— with artistic furniture, and bric-a-brac 
that Mrs. King had collected in many quar- 
ters of the world. He made his way through 
it with the ease of an accustomed visitor, 
and found his hostess in her favorite seat 
near the fire. She held out her hand to him 
with a smile. 

"You have just come in time," she said. 
"I am glad to have the pleasure of present- 
ing you to Miss Percival. Alice my dear, 
this is Mr. Thornton, who paid y^ur voice 
such a pretty compliment this morning that 
I must ask him to repeat it to you." 

Philip turned with an absolute shock of 
surprise toward the figure, which he had per- 
ceived without identifying it, on the other 
side of the fireplace. Was it possible ! — yes, 
it was Alice Percival herself, who looked 
at him with her dark eyes, and bowed in 
acknowledgment of the introduction. If 
she disliked his acquaintance to be thus 
forced upon her, there was no sign of such 
a feeling in her manner, only a courtesy 
that might be perhaps a little more grave 
than usual. For himself, Philip felt like an 
awkward school-boy, utterly bereft of the 
power of speech. He thought of Graham, 
and the conviction that his name was an 
odious sound in her ears seemed to make 
everything impossible except the deep bow 
with which he bent before her. Happily for 
him, Mrs. King went on : 

' ' I tried to remember your compliment, 
but the words eluded me, and I think it is 
always a pity to spoil a well-turned phrase 
by quoting it clumsily. What was it ex- 
actly? '» 



104 



The Ave Maria. 



"Not a compliment at all, if you will 
pardon me," answered Philip, addressing 
her, but including Miss Percival in his 
glance; "only a description which struck 
me when I read it, and which was forcibly 
recalled to my mind this morning." 

He repeated the French sentence a little 
liuf riedly, for he would have preferred an- 
other opening to his acquaintance with 
Miss Percival. 

Mrs. King nodded toward the latter. 
*'That," she said, "is a perfect description 
of your singing, though it comes from a 
French novel. Strange how those people 
liave the knack of expressing things!" 

" If it is a correct description of my sing- 
ing," replied Miss Percival — -and the low, 
clear tones of her voice seemed to Philip 
like spoken music — "I think it needs im- 
provement. ' Trop ideale pour etre humaine ' 
— surely, we must be human in order to 
touch humanity. ' ' 

' ' There are countless things to touch us 
on our human side," said Philip, quickly. 
^ ' But to find something that enables us to 
forget it, even for a time, that is to help 
us in our battle against the evil trinity of 
which we have all heard. " 

Miss Percival looked at him, and in the 
gentle gravity of her glance he could not 
read any trace of the repugnance which he 
feared that she must feel for him. 

' ' If one could do that, ' ' she answered, 
^ ' it would certainly be well. ' ' 

' ' Your voice does it, ' ' said Philip. ' ' ' On 
eUt dit une dme qui chantait^^ and while 
one listens one realizes one's own soul. 
There are many times, you know, when one 
forgets it." 

The ingenuous candor of his tone made 
her smile. ' ' Yes, ' ' she said, ' ' I know that 
there are such times ; but the forgetfulness 
is surely not great that can be so easily dis- 
sipated. ' ' Then she rose and turned to Mrs. 
King. "I am forgetting how time flies," 
she said; "and mamma will be looking for 



me. 



"Sol must not detain you, ' ' replied the 
elder lady ; ' ' but promise me that you will 
come on my next musical evening. ' ' 



"lean not promise," Miss Ferciral an- 
swered; "but I will try to come, since you 
really wish it" 

"Of course I really wish it," said Mrs. 
King. "And so do a great many other 
people." 

"The other people do not matter," re- 
plied the young lady, with a gesture of in- 
difference; "but j^« do." 

She bent down as she spoke, touched her 
lips to Mrs. King^s cheek, bowed slightly 
to Philip, and passed — a slender, stately 
figure — down the long room, and disap- 
peared. 

(to be continued.) 



An Hour with St. Anne. 



BY ANGELIQUE DE LANDE. 



jpl SAINT beloved! I joy to think of thee, 

^ In motherhood so blest, 

With Mary, that sweet bud of chastity, 

Unfolding on thy breast; 
Within thine arms maternal Heaven's Queen 

Is sleeping peacefully. 
And angels gaze upon the tranquil scene 

In tuneful ecstasy. 

For in the compass of those baby hands 

lyies Lsrael's fate to-day; 
The Incarnate God shall list to her commands. 

Her slightest wish obey ; 
A few short years, and the Archangel's voice 

Shall echo round the earth, 
Bidding the Jew and Gentile world rejoice 

At the Messiah's birth. 

Thy great humility and patience rare 

Have won this, sweet reward. 
And thou hast borne, in answer to thy prayer, 

The Mother of thy God; 
Hearest thou the rustle of angelic wings. 

Their canticles divine ? — 
Has not thy soul some dim foreshadowings 

Of Bethlehem's hallowed shrine? 

Our I^ady's childhood! — how the theme ex- 
pands 

And gladdens all my soul! 
Close to thy knee the royal Maiden stands, 

Studying the sacred scroll; 



The Ave Maria, 



105 



\n aureole around her brow appears, 
Soft murmurings fill the air, 

Is unseen visitants from heavenly spheres 
Hover around thy chair. 

Not thine on earth, sweet Saint, the happiness 

To witness Mary's bliss, 
fhine Infant God to thy full heart to press, 

His Sacred Face to kiss. 
Early thy mission ended, and thy child, 

lycd by the Spirit's power. 
Dwelt in the Temple, pure and undefiled, 

Waiting Redemption's hour. 

But I love best, St. Anne, to think of thee 

-Dying in Mary's arms. 
Thy last fond look, this side eternity, 

Fixed on her wondrous charms. 
Obtain for me, the while I humbly pray 

Before thine earthly shrine, 
On Mary's breast to breathe my life away," 

In transports like to thine. 
Feast of St. Anne, 1886. 



Palms. 



3Y ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 

CHAPTER XV.— (Concluded.) 
/^^lyAUDIA'S movement and her sweet 
\j words pierced Zilla's heart; her old pas- 
sionate love for the child asserted itself, 
strengthened and intensified by a sense of 
the deadly perils which would henceforth 
lurk every instant about her; and roused 
with it an impulse, as fierce as that of a 
lioness when danger threatens her young, 
to save her from the evil consequences of 
the insane delusion under which, by the 
arts of the Christians, she and her father 
had fallen. 

Fondly the old nurse looked into the 
questioning, saddened face; the rigor of her 
grief softened; tender, familiar words fell 
from her lips; and when she saw how 
brightly her darling's eyes beamed upon 
her, illuminating the child's lovely face 
with an inexprCvSsible charm, an emotion of 
joy UvSurped the tumult of Zilla's grief, and, 
drawing the golden head to her bosom, she 
laid her cheek upon it in the old, caressing 



way, holding her close to her throbbing 
heart, as if to shield her from the vengeance 
of Fate. 

' ' Now, now do I know it is thou, madre 
bella miaP^ exclaimed the happy child, 
releasing herself, but still holding Zilla's 
hand. "Let us go to the gardens — to the 
old, beautiful places, which I have not yet 
seen, where I will tell thee of Him who has 
given me sight, and whose name is in my 
heart; for thou lovest me, and wilt also love 
Him for being so good to me; wilt thou 
not, madre bella? ^"^ 

Zilla yielded to the sweet constraint of 
her hand, without speaking; for what could 
she answer to an appeal so confiding? But 
Claudia did not notice; her innocent heart 
was in such a divine glow with the new joy 
which had that day entered it, and her eyes 
were so ravished by the beauties of nature, 
over which it seemed to shed a light '^not 
seen of men," that there was no place left 
for shadows or anxious thought. 

As they crossed the beautiful, level spaces 
that lay between the villa and the gardens, 
— spaces checkered by a thousand flickering 
golden shadows, — Claudia caught sight of 
her father going in the direction of the 
stables, and, asking Zilla to wait a moment, 
she ran towards him ; he saw her coming, 
and stopped, watching her approach, his 
heart full of an indescribable emotion. Oh ! 
how brightly shone the eyes but a few hours 
ago blind! What a depth of love beamed 
from them as they met his! He leaned 
down and kissed her head. 

"O padre mio!^^ she said, "hast thou 
seen Symphronius? No? Go, then, and 
make glad his heart by telling him all that 
is in thine; for he knows and loves Him 
who opened my blind eyes." 

' ' My old Symphronius too ! ' ' exclaimed 
Nemesius, while tears filled his eyes. "I 
will go at once ' ' ; and. turning, he went back, 
while the child tripped away to her nurse, 
catching at the butterflies as they fluttered 
overhead, or pausing an instant to smell 
and touch with her dainty fingers some 
glowing flower beside her path, until her 
hand was once more in the clasp of Zilla's, 



io6 



Tlie 'Ave Maria, 



and their steps turned towards the cascade. 

After his interview with the old steward, 
Nemesius rode out to his camp, where, after 
attending to military details, and reviewing 
certain evolutions in some newly adopted 
tactics, he returned to the villa, to find a 
messenger from the Emperor awaiting him, 
and bearing a letter written in his Majesty's 
own almost illegible hand, requesting his 
presence at the palace that evening, — a re- 
quest which, coming from him, meant a 
command. 

Arriving at the palace, Nemesius found 
the rich and spacious apartments thronged 
with such of Rome's distinguished patri- 
cians as had not left the city for their 
summer homes on the Latian coast, or 
gone to their mountain villas; also military 
personages, orators, wits, and scholars; for 
Valerian Imperator affected to be a patron 
of literature and learning. Among the 
guests were many beautiful women, whose 
sparkling e)es and rich garments gave 
brightness and variety to the scene. 

On entering he was met by one of the 
Emperor's pages, who informed him that 
his imperial master had retired to his cab- 
inet, and awaited his presence. It had been 
some weeks since the handsome com- 
mander of the Imperial Legion had shown 
himself at the palace, and he found his 
progress impeded b)' many, who, imagining 
he was there of his own pleasure, thronged 
around him with friendly greeting and 
pleasant words. 

Gravely courteous, a whispered word of 
his being on his way to the Emperor re- 
leased him from their well-intentioned im- 
portunities, and, anticipating no further 
interruptions, he passed on, looking neither 
to the right nor the left, until when near the 
draped entrance through which he was to 
pass into the anteroom of the imperial cab- 
net, he heard a sweet, low voice, meant for 
his ear only, saying: ''Not a word or a look 
for a friend?" Turning quickly, he con- 
fronted Laodice, who, attired in soft, gold- 
colored Eastern silk, set off by draperies of 
scarlet Syrian gauze, spangled with gold, 
and jewels rare and sparkling, looked daz- 



zlingly beautiful. As the glance of Neme- 
sius rested for a moment on her, the color 
deepened in her cheeks, and her eyes shone 
under their long, black fringes with half- 
veiled splendor. 

"My friends forgive my inattention as 
soon as they hear that the Emperor has 
sent for me, and that I am on my way to 
his presence,'.' he replied, in gravely courte- 
ous tones ; and the Roman gentleman would 
have passed on without further parley, but, 
advancing nearer to h.m, she said: 

' ' Spare me just a moment ! I would hear 
something of thy lovely child, and news of 
the dear Princess Vivia. ' ' 

So near had she come that some of her 
fringes and gauze drapings had caught and 
got tangled about the hilt of his sword, 
which he, intent only on the object for 
which he was there, did not at first perceive. 

"Claudia is well, and happy to be at 
home among her flowers. Fabian is the 
correspondent of the Princess; but he is 
hunting somewhere in Umbria, so that I 
have really heard nothing from her since 
her departure, ' ' he answered, and would 
have gone on, but discovered his awkward 
dilemma, and made an effort to disentangle 
his sword, but, manlike, only tore the flimsy 
gauze, which seemed to elude his grasp, 
and made matters worse. 

While thus busied, she full of apologies, 
his hand came in contact with the lithe, 
cool fingers of Laodice, who, under pretence 
of assisting to separate the mischievous 
tangle, contrived to make it more inextri- 
cable. She felt that he started, and drew 
back from her touch as if an asp had stung 
him, and said in her most dulcet tones: 
"Why always cold only to me, Nemesius?" 
He seemed not to hear her, but, making a 
step backward, slipped the scabbard from 
his sword, which was left dangling to her 
fringes and scarf; then, with a grave bow, 
he left her with the trophy she had so un-. 
fairly won, and a few minutes later entered' 
the Emperor's cabinet, with, a shadow ol 
annoyance on his countenance, showing; 
how intolerably the incident had madtj 
itself felt. 




The Ave Maria. 



107 



Valerian, always impatient and irascible, 
s ;owled and gave him cold greeting; but 
T hen the delay was explained, the situation 
s ruck his sense of the ridiculous, and a 
I »w rumble of laughter, which threatened 
to end in apoplexy, told that he was ap- 
Mj) eased. 

HSBy the gods!" he exclaimed, as soon 
^ Re recovered breath, ' ' it was a cunning 
trick Cupid played thee, my grave com- 
mander; and, since he has caught thy sword 
in his net, it is to be supposed thy heart will 
be the next to surrender. ' ' 

''My heart, great Emperor, had already 
made its choice and complete surrender 
before this awkward accident occurred," 
answered Nemesius, whose words had a 
significance of deeper import than his 
hearer dreamed of. 

"By Apollo! that is news I am glad to 
hear; but it does not surprise me; for it is 
the cold, silent ones who are not only sly, 
my Nemesius, but like snow-mantled vol- 
canoes, that burst into flame at unexpected 
moments, and just when people begin to 
think they are frozen," said Valerian, in 
his throaty, rumbling tones, evidently well 
pleased at his own wit; "but," he contin- 
ued, "there are matters of more importance 
of which I desire to inform thee, know- 
ing hov/ zealous thou art for the glory and 
honor of Rome. Information comes that 
the army of the Persian monarch has fallen 
back from his frontier, and that he has 
dispatched an envoy hither with proposals 
which will not be known until he arrives. 
Sapor is a crafty fellow, and, although I 
have no faith in him, I shall humor his 
mood to a certain extent, until some ex- 
pected treasures come into my hands, 
wherewith I may be enabled to carry on 
the war with more destructive effect. Thou 
Hast heard — nothing else has been talked 
)f in Rome — about a Christian named 
Laurence, and his sorceries at the house of 
3ippolytus, and all that happened?" 

Nemesius had, indeed, heard, but simply 
)owed in the affirmative, and held his peace 
)y a mighty effort, but from no craven im- 
ulse, as may be imagined. 



' ' Under dread of torture, this blasphemer 
of the gods has promised to reveal where 
the treasures of the Christians are con- 
cealed. They are reported to be immense. 
After I possess myself of them I will reward 
both him and Hippolytus — yes, by the in- 
fernal gods! such reward as will astonish 
them and delight Rome. Listen! I have- 
been reading some of the Greek classics, 
and found not only new ideas, but certain 
novel methods; and I have also some splen- 
did unbroken horses from the plains of 
Northern Asia, to illustrate an exciting 
episode. I have thought, too, of a new feast 
for the gods — a roast undreamed of in the 
culinary art, the fumes of which will be as 
incense sweeter than the nard of Assyria, 
and the cinnamon and spices of Arabia. 
We will propitiate the divinities with more 
Christian blood, until the earth smokes 
with it; then, all being ready, we'll plant 
the Roman eagles on the hills of Persia, 
and bring Sapor in chains to Rome to grace 
our triumph." 

And so the tyrant boasted until his face 
grew purple, and his eyes glared with such 
diabolical fury that he failed to observe 
the countenance of Nemesius, which was 
bent upon him with a stern expression of 
prophetic warning, whilst his lips could 
scarcely keep back the words that would 
declare him a Christian. But the time had 
not yet come for this, and the Spirit of Love 
that had led him into the very vestibule of 
Truth restrained him for a more perfect and 
glorious testimony. 

When at last he was permitted to leave the 
imperial presence, a slave of Laodice — the 
Cypriot — was in waiting with Nemesius' 
sword, which he presented with profound 
obeisance, and a letter, that he placed in 
the hand of the commander, then instantly 
and without a word withdrew, gliding away 
somewhere in the darkness like a shadow. 

That night before he slept Nemesius, 
assisted by the old steward, removed and 
destroyed the shrine in his apartment, be- 
fore which he had for many years offered 
idolatrous worship to the god whose image 
in gold stood thereon, — the god to whom 



io8 



The Ave Maria, 



he had daily poured the morning libation 
of wine mixed with frankincense, and at 
eventide burnt costly Arabian gums and 
spices. The image, plate, small brazier, and 
cup, all of gold, and fine workmanship, he 
battered together into a shapeless mass, and 
directed Symphronius — who from hence- 
forth was the confidential agent of his 
charities — to sell the metal, and give the 
price to the poor. He commanded further 
that before the sunset of another day all 
the images of the Lares and Pe7iates^ and 
every vestige of idolatry, should be removed 
to the cellar, and there broken, afterwards 
cast into a pit to be burnt for lime. 

Then, commending his soul to God, and 
invoking the Holy Name of His divine Son. 
he retired to rest, after a day into which had 
been crowded an eternity. 

(to be; continued.) 



What the Contents of a Casket Re- 
called. 



AGAIN and again I contemplated the sin- 
gular ornaments of Mme.des Obeaux's 
apartments. There were trophies, panoplies, 
pictures of men with fierce countenances 
armed cap-a-pie^ and ofiicers of fine mar- 
tial bearing — all keeping company with 
an aged, infirm woman. The whole called 
forth, in this peaceful solitude, so many 
souvenirs of tumult and war, of assaults 
and bloody battles, as to suggest a flourish 
of military trumpets arousing and agitating 
the echoes of a hallowed cloister. But my 
attention was especially attracted by a 
casket, lined with crimson velvet, and en- 
closed in a box of ebony, which contained 
side by side a Cross of the Legion of Honor 
and a common, insignificant-looking knife. 
Why was that knife (which, with its handle 
of box- wood and blade of rusted iron, could 
not have cost more than fifteen cents when 
fresh from the hands of the cutler) laid on 
rich velvet beside that noble decoration ? 

Mme. des Obeaux, observing my per- 
plexed look, said : ' ' Those are very precious 
mementos." 



''What, Madame! — that old knife, as 
well as the cross?" 

"Yes," she replied, in soft and gentle 
tones, as she raised her eyes to the portrait 
of a young spahi suspended just opposite 
her, and which, brightened by the rays of 
the morning sun, seemed to return her 
glance of deep affection. ' ' If you like, I will 
tell you the sad though consoling memories 
they recall ? ' ' 

'* I shall listen with the greatest pleasure." 

"Some ten or twelve years ago, during 
the Summer, I occupied a pretty cottage in 
a large village situated between Amiens 
and Paris. Although the house was pleas- 
ant, the walks well shaded, and the sur- 
rounding fields remarkably fertile, I could 
not leave the grounds of the country-seat 
without experiencing a feeling of profound 
sadness. Close by was the large Foundling 
Hospital of St. Nicholas; an institution 
originated by well-meant charity, but now 
in the hands of revolutionists. If I walked 
out, I could hear the infants moaning from 
the depth of their neglected cradles, like 
lambkins tethered to stakes. Those that 
could walk wandered among the hedge- 
rows, stopping at the gates of farm-houses 
to beg for bread; and such as were still 
further advanced in years were harshly 
treated, badly fed, only half clad, and finally 
disposed of, under the title of ParisianSy 
to peasants, farmers, and small traffickers. 
Ah! how my heart ached for those orphans 
without guardians, those oppressed inno- 
cents with no one to plead their cause! 
How often, too, I thought of the generous 
founders of this hospice, and asked myself, 
' Could they have ever dreamed that their 
munificent donations would be squandered 
by such pitiful, demoralizing methods?' 

"One day, while sauntering along the 
border of a flowery meadow, I was stunned 
by the whizzing of a pebble, that, just graz- 
ing my bonnet, finished its course by fall- 
ing into a little ditch full of germander. 
I turned, and beheld the young David who j 
had aimed at me, standing with the flap of j 
his blouse full of similar little stones, which ; 
he seemed to be intent upon throwing atj 




The Ave Maria. 



109 



ebody or something through pure spite. 

"I walked up to him, and gently in- 
( uired : ' Why did you throw that stone ? ' 

"'Are you going to tell on me at the 
( rrand Nicolas ? ' he asked, trying to get off, 
i )r I had taken him firmly by the arm. 

" 'No: I promise you the Gravid Nicolas 
i sball know nothing about it' 
Ly "For sure?' 
iP' 'For sure,' I replied. 

'"All right,' said the lad; 'for I would 
■get a sound flogging. ' 

'"I shall neither whip you nor get you 
whipped ; I will even give you ten cents if 
you drop those pebbles. See, here's the 
money. ' 

"Never did I witness such a mingled 
expression of joy, surprise, and even con- 
sternation, as came over the boy's counte- 
nance when I laid the coin in his thin, 
callous hand. 

" 'Is that mine?^ he asked. 

"'Yes; what will you do with it?' 

"He reflected a moment, during which I 
watched him closely. The little fellow was 
certainly not handsome; he had large, hard 
features, tanned skin, sharp, black eyes, a 
restless physiognomy, with an expression 
so haggard, so suffering, that my heart felt 
sick at contemplating him. He had evi- 
dently never known either care or caress, 
but had grown up like a wolf's cub in the 
untrodden forest, deeming every one he met 
to be his enemy. 

"'Well,' I asked, 'have you made up 
your mind ? ' 

" 'I will lay it aside,' he answered; 'and 
when I am very hungry it will buy me 
some bread.' 

What is your employment in the hos- 
pital — for I suppose that is your home?' 

" 'Yes: — I keep the geese. My name is 
Blaise Joyeux. ' 

"The droll name made me smile, but 
he poor boy did not observe this, as he had 
mceremoniously started after his flock of 
^eese, which were wandering into a neigh- 
)oring field. 

"Next day, the day after, and many suc- 
eeding days, I went out to meet Blaise tak- 



ing care of his giddy flock. I always greeted 
him with a cordial 'Good-morning!' which 
he at first received very bashfully, but as I 
took care to bring him some fruit or bis- 
cuits, he gradually grew more familiar with 
me. The poor child had not many subjects 
to talk about; his daily themes consisted 
of his geese and the turf-pits; his foster^ 
father, who often beat him cruelly; his de- 
sire to grow up, so that he could go out to- 
service; and his ardent wish to have a pair 
of new shoes, for the sabots were very un- 
comfortable to walk with on the newly- 
ploughed grounds. 

"One day I asked him what prayers he 
knew; for I had succeeded in gaining his 
confidence. The child did not even know 
the meaning of the word 'prayer,' so I 
offered to instruct him a little. Never did a 
missionary to Polynesia meet a subject in 
greater ignorance of any sort of religious 
sentiment, or an intellect more thickly 
veiled in the obscurity of mere matter. 
However, the lad was docile, and, although 
in utter mental darkness, his soul had 
never grovelled in the mire of deliberate 
sin. In a short time he was able to say the 
' Our Father ' and the ' Hail Mary ' ; and, by 
diluting the responses in the Catechism to 
words that he comprehended, I succeeded 
in instructing him in our holy religion, and. 
after some months the curate of the parishi 
permitted him to make his First Commun- 
ion. I feel sure that God, who loves to dwell 
in humble hearts, was more than pleased 
the day He condescended to enter the lowly 
soul of my poor, unfortunate Blaise. 

"Soon after the boy was placed as valet 
with a respectable farmer, who could not 
allow him leisure to visit me; but I often 
received assurances that his daily conduct 
was good, and that he never omitted ta 
hear Mass on Sundays and holydays. I was 
very thankful to God for this, and left my^ 
protege in His fatherly care. 

"My own son now occupied my exclusive 
attention; he was about to enter the Col- 
lege of St. Cyr, and it appeared to me that 
I could not give him suflicient proofs of my 
affection, or impress him too much with the 



no 



The Ave Maria. 



thought of the happiness of a pure life, in 
order to fortify him in that perilous moment, 
when the combat with the seductions of the 
world would necessarily begin. 

"Amaury entered St.Cyr, and I remained 
alone. I went less frequently to my coun- 
try house; life in Paris, and the many op- 
portunities offered of assisting in works of 
charity, were more agreeable to me than 
absolute solitude, and consequently I had 
tidings of poor Blaise only when he wrote 
to thank me for his annual Christmas-box. 
However, the curate always took care to 
inform me that my little charge continued 
to do well, and behave piously. 

"In the Spring of 1833 my son returned, 
convalescent from a wound received in 
Africa. He brought me the Cross of the 
Legion of Honor, the first distinction ac- 
corded to his youthful courage — that one 
in the casket. He accompanied me to my 
cottage in the country, where I passed 
some cloudless days — free from all anxiety, 
happy at beholding the child for whom I 
had offered so many prayers, and whose ab- 
sence had caused me such keen regret,show- 
ing himself as tender, as confiding as ever. 

" One day who should make his appear- 
ance at the cottage door but Blaise ! On the 
previous evening he had drawn what con- 
scripts style a ' bad number, ' but for him 
a desirable one; for he was delighted to 
set out on another kind of career. He was, 
as formerly, taciturn, shy, almost rough in 
his manners. As he was leaving I whispered 
in his ear: 

'"My child, I hope you will attend to 
your Christian duties in the regiment. ' 

•"Most certainly I will, Madame,' he 
answered; and I blessed God interiorly, 
w^hile I chided Amaury, who was inclined 
to amuse himself with the young soldier's 
.awkward ways. 'Be indulgent; under that 
Tough husk there is a delicious kernel; that 
coarse envelope contains a pure and humble 
soul. He is an orphan, remember, ' I argued. 

"'If he is an orphan, I pity him from 
my heart!' cried my son, throwing his 
arms affectionately around me, and smoth- 
ering me with kisses. 



"The day of departure arrived for the 
conscripts, and the beating of drums, and 
the reverberating echoes of farewell songs 
(meant to be lively and inspiriting), awak- 
ened me at early dawn. I went out on the 
lawn, where I suddenly heard a voice call- 
ing behind me: 'Madame, I have come to 
bid you good-bye. We are off for Mar- 
seilles, and it is more than probable I shall 
never see you again. Keep this in token 
of my gratitude, and in memory of Blaise, ' 
he continued, as he gave me the knife that 
you see by the cross in the casket; and 
he shook my hands so warmly and eagerly 
that I thought all the bones were broken. 
He tried once more to say adieu, but tears 
choked his utterance; the drum-beat called, 
and soon its deep tones, mingled with the 
sound of brazen trumpets, summoned the 
conscripts to Paris. 

"A month later my son rejoined his regi- 
ment in Africa; it was the period of the 
great war against the revolted tribes, led on 
by Abdel-Kader and his chiefs. France 
paid dearly for her conquests by the blood 
of her soldiers. Amaury belonged to the ex- 
pedition directed by General Tiezel against 
the Kabyles dispersed among the moun- 
tains. During several consecutive weeks I 
received exact and regular news from him; 
a word, a line, written under a tent, in- 
formed me that he was still among the liv- 
ing. Then followed a fearful silence; alas! 
the ominous silence that too surely pro- 
claims death. I dared not speak of my 
'fears; I even dreaded to hear words of con- 
solation, for they would assure me that I 
had lost my only child. At last a letter 
came from Africa, written by the general- 
in-chief, a former friend of our family. My 
son had been taken prisoner by the Kabyles^ 
conducted into the mountainous regions, 
and there assassinated, with other French 
soldiers, whose names were duly registered 
in Le Moniteur de V Ar7nee ; and next to 
Amaury' s name was that of Blaise Joyeux. 
Imagine my grief! But in that dark hour 
God gave me a ray of heavenly consola- 
tion straight from His own Divine Heart." 

Here Mme. des Obeaux drew from an- 




The Ave Afaria. 



II 1 



:her carefully locked casket a letter worn 
in the folds, and yellow with time and fre- 
quent handling. She gave it to me, and I 
read: 

"Madame: — Having been one of the compan- 
ions of your son when in captivity. I assisted at 
his death, which has left an indelible impression 
on my memory ; and it seems to me that an ac- 
count of his last moments will soothe your ma- 
ternal heart. This consideration emboldens me 
to address you. 

"Lieutenant Amaury des Obeaux was cap- 
tured bj^ the Kabyles while making a military 
foray in the neighborhood of Bugia. He was dis- 
mounted, wounded in the hand by a blow from a' 
yataghan, stripped of his uniform, and led away 
into the depths of Mt. Atlas, with six of his com- 
panions. I will not pain you with the details of 
our mental and physical sufferings. The Mara- 
bouts, after consultation, collected around us, and 
one of them, in the Sabian tongue, gave us to 
understand that we were to choose between" ab- 
juration and death — Mahomet or Jesus Christ. A 
profound silence reigned ; every sentiment of faith 
and honor combated against the natural attach- 
ment to life. We had no time to reflect. The 
chief of the Amins questioned the prisoner near- 
est to him — a colonist, the father of a family — and 
he abjured. The second was a Jew by birth, who 
readily acknowledged that he did not adore Jesus 
Christ. The third was Lieutenant des Obeaux. 
At the question of the Amin he was silent — 
hesitated a moment, when a young soldier next 
in the row exclaimed : ' Lieutenant, you may do 
as you like; I am Blaise Joyeux, and I will never 
forsake the creed your mother taught me!' 

"'Alas! my poor mother!' sighed the young 
officer; ' were she here, she too would say: "Death 
before apostasy!" Amin, I also am a Christian.' 

"The soldier signed himself with the Sign of 
the Cross, the Lieutenant did the same, and a 
second later both appeared before God, martyrs 
to their faith. The compassion of a Kabyle 
woman obtained my release — humanly speaking; 
but it is my sincere belief that God spared me to 
recount to you the heroic death of those two 
Christians. 

"Deign, Madame, to accept my profound re- 
spects. 

"Just Herein." 

"I see, Madame," said I, "while you 
taught Blaise to serve God, He was prepar- 
ing for your son the noblest of recompenses 
— a martyr's crown." 



The first beginnings of passion are small; 
hut, like a rebel army, it swells as it 2^6.- 
voxiQ^s.—Falher Tracey Clarke, S.J. 



Origin of tlie Indulgence of the Por- 
tiuncula. 



IT was in the month of October, 1221, that 
the seraphic St. Francis obtained, from 
Our Lord Himself, the great Indulgence of 
the Portiuncula. Having laid the founda- 
tions of his Third Order, the Saint had re- 
turned to the Convent of Our Lady of the 
Angels at Assisi, more absorbed in God than 
ever. His love of souls and zeal for the con- 
version of sinners knew no bounds. Day 
and night he prayed and wept for their con- 
version. 

One night while he was praying in the 
cleft of a rock, which may yet be seen not 
far from the Church of the Portiuncula, an 
angel appeared to him, and said: "Francis, 
hasten to the church; Our Lord and His 
glorious Mother await you there." St. 
Francis went in haste to the humble sanc- 
tuary, and there he saw a marvellous sight. 
Upon the altar, at the place of the taberna- 
cle, was the Word made Flesh, the Eternal 
King of Ages, Christ Jesus, resplendent 
with glory and beauty, majestically seated 
upon a throne of light. At His right hand 
was His ever-blessed Mother, Mary most 
holy, and surrounding them were a mul- 
titude of angels. 

Ravished with love and joy, the Saint 
prostrated himself with his face to the 
ground, and Our Lord said to him, with 
great tenderness: "Francis, I have heard 
your fervent prayers. In return for the zeal 
with which you and your Brothers have 
labored for the salvation of souls, ask of Me 
any favor, and I will grant it; for I have 
given you to the people to be their light, 
and to My Church to repair her losses upon 
the earth. ' ' Emboldened by such goodness, 
the Saint replied, with humble confidence: 
"My dear Saviour, although I am myself 
but a miserable sinner, I humbly beseech 
Thy divine Majesty to mercifully grant to 
the faithful this signal favor, that all those 
who, having with contrite hearts confessed 
their sins, visit this church, may here ob- 
tain a plenary indulgence. Most glorious 
and most Holy Virgin Mary, our powerful 



112 



The Ave Maria. 



advocate, I beseech you to intercede for me 
and for all sinners ! ' ' 

Our Lord then said to the happy Saint, 
still prostrate at His feet: " Brother Fran- 
cis, the favor you ask of Me is great, but I 
grant it. Go to My Vicar, and ask him in 
My Name to confirm this indulgence." 

From their cells, which adjoined the 
church, many Brothers saw the light and 
the angels that filled the sanctuary; they 
also heard what was said, but a holy fear 
prevented them from approaching. 

Soon after St. Francis, with one of the 
Brothers, was kneeling at the feet of Pope 
Honorius III. "Holy Father," said the 
Saint, "I have a little church which some 
years ago I dedicated to the Queen of An- 
gels. I come to ask your Holiness to enrich 
it with a precious indulgence." 

"And what indulgence do you ask. 
Brother Francis?" said the good Pope; 
"an indulgence of one year?" 

' ' O your Holiness ! ' ' exclaimed the Saint, 
"what is one year!" 

"An indulgence of three years, six years, 
seven years? " asked the Pope; but, seeing 
that the holy man was not yet satisfied, he 
exclaimed: "What, then, do you want?" 

' ' Most Holy Father, ' ' replied St. Francis, 
' ' what I ask of your Holiness is not a ques- 
tion of years. I desire that all those who, 
having with contrite hearts confessed, visit 
the Church of Our Lady of the Angels, shall 
there obtain the remission of all the punish- 
ment due to the sins they have been so 
unhappy as to commit from their baptism 
until the time of their visit." 

■ "Francis," said the Pope, "it is not the 
practice of. the Church to grant such in- 
dulgences." 

"But," answered the Saint, "I ask it in 
the Name of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who 
sent me to you." 

Then the Pope said, with unwonted solem- 
nity : " I grant the favor you ask . ' ' And this 
he repeated three times. Later on the same 
privilege was extended to all churches 
served by the Franciscans. During the 
pontificate of Pius IX. it was granted to 
numerous other churches and chapels. 



On the Mother of God. 



THOUGHTS OF PROTESTANTS. 



MARTIN LUTHER {Comment, super 
Magnificat) says: "Since Mary has 
been made Mother of God, gifts precious 
and innumerable are given to her, that are 
superior to the understanding. All the 
honor and blessing comes from this, that 
among all matikind her person alone is su- 
perior to the rest, as she can have no equal, 
having a Son in common with the Heavenly 
Father." 

Calvin {^Lib. de Harm. Evaitg.) declares: 
"We can not celebrate to-day the bene- 
diction brought to us by Christ without 
commemorating also how honorably Mary 
was adorned by God, who wished that she 
should be Mother of His only - begotten 
Son." 

Bishop Bull, "On the Invocation of the 
Blessed Virgin, " observes: "We think and 
speak most respectfully of her, and do not 
ordinarily mention her name without a 
preface or epithet of honor, as the Holy, 
Blessed Virgin, and the like. We do, by 
the appointment of our church, sing or re- 
hearse in our daily service her excellent 
Magnificat^ and thereby we testify our 
assent and complacence on those singular 
favors that God is therein said to have be- 
stowed on her; and together with her we 
finally return the praise and glory of all to 
God alone. We celebrate two annual fes- 
tivals in her memorial — the Feasts of the 
Annunciation and Purification; and if we 
could think of any other honor that we 
could do to her, without dishonoring God 
the Father and the Eternal Son, we would 
most willingly yield it to her." 

Dr. Hicks, ' ' On the Due Praise and 
Honor of the Blessed Virgin Mary," re- 
marks: "To be chosen for the Mother of 
God was the greatest honor and favor that 
ever God conferred upon any human creat- 
ure. None of the special honors and favors 
that He did to any of the saints before or 
since are equivalent to the honor of being 



s 



The Ave Maria. 



113 



IXKJ 

It 



;he Mother of God. He who said, ' Those 
that honor Me I will honor, ' would not have 
done so great an honor to any daughter of 
Abraham, but to one who best deserved it; j 
to one of the holiest among the daughters 
of Israel, to the most heavenly -minded 
Virgin of the tribe of Judah and the royal 
house of David, who had no superior for 
holiness upon earth." 
Mrs. Jameson in her work, ' ' Legends of 
e Madonna as Represented in the Fine 
Arts," writes: "I can not understand why 
there should exist among Protestants so 
: strong a disposition to discredit every rep- 
resentation of Mary, the Mother of Our 
Lord, to which a high antiquity had been as- 
signed by the Roman Catholics. We know 
that as early as the second century not 
•only symbolical figures of Our Lord, but 
figures of certain personages of holy life, as 
St. Peter and St. Paul, Agnes the Roman, 
and Euphemia the Greek, martyrs, did cer- 
tainly exist; why, therefore, should there 
not have existed effigies of the Mother of 
•Christ — of her so highly blessed, the subject 
•of so many prophecies, and naturally the 
object of a tender and a just veneration 
among the early Christians? It seems to 
me that nothing could be more likely than 
that such representations ought to have a 
deep interest for all Christians, no matter 
•of what denomination, — for all, in truth, 
that believe the Saviour of the world had a 
good Mother, His only earthly parent, who 
brought Him forth, nurtured and loved 

Him." 

♦ ♦ » 

Mr. Proctor on Papal Infallibility. 



The Tablet. 

AS a rule, Protestants are apparently in- 
capable of grasping the very idea of 
Papal Infallibility. It is at first sight so 
impossible to their method of thinking that 
they can not even be persuaded to consider 
the evidence; and this is possibly the reason 
why one of the most self-evident of the doc- 
trines of Christianity continues to be a 
stumbling-block to many well-meaning men. 
This infirmity is by no means confined to 
foolish or narrow-minded people: it is the 



case that those who on other matters are 
well-informed, or even learned — who in all 
other questions may be regarded as men of 
common sense, seem to leave behind them 
all the training of a life and all discipline of 
thought when once religious questions are 
to be discussed. For this reason the candid 
acknowledgment of a sensible Protestant 
author, who has a world wide reputation as 
an exact and well-informed writer on matters 
connected with astronomical science, is well 
worth notice. Mr. R. A. Proctor has at least 
delivered his soul, and it will be no fault of 
his if his words fail to remove stumbling- 
blocks regarding Papal Infallibility from the 
path of many an anxious Protestant inquirer. 
In the current number of Knowledge he 
writes: 

"The doctrine of Papal Infallibility, as com- 
monly understood, is, of course, preposterous on 
the face of it. But the common mistakes about 
the doctrine are themselves preposterous. One 
hears an ignorant but most zealous Protestant 
talk such nonsense as this: 'How<:«//the Pope 
be infallible when such and such a Pope was a 
notorious unwise, and such another a man of evil 
life?' It would be just as reasonable to say: 
'How can we believe David to have been in- 
spired, when we find that he behaved not only 
villainously but most foolishly in regard to Uriah 
the Hittite and his wife? ' Not quite so absurd, 
though quite as incorrect, is the idea that Papal 
Infallibility is disproved by the decision (suppos- 
ing for the moment it received the Papal sanction) 
against Galileo; it is fairly matched by the mis- 
take of supposing that a reasonable doctrine as 
to Bible Inspiration would be shaken by the mis- 
take of Matthew in asserting that all the king- 
doms of the earth could be seen from some ex- 
ceeding high mountain. The fact really is that 
the doctrine of Papal Infallibility, as it is really 
taught by the Catholic Church, is almost a corol- 
lary on the doctrine of Bible Inspiration. Accord- 
ing to the latter doctrine, in its only reasonable 
form, men like Moses, David, Solomon, Ezra, 
Isaiah, and the like, in no sense to be regarded 
as perfect either in wisdom or in conduct, were 
inspired as respects certain matters which they 
addressed to men in regard to religion. 

"The former doctrine, in the only form ever 
adopted by the Catholic Church, asserts that 
Popes, though in no sense to be regarded as per- 
fect either in wisdom or in conduct, have always 
been and always will be so far guided or re- 
strained (as the case may be) that if, or when, 
the}^ address the whole Church ex cathedrd on 
matters relating to morals or doctrine, their 
teaching will be true. In conduct, a Pope may 



114 



The Ave Maria. 



be imperfect or even wicked; in regard to science, 
art, or literature, he may be ignorant or unwise; 
in theological matters, even dealt with by a priest 
or a Doctor of the Church, a Pope may make 
serious mistakes; but no Pope, let his personal 
qualifications be what they may— let him even 
be as overbearing as Moses, as unscrupulous as 
David, as selfish as Solomon, as ignorant as 
Matthew, as contentious as Paul— will ever ad- 
dress to the whole Church, ex cathedra, false 
teaching as to morals or as to doctrine. . . . 

"The Catholic doctrine on the subject is per- 
fectly definite; and it is absolutely certain that the 
decision in regard to Galileo's teaching, shown 
now to have been unsound, does not in the 
slightest degree affect the doctrine of the infalli- 
bility either of the Pope or of the Church. The 
subject matter belonged neither to morals nor to 
faith; the decision was neither ex cathedrd nor 
addressed to the whole Church; in not one single 
point does the case illustrate this doctrine of 
Papal Infallibility as defined by the Vatican 
Council, which pronounced that 'The Roman 
Pontiff, when he speaks ex cathedrd — /.<?., when 
in discharge of his office as pastor and teacher 
of all Christians, he, in virtue of his supreme 
apostolic authority, defines a doctrine of faith or 
morals to be held by the Universal Church — is, 
by the divine assistance promised to him in the 
Blessed Peter, endowed with that infallibility 
wherewith our divine Redeemer willed that His 
Church should be endowed in defining doctrines 
of faith and morals.' " 

This is, of course, the teaching of history 
and the judgment of common sense. But 
how many Protestant winters can pass by the 
case of Galileo without a sneer, and how 
many have troubled themselves to ascertain 
the facts connected with it before pronounc- 
ing judgment on the Church? Mr. Proctor 
does not accept the doctrine of the Infallibil- 
ity of the Pope, but he deals with the facts 
relating to it as he would deal with other 
facts; and the result, of course, is that the 
everlasting Galileo diflficulty is disposed of 
at once. It seems odd that such a treatment 
of such a subject should be rare, but it is un- 
fortunately the fact that in hardly any case 
will a Protestant condescend to inform him- 
self as to what Catholics really do believe, or 
to weigh the facts or test the statements on 
which he does not hesitate to convict the 
Catholic Church, not merely of falsehood, 
but of inconceivable folly. 



Meanness is a medal the reverse of which 
is insolence. 



Catholic Notes. 



Archbishop Ryan, of Philadelphia, has ap- 
pointed a commission, consisting of Vicar- 
General Very Rev. Nicholas Cantwell, and 
Very Rev. Maurice A.Walsh; Very Rev. P. A. 
Stanton, D. D., O. S. A ; Rev. P. R. O'Reilly 
and Rev. John E. Fitzmaurice, to inquire 
into the life, character, and works of Mgr. 
John Nepomucene Neumann, C.SS.R., fourth 
Bishop of Philadelphia, born 1811 at Bud- 
weis in Bohemia, died Januarys, i860, in his 
episcopal city, ' ' in the odor of sanctity. ' ' The 
testimony thus taken will be forwarded to 
Rome as the preparatory step in the process 
of the beatification of this servant of God, 
who in life was revered as a saint by all who 
came in contact with him -7 a belief which 
since his death has been confirmed by seem- 
ing miracles wrought through his interces- 
sion. The life of Bishop Neumann was one 
of extraordinary self-denial and sacrifice. It 
is recorded that he had the gift of prophecy, 
and foretold the day of his death; and that 
upon the thirtieth day after his burial, his body 
was found incorrupt. 



The Danish Catholics have just been cele- 
brating the eighth centenary of their martyr- 
king and patron, St. Canute, who— married to 
Adela, the daughter of Count Robert of Flan- 
ders, and by her the father of Charles the 
Good — was assassinated at Odensee in Fyen 
whilst prostrate in prayer in the Church of 
St. Alban. His good son met the same fate 
while praying in the Church of Our Lady in 
Bruges. During the celebration, which lasted 
three days, there was a daily pilgrimage to 
Odensee, where Solemn High Mass was sung 
in a church close to the spot where the Saint 
was martyred. The Prefect- Apostolic of the 
North, all the clergy of Denmark, and a large 
body of Catholics were present. The pilgrims 
also visited the beautiful Cathedral, once Cath- 
olic, now Protestant, but still preserving in 
the crypt the shrine of the martyr. 



We regret to record the death of our valued 
contributor and friend, Mr. K. P. Ryder, which 
took place at the Hospital of the Alexian 
Brothers in St. I^ouis, on the i8th inst., after 
a tedious illness, borne with exemplar>^ pa- 
tience, and childlike trust in the mercy and 



1 



The Ave Maria, 



115 



goodness of God. It is consoling to think that 
such long-continued suiferings, so resignedly 
endured, must have shortened the term of his 
detention in that place of longing, the ex- 
quisite pains of which even the holiest have 
known. He was a man of such good heart, so 
forgiving, so childlike in man}^ ways, that the 
most exacting were always ready to condone 
his shortcomings, — surely the judgment of 
God was merciful. 

Mr. Ryder was the only son of the late Rev. 
Almanza S. Ryder, of Hubbardston, Mass., 
where he was born on the 30th of January, 
1856. He became a Catholic some years after 
his father's death. Since 1870 he had been 
employed as a journalist in Boston, New 
York, and St. lyouis. His poems, which are 
much admired, were contributed principally 
to the New York Sun and The "Ave Ma- 
ria. ' ' He also wrote occasional sketches for 
the latter under the pseudonyme of Samuel 
H. Derbey. The sonnet which appears in 
our present number was received shortly be- 
fore his death. 

In personal appearance Mr. Ryder greatly 
resembled Edgar Allan Poe, and his career, in 
some respects, sad to say, was not dissimilar. 
But the thoughts to which he gave such grace- 
ful expression were proof of a noble heart, 
more sinned against than sinful — God rest his 
soul! 



In an audience granted to the Chapter of 
the lyateran Basilica, on the completion of im- 
portant restorations in that ancient Cathedral 
of Rome, the Holy Father said: 

' ' In these times of apostasy from Christ I do as 
Constantine did when the Church came forth from 
the Catacombs, and as Sixtus III. when Nestorius 
had denied the Divine Maternity. To this Rome, 
which thought it had a great religion because it 
had not refused any falsehood, that pious mon- 
arch [Constantine], by the hands of St. Sylvester, 
showed the image of the Saviour. And Rome, 
recognising Him for its sole and true God, from 
being a disciple of error became the mistress of 
Truth. When Nestorius impugned the Divine 
Maternity, although his blasphemy was already 
buried under the anathemas of Cyril and the 
Council of Ephesus, Sixtus III. desired that in the 
Siberian Basilica there should be erected a perpet- 
ual memory of the Roman Faith ; and he caused 
to be placed there an image in mosaic of the 
Mother of God. So have I also studied to do. Now 
that the world is departing from Christ, I have 
placed in the Lateran apse the image of Him, 



which Nicholas IV. had formerly caused to be ex- 
ecuted, but restored to its ancient splendor, and 
more beautiful, more resplendent than before. Let 
us hope that the world may recognize its Saviour 
and its God!" 

It is announced that the Rev. Alfred Curtis, 
of the Cathedral at Baltimore, has been ap- 
pointed to succeed Bishop Becker in the See 
of Wilmington, Delaware. Father Curtis was 
born in Somerset County, Maryland, and is 
now about fifty- three years of age. He is a 
convert from Episcopalianism, and was for a 
number of years rector of a Ritualistic congre- 
gation in Baltimore. He was received into the 
Church in April, 1872. by Cardinal Newman 
when he visited the Oratory near Birming- 
ham, England. For the past twelve years 
Father Curtis has been stationed at the Cathe- 
dral, where he is much beloved by the people 
of the parish. His love for the poor has always 
been very great, and he manifests a particular 
interest in the welfare of the colored race. It 
is a curious coincidence that his predecessor, 
Bishop Becker, is also a convert, and at one 
time was one of the priests connected with 
the same Cathedral 



In Belgium there is an ancient custom, ac- 
cording to which the King stands godfather 
for the seventh son born to any couple in the 
kingdom, and makes the parents valuable 
presents. It lately happened that a Protestant 
couple had a seventh son, and the father wrote 
to the King asking him to be sponsor. The 
following is the reply sent by the King's sec- 
retary: 

' ' In reply to the letter addressed by you to the 
King, asking his Majesty to consent to be sponsor 
for your seventh son at the baptismal font, I have 
the honor to inform you that this favor is granted 
only to children born of Catholic parents. 

"Accept," etc. 

Some Catholics, who are over-ready to fra- 
ternize with Protestants, and even to join with 
them in their worship, with the mistaken 
notion that thereby they show freedom from 
bigotry, might learn a lesson from this little 
incident. 

Cardinal Manning, in a sermon on the char- 
acteristics of the age, preached lately in Eon- 
don, speaks thus of the effect of the spirit of 
the world upon society: 

"There was a time when the Church, its feasts, 
its customs, its traditions, ruled society. There 



ii6 



The Ave Maria. 



wavS a time when individuals were weak, but so- 
ciety was strong — society was Christian; and if 
Christian men became weak, society held them 
up. Now society has put off its Christianity. In- 
dividuals retain their faith, but the weight and 
•current of society, which has lost its Christianity, 
are always bearing men down, and carrying them 
away. Now the Church has to wait upon the 
world for its time, its hours, its festivals. Chris- 
tians and Catholics are carried away by the spirit 
of the world. The name of God is hardly men- 
tioned in private life. When a number of people 
sit together, who ventures to mention the name 
of God ? Who ventures to speak of any sacred 
thing? Once more, what little real charity there 
is amongst men at the present day ! Lastly, there 
is a worldly piety — a phenomenon which I can not 
explain. I do not know what to compare it to, 
except a kaleidoscope, in which sometimes one 
-color predominates, sometimes another; it is a 
combination of manifold tints. So it is sometimes 
in the lives of some people. There are scapulars 
and ball-dresses, novels and books of devotion — 
I will not go on. Is it not better to have a ' single 
eye ' and a firm spirit, and to choose which master 
you will serve ? The people of the world look to 
Catholics, and when they find one of us doing 
the same things that they do, they are not only 
^scandalized, but they are disappointed. They look 
to us for better things, and they believe better 
things." 



Obituary. 

"It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead." 

—2 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

The Rev. Hubert Schick, rector of St. Alphon- 
sus' Church, Philadelphia, whose death occurred 
in Germany. The deceased was an exemplary 
priest, and was remarkable for his saint-like 
charity. 

The Rev. James W. Kelly, the beloved rector 
of St. Ignatius' Church, Houghton, Mich, 

The Rev. John M. Kremmen, a worthy priest 
of the Diocese of Springfield, who departed this 
life on the 17th inst.- 

The Rev. Patrick T. Faunt, chaplain of the 
Orphan Asylum, Louisville, Ky. He had been in 
ill health for many years. The Catholic Advocate 
mentions that "Father Faunt was the first to 
organize a pilgrimage to Knock, and the first 
priest to say Mass there." 

Mr. E. P. Ryder, St. Louis, Mo. ; Mrs. Mc- 
Veigh, Clandeboye, Ont. ; Thomas and Dennis 
Foley, Hartford. Conn.; Catharine L. Haffron, 
Philadelphia; Mrs. J. Kelly, Rochester, N.Y. ; and 
Mr. Patrick Keen an, East Boston, Mass. 

May they rest in peace! 




iAf^TMENT 



Little Deeds. 



N 



OT mighty deeds make up the sum 
Of happiness belov^, 
But little acts of kindliness, 
Which any child may show. 

A merry sound to cheer the babe, 

And tell a friend is near; 
A word of ready sympathy, 

To dry the childish tear. 

A glass of water kindly brought; 

An offer' d easy-chair; 
The turning of the window-blind. 

That all may feel the air. 

An early flower, unask'd, bestow' d; 

A light and cautious tread; 
A voice to gentlest whisper hushed, 

To spare the aching head. 

Oh! deeds like these, though little things, 

Yet purest love disclose. 
As fragrant perfume on the air 

Reveals the hidden rose. 

Our Heavenly Father loves to see 
These precious fruits of love; 

And if we only serve Him here, 
We'll dwell with Him above. 

— The Catholic. 



A Lesson of Charity. 




N one of the poorest parts of 
the County Kildare lived a 
widow with two little'girls — 
Lizzie, aged seven, and Mary, 
five. As long as her health per- 
mitted, the good mother worked 
day and night, and even then could 
hardly procure for herself and her 
little ones the bare necessaries of life; but 
soon her strength began to fail. Her con- 
stant hard work and scant food had their 
natural effect on her weak constitution, and 



\h 



The Ave Maria. 



117 



he fell ill, and was confined to bed; but 
)eatli at last took pity on her, and in a few 
ays released ber from her sufferings. 

The two little girls were thus left entirely 
; lone, for the neighbors were barely able to 
] .rovide for their own children, and could 
1 ot think of feeding two additional mouths. 
]iut the good people felt for the orphans, 
2nd after the burial of the mother they con- 
sulted together as to what might be done. 
One of the old men of the town said: "If 
we could only take the poor little creatures 
to their father's brother, at Kilcullenbridge, 
I am sure they would be well provided 
for." 

The idea was eagerly seized by the others ; 
for if the children could not be properly 
cared for by relatives or friends, the parish 
would have to provide for them. It hap- 
pened that a countryman was going to 
Naas, the principal town of the county, and, 
as his road lay in the vicinity of Kilcullen- 
bridge, he expressed his willingness to take 
the little orphans to their uncle. 

The children, therefore, were placed in 
the peasant's cart, and began their journey. 
The clothes they wore were so thin that, 
although the kind-hearted people wrapped 
them up carefully, they felt the cold bitterly. 
The driver of the cart was a silent and sul- 
len man, who took no further notice of his 
young charges, until towards noon they 
came to a cross-road which led to Kilcullen- 
bridge, about two miles distant; whereas 
the road to Naas, whither he was going, 
kept straight ahead. 

The man lifted the children down from 
the car, showed them their road, telling 
them to walk on till they came to the town, 
and then drove off. The little ones, with 
tears in their eyes, answered the rough good- 
bye of the heartless fellow, and kept looking 
after him as long as he was in sight, and 
when at last he disappeared, they sat down 
md cried. 

The elder child at last dried her tears, 
;ook her little sister by the hand, and said: 
'Come, Mary: we must not stay here; we 
nust try to reach Kilcullenbridge before it 
jets dark," 



' * But I am so hungry ! ' ' sobbed the child ; 
for they had taken but a scant meal that 
morning before leaving home. 

Lizzie tried to console her as best she 
could, although she felt very weak her- 
self, and they continued their journey over 
the snow- covered road. Before they had 
walked a mile their strength was nearly 
gone, and the feeling of hunger was grow- 
ing more and more painful. In the distance 
Lizzie saw a large farm-house, which, by a 
great effort, they succeeded in reaching. 
They thought to ask the occupants for 
something to eat. But they stopped near 
the wall that surrounded the house ; for, not- 
withstanding the extreme poverty which 
they had suffered at home, they had never 
begged. Besides, they were very much 
frightened when they saw the farmer scold- 
ing one of his men in a loud, angry voice, 
and slamming the door after him with such 
violence as to make the windows rattle. 

These were very unfavorable signs; but 
Mary was nearly fainting from weakness 
and hunger, and this compelled her sister 
to lay aside her fear. Holding each other's 
hand tightly, the little girls walked up the 
path to the house. Lizzie knocked at the 
door, and, hearing a rough ' ' Come in, ' ' 
they entered a large room, that served at 
the same time for kitchen and sitting- 
room, where the farmer sat in an arm-chair 
near a bright fire. 

"Ha! what do you want?" he cried out 
harshly to the little strangers, who stood 
trembling, too frightened to speak a word. 

"Now, can you not speak?" he asked 
again, growing more angry. 

Lizzie then took courage, and in simple 
words begged him, for God's sake, to give 
them something to eat, and to let them stay 
near the fire for a while to warm themselves. 

"Just as I expected," growled the miser; 
"I knew that you were coming to beg, for 
I see that you do not belong to this place. 
There are beggars enough here already, 
without having strangers to annoy us. We 
can hardly get bread enough for ourselves 
in these hard times; so begone!" 

The children began to cry, but the hard- 



ii8 



The Ave Maria. 



hearted man exclaimed: ''It is no use for 
you to begin to blubber; let your parents 
feed you; but of course they are lazy people, 
who will not work." 

"Our father and mother are dead," an- 
swered Lizzie. 

" Oh ! yes, ' ' said the farmer, in a sneering 
tone: "father and mother are always dead 
when they send out their brats to beg. That 
story will not do with me. So clear out at 
once ! ' ' 

"We have eaten nothing for ever so 
long! ' ' pleaded the child, raising her hands 
in supplication; "and we are too weak to 
go any farther. Oh! please give us only a 
little piece of bread, for we are so hungry ! ' ' 

"I told you to leave — that I don't give 
beggars anything." 

At these words the farmer looked so cross 
that Lizzie ran to the door, dragging her 
sister after her. But when they were in 
the yard little Mary pulled her hand away, 
and moved quickly in the direction of the 
barn. There was a kennel near the barn 
door, where a large, fierce-looking dog was 
fastened by a chain. His dinner was before 
him in a wooden dish. 

The half- starved child knelt down near 
the dish, and began to eat of the dog's 
meal. Lizzie ran after her, and wanted to 
drag her away; but when she saw some 
pieces of bread and roagt potatoes in the 
dish, she could no longer resist the tempta- 
tion, but joined her sister, and ate heartily. 
The big dog looked as if he were taken 
altogether by surprise at his unexpected 
company, and lay down quietly beside the 
dish, and watched the children eat. 

At this moment the farmer opened the 
door to see if the little beggars had disap- 
peared, and was astonished at the strange 
sight. The dog was known as one of the 
most savage in all that neighborhood, and 
was always kept chained ; and even the 
girl that brought him his food had to be 
very careful when she came near him. At 
first, therefore, the farmer thought only of 
the danger that the children were in, and 
cried out to them : ' ' Come away from that 
dog, or he will tear you to pieces!" 



He then ran quickly forward, but stopped 
suddenly when he saw the dog standing up 
and fawning on the children, and wagging 
his tail, as if he would say to his master: 
' ' Do not disturb my guests. ' ' 

At this sight a great change took place in 
the heart of the cruel man, and the touching 
spectacle awoke feelings to which he had 
long been a stranger. 

The little ones had meanwhile jumped 
up when they saw him coming; they evi- 
dently feared to be beaten for having taken 
a part of th^ dog's meal. For a few mo- 
ments the farmer could not speak ; then he 
said, in a voice as soft as he could make it: 

"Children, are you really so hungry that 
you can eat a dog's dinner? Come with 
me, and I will give you as much as you 
want." 

Hereupon he took them by the hand and 
led them back into the house, from which 
he had so cruelly driven them a little while 
before. The dog had given his master a 
lesson, and taught him how inhuman his 
conduct had been. The man called a servant, 
told her to bring in some food and milk, 
and invited the astonished children to sit 
down at the table, he himself sitting beside 
them, and kindly asking their names. 

' ' My name is Lizzie,' ' answered the elder, 
"and my sister's name is Mary." 

"How long is it since your parents 
died?" 

"Father is dead two years, and mother 
was buried yesterday." 

At the remembrance of their recent loss 
the orphans began to cry again; but the 
farmer said to them, encouragingly: 

' ' Do not cry, children ; God will take 
care of you. Tell me now where you came 
from." 

"From Loughrea." 

' ' From Loughrea? ' ' he repeated, in sur- 
prise, adding after a little: 

"What was your father's name?" 

"Martin O' Sullivan," answered Lizzie, 
simply; but she was frightened when she 
saw the effect this name produced on the \ 
farmer, who repeated it after her. His face 
turned a deep red, tears started to his eyes, 




Irke Ave Maria. 



ii^ 



i id, taking the children in his arms, he 
1 issed them tenderly. 

"Do yon know my name? " 

"No," answered Lizzie. 

"How, then, did you come here? — did 
a ay one send you ? ' ' 

"No," replied Lizzie once more. "We 
vere told to go to Kilcullenbridge, where 
ve have an uncle. The people at home 
said that he would be glad to take us, and 
we would have a good time with him; but 
I do not think so; our mother used to say 
he was a hard man, and that he did not 
cire about his poor relatives^' 

"Your mother was right; but what do 
you intend to do if that hard-hearted man 
will not keep you?" 

' ' Then we will have to die of hunger, ' ' 
answered Lizzie, with a resignation doubly 
touching in one so young. 

"No, no, children!" said the farmer, 
pressing them to his bosom once more; 
"God forbid that this should happen to 
you! See, He has had compassion on you, 
and made use of a dumb brute to touch the 
heart of your uncle, who will never let you 
want for anything while he lives. ' ' 

The orphans evidently did not under- 
stand what it all meant, and opened their 
eyes in astonishment; but he went on: 

"You wanted to go to Kilcullenbridge 
to your uncle, Patrick O' Sullivan, and you 
are now at his house. I am your uncle, 
and, since you are my poor brother's chil- 
dren, I welcome you with all my heart. 
This must be your home in future." 

It was only little by little that the chil- 
iren began to realize the meaning of their 
jncle's words; he explained to them, as 
;hey continued to eat, that he formerly lived 
n Kilcullenbridge, but about a year ago 
le purchased this farm, where they were 
low to live with him. 

It is not difficult to imagine the delight of 
he poor orphans; it seemed to them like a 
ream when they learned that their misery 
^as at an end. After their hunger was ap- 
eased, little Mary said: 

"Uncle Patrick, let us go and see our 
ood friend the dog." And the servants 



could hardly believe their eyes when they 
saw the morose ©Id bachelor taking the 
two children by the hand, and leading them 
out to the dog-house. The animal again 
showed his pleasure by wagging his tail, 
and licking the pale cheeks of his little 
friends. 

It was assuredly their good angel that had 
led the children to Patrick O' Sullivan's, 
and the same kind spirit that had changed 
the nature of the savage dog. What would 
have become of the poor orphans were it 
.not for the lesson given their uncle by a 
dumb brute! 



From Tipperary to Texas. 



The Adventures oe Tibby Buti^er. 



BY T. F. GAI.WEY. 



VI. 



The days flew by, and Tibby' s sturdy 
manner, along with his readiness to oblige 
others, and the pains he always took to do 
well whatever he had to do, made him a 
general favorite at the ranch. He was be- 
coming a good horseman, and was acquiring 
a facility with the lasso which pleased even 
the Mexicans, and he had already shown 
some skill as a marksman. 

But, in spite of the constant round of hard 
work and boisterous play which prevailed 
at the ranch, Colonel Lynch did not permit 
religion to fall into neglect. Every Sunday 
morning and holyday of obligation he read 
the service of Mass, except on the occasions 
when he had a priest come out from Bl Paso. 
All who could .be spared long enough from 
the care of the cattle were present. In the 
afternoon of the same day the young people 
of the establishment were required to recite 
a lesson of the Catechism. Whenever the 
priest from El Paso came, there was more 
than the usual preparation made and Tibby 
was gratified on the first of these occasions 
after his arrival to be chosen for the server 
of the priest's Mass. 

The time for the great spring drive to the 



120 



2 he Ave Maria, 



Northern market Was at hand. The herds 
of many ranches were Wandering about to- 
gether on the unfenced plains, in charge of 
their vaqueros^ wherever there was good 
grass and water. Colonel Lynch and the 
other ranchers of the region having ar- 
ranged for the ' ' round-up, ' ' or separation of 
the different herds, there was a great hub- 
bub. 

The long-looked for day came, and Tibby 
and Phil were up at dawn and ready. The 
two boys, of the same age and nearly the 
same size, were dressed alike. Each wore a 
stiflf sombrero^ or broad-brimmed hat, hav- 
ing a band consisting of a wide, flat-linked 
silver chain. Their shirts were of dark blue 
wool, gayly embroidered on the bosom and 
the wide collar, and their gray jackets were 
very jaunty, with large silver buttons; while 
their buckskin chapperals^ or trousers, 
were open at the outsides from the knee 
down, the whole of the outside seams from 
waist to ankle being marked with silver 
buttons the size of a bullet, and as round. 
On the heels of their boots each sported a 
pair of spurs with rowels made of silver 
dollars, and having silver pendants that 
kept up a constant tinkling. Each carried, 
suspended from the wrist by a loop, a whip 
nearly as long as himself, with a heavy butt 
at one end, and a stinging lash at the other. 

' ' Do you think is my lasso all right for 
to-day, Phil?" Tibby asked, looking at the 
coil on his saddle-bow. 

"I reckon it must be," was Phil's reply. 
' ' There is not much fear of your not being 
all right. You are so particular about all 
you do I sometimes feel like calling you 
*Miss Nancy,' only I know you never miss 
anything. ' ' 

"It's very sly you are, Phil, and droll 
too, I'm sure. But I hope I'll not miss my 
share of the day, anyhow," was Tibby' s 
rejoinder. 

At this moment a shrill cry — the signal 
for all to be oflf to the round-up — stopped 
the conversation between the two boys, and 
the next minute they were galloping across 
the flat with other horsemen, in the direc- 
tion of Aguas Dukes, a cluster of springs 



a few miles to the North. There was to be 
the rendezvous for the round-up. 

Tibby was lost in wonder on reaching 
Aguas Dulces. The ground thereabout was 
generally low, but there was a lofty knoll 
near by, and thither Colonel Lynch, accom- 
panied by his foreman and Tibby and Phil, 
rode to meet the other ranchers, in order to 
settle the details of the round-up. As far as 
Tibby' s wide- opened eyes could see, steers 
and cows with their calves were feeding 
calmly on the luscious grass, or were can- 
tering in, followed by hooting vaguer os. 
There were fully thirty thousand cattle on 
that plain, and still more were coming into 
view over the distant horizon. 

Such a noise, and such a variety of 
sounds! The deep bellowing that rose from 
the immense herd seemed to Tibby like 
the thunder that precedes a summer rain, 
and the tread of the thousands of hoofs was 
almost appalling. There were human voices 
also to add to the din. Every one of the 
hundred and fifty vaqueros was exercising 
his lungs either in frantic hoots at the cat- 
tle, or in loud shouts in Spanish or English 
to his fellow-herdsmen; while the ceaseless 
snapping at the long whips resembled in 
sound a Fourth-of-July discharge of fire- 
crackers. Apart from the great herd, mean- 
time the work of branding went on. 

The round-up was finished at last, and 
then began the long march of the separated 
herds northward, to the Kansas dead-line, 
or railroad shipping point. This important 
annual affair having been successfully ac- 
complished. Colonel Lynch and his party 
returned to Connemara Ranch, taking with 
him as guests some of his neighbors. It 
was a merry evening at the ranch. A fat 
steer, properly prepared, and decorated with 
salad greens, was roasted whole in the open 
air, and there was jollity and good cheer for 
all comers, and generous accommodations. 

(CONCI.USION IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.) 



There is a beautiful precept which he 
who has received an injury, or thinks he 
has, would for his own sake do well to fol- 
low: '* Excuse half, and forgive the rest." 




II 



~^^:^^^^p^^^^^^^ 



\0h. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, AUGUST 7, 1886. No. 6. 



lCk>pyright :— Ret. D. E. Hudboit, C. S. C] 



Trust. 



Thy 



jpOMRADE. the doubts were thine! 
^ friends had none; 

None but thyself saw thine un worthiness; 
For thou didst battle bravely, and hast won, 
leaving thy weeping friends thy name to 
bless. 
The promises of God can never fail, 

And Christ has told the welcome that awaits 
The faithful souls that 'gainst this world pre- 
vail, 

When they shall stand before Heaven's jasper 
gates. 

I/)ved one! not least of all God's glorious gifts 

Is this divine assurance He bestows; 
Ufe's heaviest weight from off the heart it 
lifts. 
While every spirit with fresh ardor glows. 
When thinking that the burdens bravely 

borne 
ATill disappear in Heaven's celestial morn. 



Three Days at Lourdes. 



BY A benkdictine; abbot. 



T was midday when we quitted 
Tournay, or Dornach (the ancient 
centre of Catholic Flanders), with 
s magnificent Cathedral, and ruins of St. 
fartin's great abbey. The Parisian fast 
^in next stopped at Lille, and then at 
ougneau, not far from Amiens. It was 
-fore the gates of this city, formerly the 



capital of Picardy, and so remarkable for the 
number of its monasteries, that St. Martin, 
the Apostle of France, gave the half of his 
cloak to a beggar — an act of benevolence 
which won for its doer the blessing of Him 
who said: "As long as you did it to one of 
these My least brethren, you did it unto 
Me." We made no delay at Clermont, and 
entered the French Capital at six o'clock, 
p. m. Hailing a cab, we were quickly driven 
to the Southern depot, through a heteroge- 
neous throng of surging humanity, which 
continually rolls over the thoroughfares of 
the great metropolis. 

The city of the Seine! — how the influ- 
ence it exercised in the past arose before 
my mind! Its saints, its religious institu- 
tions, and all that radiated from it as a head- 
light of Christianity in the Middle Ages, 
— all was present now before me, not ex- 
cepting the Reign of Terror and the shades 
of its victims, as well as the deadly vapors 
which this modern Babylon, cut adrift from 
the Church, exhaled over the world. That 
most deceived of all its false prophets, 
Victor Hugo, emphatically named Paris — 
this literary and moral sink: I/^i/le li^mtere, 
— "The light- giving city." 

The clock struck eight, and the locomo- 
tive rushed out into the darkness of the 
night. We felt the cold keenly, for we had 
thoughtlessly left our warmer clothing be- 
hind. The train stopped once, and in the 
stillness of the empty depot the voice of the 
watchman rang out, "Orleans!" In im- 
agination we saw the heroine, Joan of Arc, 



i2i 



The Ave Maria, 



with waving banner and prancing steed, en- 
tering the gates of the city, amid the joyous 
huzzas of the inhabitants. Next our fancy 
rambled around the neighborhood of St 
Benoit's, where, say the French, rests the 
body of their great forefather from Monte 
Cassino. The train sped through extensive 
vineyards, and before the clock struck seven 
we were in Bordeaux. An hour later we 
mounted the steam-horse again, and away 
with us over the so-called ' ' I^andes. ' ' All 
along the road clouds of dust whirled about 
the cars, and, entering in through every 
cranny, crack, and crevice, transformed us, 
black Benedictines, into white ones. About 
moon we came in sight of the Pyrenees, 
through the meandering brooks and smil- 
ing vales of which we hastened to our des- 
tination. This we finally reached after an 
almost uninterrupted ride of twenty-six 
hours. We were in gourdes! 

How our hearts throbbed with joy and 
expectation! We stood upon that conse- 
crated spot, which in so short a time had 
risen to such a height in the estimation of 
the Christian world as scarcely to yield 
precedence to Jerusalem or Rome; upon 
the mystical stage of so many wonderful 
visions; upon the lovely banks of the Gave, 
which, in itself, appears a vision of beauty; 
n fine, we stood before that most miracu- 
lous and eagerly visited, health-restoring 
fountain, whose healing waters have pro- 
duced such marvellous effects on the souls 
no less than on the bodies of so many hun- 
dreds of human beings. 

Almost simultaneously with ourselves 
arrived the great National French Pilgrim- 
age, consisting of about 20,000 persons, with 
800 invalids in the van. It was agreed 
forthwith to seek lodgings. Happily, we 
succeeded in getting the only unoccupied 
room in the Hotel Ste. -Marie (board at>d 
lodging 12 francs a day for 'each). Having 
arranged matters here, we went up to the 
mission house, and fixed upon a time and 
place for the celebration of the Holy Sac- 
rifice. Subsequent events proved this to 
have been a wise precaution; for not long 
afterwards there arrived sixteen extra trains 



loaded with pilgrims, among whom were 
more than a thousand priests; so that from 
midnight till midday the Victim of Propi- 
tiation was offered without cessation on 
upward of forty altars — a sight no less en- 
trancing to pious souls than to the angels. 
After visiting the grand Basilica we be- 
took ourselves to the far-famed Grotto. We 
found it crowded with suppliants, some of 
whom were strong and healthy, others weak 
and sickly. The scene it presented is with- 
out parallel, and defies description. An 
atmosphere of heavenly odor seems to per- 
vade the place, and the soul in ecstatic 
vision soars aloft into the realms of celestial 
bliss. The pilgrim is seized with a reveren- 
tial awe of something supernatural, divine, 
with which the Grotto seems to be sur- 
rounded, and his soul is filled with a holy 
joy. Before the body touches the miracu- 
lous water, a stream of grace has bathed the 
soul. 

On the first evening the procession 
numbered 4,000 persons, each one bearing 1 
a lighted taper. But as the pilgrims kept 
flocking in by thousands during the night, 
the next morning presented a spectacle 
the remembrance of which is indelibly im- 
pressed on our minds. What an immense, 
ever- varying concourse of human beings! 
The city was filled to overflowing; every 
street,every passage to the Grotto, the banks 
of the Gave, the magnificent park which lies 
in front of the Basilica, and which contains 
the crowned statue of the Madonna, — all 
surged with a vast, undulating sea of pil 
grims, to the murmuring of whose prayen 
and hymns the tenderest chords of the hear 
vibrated. 

The piety of the multitude, which by turnij 
prayed, wept, rejoiced; the heart- rendin^j 
supplications, the clear-toned hymns heanj 
from near and far, on right and left and aL 
around; the responsive echo of sloping hi! 
and verdant dale, — all blended into on 
sublime song of praise in honor of the Im 
maculate Mother of God, and verified aue-^ 
her own prophetic words: "Behold, henc( 
forth all generations shall call me blessed. 

We celebrated Mass in the Basilica, who.' 



T<p 




The Ave Maria, 



123 



( aimes pealed forth every hour the hymn 
' Inviolata,^^ marking each quarter-hour by 
] laying the melody to the concluding verse, 
' O Clemens, O pia, O dulcis Virgo Maria! ' ' 
i kfter Mass we descended to the Grotto. In 
t tie entrance thereto is an altar, whereon the 
1 loly Sacrifice was offered up from midnight 
til noon. The moderate sized inner room, 
1 ghted by innumerable wax-candles, is re- 
served for prelates and those whose infirm - 
ides are slight. The large plot before the 
grove was occupied by hundreds of sick,who 
were protected against the weather by a 
tarpaulin spread overhead. To attend upon 
these invalids a society composed of priests 
and laics — the latter mostly of the nobility 
— has been organized by a Count of Com- 
battes. Among the noblemen we recognized 
an illustrious count from South Tyrol. 

These gentlemen, the flower of the Cath- 
olic nobility of France, presented a most 
admirable and praiseworthy example. Of 
renowned and ancient lineage, descendants 
of the chivalricDe Bouillon and his princely 
compeers, they but ennobled • themselves 
the more in thus becoming the voluntary 
servants of the sick and poor. As badges 
of their office, they wear scarfs across their 
shoulders; they serve at the altars, and re- 
ceive Holy Communion every day; they 
assist the ladies of rank and the Sisters in 
the hospitals and at the fountain bath; in 
a word, they everywhere exhibit a heroic 
spirit of self-sacrifice, which is equalled only 
by their solid piety. 

The principal and most fatiguing part of 

thework done by these gentlemen consisted 

in carrying the invalids on litters from the 

hospital to the bath or the Grotto, and back 

again. The unaccustomed exercise caused 

the perspiration to flow freely down their 

foreheads. Arrived at the Grotto, they first 

jplaced the litters on the ground, and then, 

with ropes at hand for the purpose, they 

formed a barrier to keep back the pressing 

hrong of pilgrims. Ladies, lay and relig- 

ous, continually went about, equipped 

;vith jug and cup, supplying the inmates 

f this temporary hospital with refreshing 

haughts. Sometimes a priest would step 



down from an altar to administer the Holy 
Eucharist to the sick ; again he would take 
his place beside an ambulance or a sick-bed, 
to hear the confession of its occupant. 

From time to time the gates of the Grotto 
swung open, and there entered a line of 
maimed and crippled, whose look of in- 
tense anxiety and pain would draw tears 
from a heart of stone. Yonder totters a liv- 
ing skeleton ; he tremblingly presses a foot 
upon the Rock of the Apparition, sprinkles 
himself with holy water, and passes on. 
Here is a nobleman bearing on his back to 
the source of grace a poor, disabled fellow- 
creature. There, carried by its aunt, is a 
child wan as death. The lady deposits her 
burden on the stone consecrated by the feet 
of Our Heavenly Queen, prays a moment, 
takes up her charge, and is lost to view. 
Here are represented all the evils to which 
poor humanity is subject. In front of the 
Grotto is a large cross, and close to it a pul- 
pit, always occupied by a priest to lead in 
the devotions. 

But the centre of attraction, the princi- 
pal object of our sympathy, our prayers, and 
our penances, were our dear afflicted ones; 
for these especially did the priest request our 
prayers and hymns. With arms extended 
in the form of a cross, the vast multitude 
recited the beads, which now and then were 
interrupted by uncontrollable emotions, 
taking vent in pious ejaculations. Now 
every form lies prostrate on the ground; 
then all arise, and with one accord cry 
out: Parce^ Dominef parce populo tuo! — 
"Spare, O Lord! spare Thy people!" The 
Psalm is ended, and the air resounds with 
Ave Maris Stella^ — "Hail, Star of the 
Sea!" The ejaculations, "Sacred Heart 
of Jesus, have mercy on us ! " " Our Lady 
of Lourdes, pray for us!" "Mary, Health 
of the weak, intercede for us!" uttered in 
pathetic tones, were heard on all sides 
throughout the day. The Immaculate Vir- 
gin is besieged in the Grotto; a storm of 
prayers assails her, and a glow of confidence 
in her goodness shines on every brow. 

Now a priest is ascending the pulpit. He 
announces the first cure, and, like a song 



124 



The Ave Maria, 



of victory, Magnificat reverberates over 
hill and dale. The crowd surges ; i t is elec- 
trified; it weeps for very joy and gratitude. 
A young man, asthmatic and in the last 
stages of consumption, feels new life thrill 
through his veins. He breathes freely, his 
lungs are renewed, there is no longer any 
ailment. Beside himself with joy, he sinks 
weeping before the tabernacle of the Grotto, 
and while with outstretched arms he offers 
up his heartfelt thanks, ten thousand voices 
pierce the clouds with hymns of praise. 

More affecting still was the cure of a poor, 
unmarried woman from Verdun, thirty- 
three years of age. She had been paralyzed 
for four years, and so wasted away by 
cancer was her neck that both throat and 
tongue had long refused their service. Loth- 
ringian pilgrims heard of her desire to visit 
Lourdes, and there she lay before the 
Grotto. Repeated immersions in the pool 
produced some slight effects, yet no nota- 
ble change. Suddenly she uttered an inar- 
ticulate cry, like "Ma — ma — mamma!" at 
first, which was soon followed by complete 
restoration of speech, and later in the day 
by the use of her limbs. Henry Lasserre, 
the eminent historian of the Apparitions at 
Lourdes, wept tears of joy next day while 
the woman was telling him of the miracu- 
lous cure, and, with her permission, he will 
"write up" the event. 

The physician-; (whose office in the local- 
ity was decorated by a sign-board bearing 
the \xvs>Q.x\'^'C\Qi\\^ Constat ation des guerisons^ 
— "Authentication of cures") testified that 
out of fifteen cures that day, five were in- 
disputable. 

(CONCIvUSION IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.) 



"And Jesus saw His Mother, and said: 
Mother, behold thy son; and to the dis- 
ciple: Son, behold thy Mother." Thus was 
Mary, not by angel's message, but by the 
bleeding lips of the Son of God, proclaimed 
Mother of all mankind. Vas insigne de- 
votionis^ or a pro nobis! 

POT.ICY is unworthy of a Christian, whose 
motto should always be sincerity. 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



VH. 



PHILIP felt as if he were in a dream when 
he quitted Mrs. King's house. It seemed 
to him incredible that he had really made 
the acquaintance of Miss Percival, and that 
in so simple a manner. Evidently, Mrs. 
King was not aware of any reason why they 
should not know each other. Recalling 
this, and Miss Percival' s quiet acceptance 
of the introduction, he began to hope that 
the latter had no such feeling with regard 
to his uncle as he had been led to imagine. 

It was astonishing how much of a weight 
this thought lifted from him. It not only 
opened a vista of possible acquaintance, 
which he felt would be pleasant, but, more 
than this, it reinstated his uncle in his re- 
spect. He said to himself that Mr. Thornton 
had been hard, no doubt, on the man who 
had nearly ruined him ; but this hardness, 
as he had lately learned, was part of his 
character; and if he had been just, no one 
had a right to blame him. 

These reflections rendered his manner 
more than usually affectionate and respect- 
ful to his uncle when they met. With the 
impulse of a generous nature, he was eager 
to make amends for what might have been 
a harsh and mistaken judgment. But, natu- 
rally enough, Mr. Thornton misunderstood 
him. He thought that Philip feared to| 
have offended him, and that the change of| 
manner was dictated by a desire to propiti- \ 
ate. The error was of importance only as it I 
led him to believe the young man to be of j 
more easily moulded material than he was, . 
and to imagine that his displeasure would, 
be sufficient to influence him in any future! 
emergency. j 

There did not seem much probability,; 
however, that such an emergency would 
arise, for up to this time the lives of unclej 
and nephew had passed without any of thosej 
(sometimes unavoidable) frictions whicl 
frequently occur in the nearest relation 



s 



The Ave Maria. 



125 



hips. If there had not always been perfect 
lympathy, there had at least always been 
)erfect harmony between them, and a def- 
erence on the younger man's part, which 
vas graceful because evidently springing 
rom affection. And since he had, in his 
houghts at least, accepted the life marked 
out for him — a life which opened before his 
<;yes like a vista of serene prosperity — there 
.seemed little reason to fear any possible 
collisions or difficulties in the future. 

Meanwhile the present was a smooth and 
easy path to his feet, though it was not a 
path which crossed that of Alice Percival 
soon again. He saw her in the Cathedral 
choir, and sometimes received a silent bow 
of recogtiition ; but beyond this point their 
acquaintance — if it could be called an ac- 
quaintance — did not progress; for he never 
saw her anywhere else. She did not appear 
on Mrs. King's musical evening, and the 
ladies who were anxious to secure her voice 
for their operetta, failed entirely to do so. 
But the sound of that divine voice Sunday 
after Sunday kept the thought of her in 
Philip's mind, mingled with other thoughts 
which it seemed to suggest — thoughts of 
higher and holier things than those that 
filled his life, which was apt to appear to 
him at such times a mere record of frivolity. 

How long this singular kind of influence 
might have lasted it is impossible to say, for 
finally an accident occurred which brought 
the two together again. The Spring was by 
this time well advanced, and Philip, who 
had been out of the city for a few days, at 
the country house of a friend, was returning 
on an accommodation train, that stopped at 
all stations, when he perceived seated in 
front of him a lady, whom he knew, even 
before she turned her head, to be Miss 
Percival. She was alone, and he at once felt 
a great inclination to go to her, and perhaps 
take the vacant seat by her side ; but a fear 
of seeming to presume on a very slight title 
to acquaintanceship, and one which had, 
moreover, been forced upon her, restrained 
him. The elation which he had felt on that 
Sunday afternoon when he quitted Mrs. 
King's — the hope that, after all, there was 



no serious reason why Alice Percival should 
not wish to know, him — had faded long be- 
fore this. There had been something in the 
very bow with which she acknowledged 
his acquaintance that made it impossible 
to press it further. 

So he kept his own seat, and contented 
himself with watching the nobly-outlined 
head with its classic pose, and the delicate 
line of profile, which was now and then 
turned toward him as she glanced out of 
the window by her side. His thoughts went 
back to the old question of Percival vs. 
Thornton, of the severed business connec- 
tion, and of the doubts which he dismissed 
at one time only to find them return to him 
at another. He was debating them afresh, 
when suddenly a shock that unseated every 
o^e was felt throughout the train; the car 
rocked violently for a moment, and seemed 
about to fall over on its side, but finally 
recovered its equilibrium, while at the same 
moment the frightened passengers found 
their tongues and their feet. "What has 
happened ? ' ' every one asked of every one 
else; and, since no one could answer, there 
was an immediate rush for the door. Philip 
observed that Alice Percival alone quietly 
resumed her seat, and he stopped beside 
her. Danger gave him his opportunity to 
speak to her, though he did not think of 
it at this moment as an opportunity. 

' ' Can I be of any service to you. Miss 
Percival?" he asked. "Will you let me 
assist you out of the car?" 

' ' Mr. Thornton ! ' ' she exclaimed, look- 
ing up at him with a start; for she had not 
seen him before. Her face was pale, but 
she was perfectly self-possessed. "No — I 
think not," she said in answer to his ques- 
tion. ' ' I will not leave the car, unless there 
is need to do so." 

"In that case I will make some inquiries, 
and return as quickly as possible, in order to 
let you know if there is need," said Philip. 

He made his way out, and soon discov- 
ered what had happened. The engine, 
tender, and two or three of the foremost 
cars had been thrown from the track by an 
obstacle placed upon it, whether through 



126 



The Ave Alaria, 



malice or carelessness it was impossible to 
say. No one was seriously injured, but sev- 
eral persons were severely bruised, and the 
damage to the train was great. Philip mas- 
tered the whole situation in a short time, 
and returned to Miss Percival. 

'*You were quite right," he said, when 
he had told her what had occurred, " not to 
yield to panic ; for there is nothing worse 
before you than the prospect of waiting 
some time for a train, which will, of course, 
be sent out for the passengers." 

' ' I did not suppose there was any danger 
after the shock was over," she answered, 
quietly. ' 'And I knew I should soon learn 
what had happened. So we must wait here 
for an indefinite length of time!" She 
looked out of the window for an instant, and 
then turned back to him. "Do you know 
how far we are from the city ? ' ' she asked. 

"Not more than two or three miles," he 
replied. 

"If you are sure of that, " she said, rising 
and taking up a satchel by her side, ' ' I shall 
walk in. Two or three miles will be only 
a pleasant walk this beautiful afternoon. ' ' 

Philip's eyes brightened. "It is a very 
good idea," he answered, "if you are not 
afraid of the fatigue, and" — he hesitated — 
"if you will allow me to accompany you." 

"Why should I do that?" she asked, 
regarding him with a grave but not un- 
kindly scrutiny. "There is no reason for 
my troubling you so far. ' ' 

' ' So far from troubling me, you will do 
me a great kindness by permitting me to 
accompany you," he replied, with evident 
sincerity. " I do not wish to remain here 
waiting indefinitely any more than your- 
self. But I should not for that reason ven- 
ture to offer my companionship to you," 
he added, quickly. " I do not think that it 
would be safe for you to walk into the city 
alone. ' ' 

"Why not?" 

"You might be annoyed — or worse. If 
the obstruction which has thrown the train 
from the track was wilfully placed upon it, 
there may be more desperate people about 
than you imagine." 



She sat down again — whether to remain 
or to reflect upon this view of the matter, 
Philip could not tell. She was silent for a 
moment before she said: 

"I am not at all afraid of any annoy- 
ance. ' ' 

"I can well believe that," answered 
Philip, seeing how brave the dark eyes were. 
"But lack of fear is unfortunately not a 
safeguard." 

"Then perhaps I had better remain," 
she said, as if speaking to herself. 

"If you prefer to go," replied the young 
man, with a sudden impulse of frankness, 
"why should you refuse me the pleasure 
of attending you? I promise" — a sudden 
flush came over his face — "that I will not 
presume on being allowed to do so. If you 
desire it, our acquaintance shall be to-mor- 
row exactly what it was an hour ago." 

She looked at him with an expression 
of surprise. ' 'And why, ' ' she said, after an 
instant's pause, "should you imagine that 
I would desire it? I do not usually ignore 
a service or a kindness that has been done 
me." 

"I am sure that you do not — usually," 
he answered. "But I — well, if you will 
allow me to be candid. Miss Percival, I have 
been told that you would not wish to know 
me." 

"You have been told — "she repeated. 
"Who had the right to tell you that?" 

" It is very easy to inform you who told 
me," said Philip; "but whether or not he 
had the right to speak for you, that is an- 
other question. It was Graham. Do you 
remember the church fair? I saw you there 
for the first time, and I asked him to intro- 
duce me. He declined, saying that he coiild 
not do so without asking your permission, 
and that if he had asked it, you would have 
— refused." 

It was now on Miss Percival' s face that 
a slight flush appeared. ' ' Mr. Graham is 
very — positive, even ^hen he speaks for 
another, ' ' she said. 

"Then it was not true?" asked Philip, 
eagerly — "you would not have refused?" 

She hesitated for a moment — only a mo- 



y 



The Ave Maria* 



127 



tnent — before answering, quietly: "If I 
:oo am to speak candidly, I must acknowl- 
edge that it is quite true: I should have 
refused. But not, perhaps, for the reason 
70U imagine. I have not, I hope, any feel- 
ing of enmity toward — any one; certainly 
aot toward one who had not the least con- 
jection with past matters. But there is a 
atness in all things, and I should have felt 
that there was no fitness in our acquaint- 
ance; hence I would have declined to know 
you. You see, however, that I have had 
no option in the affair, ' ' she added, with 
a smile that in its involuntary sweetness 
made amends for anything in her speech 
which wounded him. 

* ' It is because you have had no option, ' ' 
he said, "that I am bound not to presume 
upon an acquaintance that you would have 
refused me. I do not understand what you 
mean by saying that you would have felt 
that there was no fitness in it, but I under- 
stand thoroughly that I am not to have the 
pleasure of knowing you, as I confess that 
I should like to do." 

She was silent again for a minute, but 
he was struck by the absence of any con- 
fusion or embarrassment in her manner. 
She seemed to reflect as she sat with down- 
cast eyes; but when she lifted them the 
same quiet self-possession and frankness 
looked out of their dark depths. 

" If you do not understand my meaning 
in saying that I should have felt that there 
was no fitness in our acquaintance," she 
said, "you must be very ignorant of the 
matters to which I alluded a moment ago. ' ' 

"I am very ignorant," he answered. 
"You will, perhaps, realize how ignorant if 
I assure you that when I learned your 
name from Graham that night at the fair, 
I heard it for the first time, and it was not 
until afterwards that I learned of the former 
:onnection between your father and my 
incle. ' ' 

"From whom did you learn it?" she 
isked, looking down again. 

"From my aunt, Mrs. Thornton." 
'Ah ! ' ' The exclamation seemed to es- 
ape without intention on her part, and for 



a moment Philip held his breath, thinking 
that he was to hear the other side of the 
story, of which he felt instinctively that 
there was another side. But no further 
sound issued from the lips wliich he watched 
so closely; and presently he said, timidly: 

' ' In that story, as I have heard it, there is 
surely nothing to prevent our acquaintance." 

"As you have heard it, probably not," 
she said. "And, indeed, what have you to 
do with the matter? This is. not Corsica; 
and if it were, I do not think I should care 
to maintain a vendetta. What I have al- 
ready said holds good — there is no fitness 
in our acquaintance. This is not only be- 
cause your name is Thornton and my name 
is Percival, but because our lines in life lie 
far apart. But since we have met, and been 
made known to each other, I shall not be 
rude enough to disown your acquaintance; 
be sure of that." 

Philip would have been sure of anything 
which she attested by such a glance as ac- 
companied these words. 

"You are very good," he murmured. 
' ' I assure you that I feel it. But, as a proof 
that you will not disown me, will you not 
reconsider your resolution, and let me walk 
with you into the city? I really think that 
you will find it better than waiting here." 

"I really think that I shall," she said, 

rising. ^ 

(to be continued.) 



St. Germain at Nanterre. 



AN INCIDENT IN THE lA OF ST. GENEVIEVE. 



iplNCK, on a Breton mission bent, St. Ger- 
^ main of Auxerre, 

Together with St.IyUpus, paused in the village 
of Nanterre. 

Servants of God! His toil their rest, His holy 

will their food! 
Seeking their blessing, round them drew the 

village multitude. 

One in the crowd sought all in vain the holy 
men to see, 



128 



'1 he Ave ^lurla. 



So dense the surging human throng, so small 
and weak was she. 

Enlightened by the Holy Ghost, St. Germain 

sweetly smiled. 
And called from midst the throng to him the 

parents and the child. 

Long gazed he on the little one, then barely 

seven years old. 
And to the wondering parents turned and 

solemnly foretold 

The rare and precious heavenly crown an- 
gelic hands would weave. 

Through many, many fruitful years, for little 
Genevieve. 

Then spake the maiden, her young heart with 
virgin graces stored: 

* * Dear Bishop, for my holy Spouse I've chosen 

our dear Lord. ' ' 

" Struggle with earnestness, m) "child; be of 
good heart," said he; 

* 'And in full measure needed grace thy Spouse 

will give to thee " 

He consecrated her to God: to the church her 

footsteps led; 
At Vespers prayed, with holy hands upon the 

fair young head. 

Through his repast he kept the child still very 

near to him. 
And knew that guileless heart was pure e'en 

as the Seraphim. 

Rising, thus to the parents spake the prelate 

of Auxerre: 
"Bring back this little one to me before I 

leave Nanterre. 

* * Daughter, ' ' said he, next morn, ' ' dost know 

the promise thou didst make 
A day ago, when for thy Spouse Our Redeemer 
thou didst take?" 

"Oh! yes: well I remember all "—joy lit the 
pure young face — 

* 'And faithful do I hope to be always, through 

God's good grace." 

Charmed was the Saint with this reply. ' ' O 
spouse of Christ! " said he, 



' ' Worldly adornments thou must put far, far 
away from thee. 

"Let this remind thee of thy Spouse ' ' —around 

her neck he placed 
A simple medal with a cross upon its surface 

traced; 

Years sped; a garland angels wove entwined 

each joy and grief; 
For sorrows blossomed into flowers, each joy 

became a leaf. 

O happy day for France, when great St. Ger- 
main of Auxerre 

Blessed the sweet child Genevieve in the vil- 
lage of Nanterre! 

Margaret K. Jordan. 



Palms. 



BY anna HANSON DORSEY. 

CHAPTER XVL— Tarks and Wheat 
AND Fine Gold. ' 

NEMESIUS would have retired from the 
Emperor's presence at an earlier mo- 
ment, but he had an object in remaining 
until the fury of the tyrant exhausted itself, 
which it presently did, in fitful curses and 
hoarse mutterings, like the last growls of 
a spent tempest; then, having refreshed 
himself with a copious draught of snow- 
cooled wine, and dried on a napkin of fine 
Egyptian linen his lurid visage, over which 
the sweat of his wrath still poured, he 
threw himself back against the gold-broid- 
ered cushions of his chair, and turned his 
bloodshot eyes on the grave, noble counte- 
nance of Nemesius, who stood leaning with 
easy grace upon the pedestal of a column, 
awaiting the opportunity he sought. It had 
come at last, and he spoke in his usual 
clear, even tones: 

' ' I have a request to prefer, imperial sir, " 
he said. 

With a gesture Valerian signified his 
readiness to give attention, not having yet 
sufficiently recovered his breath to speak. 

"As there is a prospect that active hos- | 



It 



The Ave Maria. 



izg 



tilities will be delayed by this new move 
of King Sapor," continued Nemesius, "and 
as my legionaries are finely equipped, and 
under perfect discipline, I wish to transfer 
for a short time my command to the officer 
second in rank to myself, that I may look 
into my private affairs, and set them in 
order. ' ' 

"A most reasonable request, and one 
to be expected after thy confession of an 
hour ago. It is but natural thou shouldst 
wish to spend a few days in dalliance with 
thy charmer before encountering the grim . 
chances of war," answered Valerian, with 
rumbling voice and a coarse leer. "Thy 
requests are few, Nemesius; and thou hast 
always done good service to the Empire, 
and not seldom risked thy head into the 
bargain by thy free speech to me — aye, and, 
by the gods! would have lost it too, but 
that thy audacious sincerity amused and 
refreshed me, and because I sometimes have 
need of one who does not fear to speak the 
truth, as thou alone hast the courage to do. 
Thou art no plotter, which can not be said 
of many, and thy request is granted; but 
hold thyself in readiness for a sudden move 
at any hour, as I am convinced that the 
crafty Sapor is only couching for a deadlier 
spring. And — hold, Nemesius! — thou hast 
free access to the prisons: the order has 
not been revoked ; look into them now and 
then, to observe whether or no those con- 
tumacious Christians get the full measure 
of their deserts. Gods! how the wretches 
tire and sicken me!" 

"I thank thee for the favor granted, im- 
perial sir, and for thy kind words. I will 
not fail to visit the prisons," said Neme- 
sius, as he bowed and turned to leave the 
cabinet. 

"And take this kiss to the beautiful little 
blind maid at the villa, ' ' cried the Emperor, 
tossing towards him a kiss from his trem- 
bling, bloated fingers. 

While the blood surged into his face at 
the bare suggestion, Nemesius, with an 
inclination of his head, left the cabinet, say- 
ing, mentally: "Yes; I will visit the pris- 
ons, but not in accordance with thy cruel 



design; and a^ to thy kiss, let it pass to thy 
dcBmo7is^ for whom only it is fit. ' ' 

As he came out of the palace he met the 
Cypriot as already related, who gave him his 
sword and a letter; thrusting the first into 
its scabbard, without noticing the fragment 
of spangled Syrian gauze that clung to the 
handle, and the latter under his sword-belt, 
he mounted his horse, put him to a gallop, 
and did not slacken his speed until he got 
beyond the crowded streets. 

In thinking over his interview with 
Valerian by the light of faith which now 
illumined his soul, Nemesius felt as if he 
had been confronted with the very incar- 
nation of the old, cruel idolatrous belief 
which he had that day abandoned, and now 
thought of with the greatest horror, while 
he experienced a more irresistibly urgent 
desire to fly from it, to be rid of every ves- 
tige of it, that, untrammelled, he might offer 
the entire homage of his being and life to 
the One, Supreme God. 

He was impatient for the morrow's noon, 
when by the voluntary act of his own will 
he would receive Holy Baptism at the 
hands of th^ Christian Pontiff", which would 
be the sign and seal of his high calling as 
a soldier of Christ. His great heart over- 
flowed with gratitude as he thought of the 
gratuitous and undeserved favors of which 
he had been the recipient — he who up to 
the time his child received her sight had 
been the enemy of God and His servants, 
and was worthy only of eternal condemna- 
tion. Henceforth whatever he possessed, 
all that he was — his child, the most pre- 
cious of all ; his fortune, his time, his being, 
his life — he devoted with all the energy, 
sincerity, and generosity of his soul to the 
honor and glory of Him who had opened 
her blind eyes, and at the same time un- 
sealed his benighted mind to a diviner light. 
Nemesius was a man who never did 
things by halves; he had all his life held 
an uncompromising belief in a false and 
idolatrous religious system, and now seeing 
his error, he would be as uncompromis- 
ingly and as sincerely a Christian. 

These thoughts occupied his mind as he 



i;o 



The Ave Maria. 



rode homeward through the bahny, star- 
lighted night, exalting his spirit, and filling 
him with a strange and wonderful peace; 
which explained to him the fortitude and 
constancy of the martyrs, whose sufferings 
he had sometimes witnessed. 

Claudia was at her window watching for 
him. The first day in Paradise could not 
have been a greater surprise and joy to Eve 
than this one had been to her whose eyes 
for the first time had feasted on the beauties 
of nature, and whose spirit, purified by the 
holy water of regeneration, beheld in them 
the creations of Him of whom she had never 
heard until this, the day of her new birth. 

' ' O padre mio! ' ' she said, after embrac- 
ing him, "there has been so much to see! 
At last I watched the sun go down into the 
sea, and the sky was full of such beautiful 
lights, until the darkness came ; then I was 
frightened, until I saw the stars like gold 
blossoms sprinkled over the sky: some of 
them bright and dancing, some shining far 
away, others glittering among the tree-tops. 
O padre mio! is not He who made them 
good to give lamps to the night that there 
may be no darkness? " 

*'He is indeed good, cara mia — this 
Creator and Supreme God, and worthy of 
all love and homage," said Nemesius, ten- 
derly. ' ' Now seek thv couch, my little one, 
and ask His protection before sleeping." 

He kissed her, looked once more into her 
bright, beaming eyes with a glad uplifting 
of his heart, then left her with Zilla, and 
went down the corridor to his own apart- 
ments. Throwing his helmet and sword 
upon a table, his eye was attracted by some- 
thing white which had fallen to the floor 
when he unbuckled his sword-belt. He saw. 
by the rays of the lamp overhead, that it was 
the letter he had so mysteriously received, 
and which he had forgotten until this mo- 
ment. Mechanically he took it up, broke 
the seal that held the silk cords together, 
slipped them off and opened it. Glancing 
over the first lines, a slight start of aston- 
ishment, his knitted brows, and the dark 
flush that mantled his face, indicated some- 
thing unusual and displeasing. 



As it was, indeed; for Laodice, almost 
hopeless of winning his love, had fallen on 
this desperate expedient — one that she had 
sometimes thought of, but which was pre- 
cipitated by her accidentally meeting him 
that night. As soon as he had passed on 
to the Emperor's cabinet, she fled to her 
own apartments, and, led on by her pas- 
sionate, audacious nature, which mastered 
her womanly pride and her very reason, 
she wrote to him the letter he has just read, 
laying herself and her love at his feet. How 
many things were now understood which 
at the time of their occurrence had caused 
him only a momentary surprise! Again a 
dark flush mantled his noble face. "Un- 
happy woman!" he said, speaking low; 
"thy confidence shall never be betrayed, 
but there is only one course open to me." 

Opening his cabinet, he selected a fine 
piece of vellum, and wrote: 

' '• The enclosed is returned, to be thrown into the 
flames by the same hand that penned it, and for- 
gotten. A heart already bestowed, and engrossed 
by a supreme love, has nothing left to offer except 
good wishes." 

This he folded with the letter in a wrap- 
per of papyrus, secured it in the usual way 
with silk cord and his seal, directed it, and, 
with it in his hand, went to ascertain if 
Symphronius was still up. The old steward 
had not gone to bed ; he had just risen from 
his devotions when his master entered. No 
need had he to grasp and conceal the cru- 
cifix before which he had been praying, 
when he heard footsteps approach his door, 
or dash away the tears which his contem- 
plation of the sufferings of Christ had 
caused to flow over his wrinkled face; for 
his master was, like himself, a Christian; 
and in those days the new birth made child- 
like the old as well as the young, and they 
loved the Christus with simple minds, their 
only aim being to show their devotion to 
Him, even to the shedding of their blood, 
in return for all He had done and suffered 
for them. 

"I am glad to find thee awake," said 
Nemesius, gently ; " for I should have been 
sorry to disturb thy slumbers. I have an | 



!^ 



I 



The Ave Maria. 



131 



mportant letter, which I wish to be deliv- 
ered early to- morrow by a trusty messenger, 
ind thought I might find Admetus here." 
"He will be here about midnight. He 
lias been sent to bear the Holy Bread to 
5ome who are to suffer at the Temple of 
Mars to-morrow, among them a priest," an- 
swered Symphronius. "One of the prison 
guards is a Christian, and knows the boy; 
and, besides, the friends of the condemned 
are allowed to visit them the day before 
(their fiery trial." 
■■Nemesius knew this to be a fact; he had 
^fflore than once witnessed these last inter- 
views, and observed that the victims wore 
serene countenances, irradiated by flashes 
of divine anticipation; while their friends 
lamented and wept bitterly, reproaching 
them for preferring a cruel death to life and 
safety, which a grain of incense offered to 
the gods would purchase. But he knew 
nothing yet of the Holy Bread, which, in 
times of persecution like the present, the 
exigencies of the Church allowed to be con- 
veyed to the victims, by approved messen- 
gers, to strengthen and refresh them in the 
conflicts through which they were con- 
demned to pass to their exceeding great 
triumph and reward; but he would soon 
know in all its fulness and divine signifi- 
cance that it was the Bread of Eternal Life, 
the Most Holy Eucharist, the real Body and 
Blood of Jesus Christ. 

"When he comes give him the letter, 
and charge him to deliver it only into the 
hands of the person to whom it is directed, 
at the imperial palace, and allow no other 
eye than his own to see the superscription, ' ' 
said Nemesius, grasping the hand of his 
faithful old servant. "And to-morrow I 
have much to say to thee, and many matters 
to arrange; but now good-night!" 

At last, in the solitude of his own apart- 
ment, the happy convert was alone with his 
thoughts. The moon hung gibbous and 
pale over the distant sea, and a cool, damp 
wind drifted up from the Tiber, whisper- 
ing its moan to the shivering leaves. To 
this noble Roman soldier it had been a 
wonderful day, from beginning to end, typ- 



ical of God's world, in which His marvels, 
by some secret design of His providence, 
are woven in with human antagonisms, and 
stand face to face with evil. After the joy 
of the morning, how repulsive to his nature 
and his newly- awakened soul all that the 
evening had brought! But it was already 
past, borne away as by a torrent, leaving 
unobscured the grace of faith which had 
risen out of the darkness upon him. 

He sat there in the shadow, thinking. 
He knew nothing yet of Christian dogmas, 
but his entire faith in the existence, su- 
premacy, and eternity of God, in His power 
and divine attributes, opened the way to 
their reception and glad acceptance with- 
out discussion ; for there would be nothing 
to doubt in whatever proceeded from Him, 
the everlasting Truth. On the morrow he 
would receive Holy Baptism, the sign and 
seal of his covenant with Christ, by which, 
the Pontiff Stephen had instructed him, he 
would be made a child of God, and admitted 
to full participation in the divine mysteries 
He had provided for His faithful ones. And 
so he rested content on the rock of Faith, 
until knowledge should come. 

Nemesius had heard the old story oft 
repeated that the Christians at the celebra- 
tion of their secret rites worshipped an ass's 
head, — the old rabbinical legend, which 
had drifted to Rome centuries before, and 
had been forgotten and revived over and 
over again as an invective and reproach to 
the Jews, and later to the Christians, be- 
tween whom at first, and even when they 
might have known better, the ignorant 
minds of the Roman soldiers could not dis- 
tinguish. The legend ran that a certain 
high-priest of the synagogue was in the 
habit of remaining so long in the Holy of 
Holies when it was his turn to officiate, that 
one day, having prolonged his stay to even 
a greater length than usual, a levite was 
sent to see if perhaps he was dead, and on 
opening the curtain beheld him alive, and 
worshipping a spirit in the form of an ass. * 

* Spoken of by Jerome in the 4th century, also 
by Kpiphanius, Bishop of Salamis. It was current 
among the Gnostics. 



132 



The Ave Maria. 



There had never been lack of intercourse 
between Rome and Judea, international 
comities and alliances for aid and defence, 
especially when the latter was beset and 
sorely pressed by Syria, Egypt, and Assyria 
in turn, and assisted by Rome, until such 
time as she was ready to "lay waste" the 
land, and number it among her insatiate 
conquests. Pompey's soldiers brought the 
legend afresh to Rome with their Hebrew 
captives, to fling it at them with blows and 
derision; again the soldiers of Titus used it 
as a gibe to give emphasis to their insults 
and blows to the unfortunate people, whose 
holy city they Had razed to the ground. 
And so, through ignorance of the distinc- 
tion which separated Jew and Christian, it 
got fastened on the latter, who celebrated 
the sacred functions in secret. 

And it was not an unusual occurrence 
that some who had embraced Christianity, 
but had not yet been advanced to a partici- 
pation in or even to be present at the holy 
mysteries of the Eucharistic Sacrifice, when 
arrested and confronted with the rack, or 
the lions, or the flames, through mortal ter- 
ror not only denied Christ, but cursed Him, 
and corroborated the foolish accusation 
about the worship of an ass's head. Nor did 
they deny that the Christians, as was cur- 
rently reported and believed, sacrificed a 
young child every day to their Divinity, 
and afterwards devoured it. Conjecture can 
only suggest the origin of the last malig- 
nant report. It was known through spies 
and apostates that the Christian priests 
oflfered to their Deity a pure, spotless sacri- 
fice of flesh and blood, of which they after- 
wards partook. 

Ignorant of the Divine Eucharist, what 
could so well answer what they imagined 
as a young, sinless child? They knew that 
the most precious sacrifice that could be 
offered to Moloch was a young child, and 
that mothers themselves, to propitiate him 
by offering what they most valued, placed 
their offspring in his great, brazen hands, 
which, heated by fires within the statue, 
scorched their tender flesh, while wild, bar- 
barous music and shouts rent the air to 



drown their shrieks, until the little victims 
dropped into a fiery abyss below. Of course 
then it was a young child that was daily sac- 
rificed to the Christus^ and Roman mothers 
held their babes close lest they should be 
stolen for this purpose; while to threaten 
a refractory little one with, "I'll give thee 
to the Christians! " was suflficient to reduce 
it to swift obedience and quiet. 

Nemesius had heard these rumors, and 
there were times when, if they had inter- 
ested him in the least, he might have be- 
lieved them, but now, having the grace of 
faith, the golden portal of all others, nei- 
ther fables nor malignant riimors had power 
to disturb his mind. 

(to be continued.) 



A Sign of Predestination. 



THE question of Mary's relation to the 
Church is not one of mere theory, nor 
an abstract matter, with which we have no 
practical concern; which may be accepted 
or not, indifferently ; whose reception will 
do no good, or whose rejection will not in- 
jure. If the whole tenor of Our Lord's life^ 
if the language of prophecy, if the universal 
and immemorial custom of the Church, if 
the testimony of enemies, if the pious prac- 
tice of millions of holy souls, — all coincide 
in attributing to the Mother of Jesus an un- 
interrupted fellowship with her Son in His 
great work of Redemption, and in every- 
thing that belongs or tends to its final ac- 
complishment, the establishment of such a 
fact miist impress every mind with the rel- 
ative importance of availing itself of this 
divine institution. 

A great power is evidently within our 
reach, placed by the care of God at our dis- 
posal, to assist us in our struggles with sin, 
to raise us when we fall, to carry us on to 
eminent perfection. It is easy of access; it 
lies at our door; it is within the instanta- 
neous reach of all, even of children. That 
power is the influence of Mary, and its em- 
ployment in the work of our salvation. We 
may not reject its powerful assistance; noth- 




The Ave Maria. 



^Z% 



ii y can be safely neglected that God has 
d( signed to make so perilous a work more 
SI re. We may not throw away the aid thus 
oi ered, nor think to fight our way through 
th a ranks of our spiritual foes without ob- 
li< Rations to her, nor to speed on our heaven- 
w ird course without her helping hand. 

We are not greater than Jesus, yet He 
mide Himself her debtor; we are not 
stronger than He, and yet she was appointed 
to supply for His infantine weakness. Even 
if we could struggle through without her 
support, we should be outstripped in our 
course by many who started later and with 
many more disadvantages ; our passage 
would be joyless; hope would shine dimly 
on the future. What knowledge have we 
of the assaults of our spiritual enemies that 
may lie before us, perhaps, in the hour of 
death? what security that the absence of 
Mary's aid then may not make the differ- 
ence of our eternal loss? 

It is for this reason that devotion to the 
Blessed Virgin is declared by eminent theo- 
ogians and saints to be a great sign of 
predestination, on account of the manifold 
iissistance which is thus secured in its at- 
tainment. 



Favors of Our Queen. 

A RESCUE. 

DEAR "Ave Maria":— I,et me tell your 
readers a true story, for the honor of Our 
Jlessed Lady. There is no doubt about the 
tory's truth; for I know the mother in whose 
ehalf the miracle was wrought, and the 
hild is still living — though no longer a child, 
ut a fine, "strapping" fellow of six-feet-six. 

Mr. and Mrs. S , emigrants from Ireland, 

ad not long begun farm life in the ' * camp. ' ' * 
1 front of their house was the usual qiiinta, 
' garden; and in this qtiinta they had bored 
well. It is easy to bore wells in the stone- 
ss soil of the Province of Buenos Aires, and 

* That is country, from the Spanish campo. The 
ord is also used for the land itself; for instance, 
ey say, "That is good camp'\- or, " I am buy- 
g campy 



water is always found at a depth varying 
from five to forty yards, according to the level 
of the land. Their well was about seven, 
yards in depth, bricked all the way up, and 
crowned at the surface with a low wall, and 
covered with a lid. 

Mrs. S was sitting one afternoon at a 

window which opened on the garden. She 
was busy with her needle. Her first-born, a 
girl of three, was with her in the room; her sec- 
ond child — a boy just able to walk a few steps, 
and play about by himself — was toddling 
and crawling outside; and the mother looked 
up from her work every two or three minutes,, 
thus keeping, as she thought, a sufficiently^ 
watchful eye on him. 

Suddenly he was missing. She ran to the 
door, but no baby within sight! She looked 
at the well with a horrible fear, and noticed 
that the cover had been partly pushed aside, 
and was vibrating. With a scream she rushed 
to the spot, and, sure enough, there was her 
bo}^ in the water! And the water was eight 
or nine feet deep. 

Another minute and the child would sink. 
What could the distracted mother do ? Her 
husband was out in the camp, minding sheep, 
and there was no one near to lend assistance^ 
With the instinct of a Catholic mother's heart,, 
she turned to the Mother of God. ' ' O Blessed 
Mother! " she cried, "are you going to let my 
child perish before my eyes ? ' ' Then, snatch- 
ing up a rope, and securing one end to the 
well-post, she took the other end in her hand,, 
and — jumped down the well! 

It was no act of wild despair, but must have 
been prompted from above. For, instead of 
killing the child, and plunging herself for a 
hopeless struggle into the water — both which 
things must have happened had she let go the 
rope, or had it been too long — she found her- 
self, at the end of the jump, standing withi 
one foot in the water, and the other resting 
against the side of the well, the rope being 
just long enough to allow of her reaching the 
water. If any one say that the length of the 
rope was a fortunate circumstance, but noth- 
ing very strange, it was certainly a wonderful 
thing that she held on to the rope, particu- 
larly having only one hand on it; and, again, 
that one foot caught the side of the well, so 
as to prevent her being whirled round and 
round. 

Her child had just sunk for the last time^ 



134 



The Ave Maria. 



but she reached down an arm through the 
water, and caught the precious body half a 
yard from the surface. Yet, was it not too 
late ? To all appearance, yes ; or, if life re- 
mained, how was she to resuscitate it? Well, 
luckily, the position of the child, as she held 
him under her arm, was with head hanging 
downward, and she saw the water running 
out of the little nose and mouth. So she had 
presence of mind to lower the head still more, 
till all the water had run out. Then came upon 
her heart an "aching time" indeed — only 
three or four minutes (as she says), but "mo- 
ments big as years, ' ' * till at last— a gasp ! The 
child lived! 

The question now was how to get out of 
the well. It was only a little after two o'clock 
yet, and her husband would not be home till 
evening. But she remembered it was one of 
the days on which a young man from a neigh- 
boring farm was w^ont to pass by, about four. 
This young man knew the family intimately, 
and the little girl was a pet of his; so that 
bere the child could be of great assistance. Ac- 
cordingly, Mrs. S bade her watch for her 

friend, and, as soon as she should see him com- 
ing, run towards him and scream her loudest. 
Meanwhile, renewing her trust in Our Lady, 
the brave mother prayed and waited; and 
this — only think of it!— for two mortal hours, 
with her child under one arm, the other hand 
-clinging to the rope, and only one foot resting 
on solid matter! Surely she must have been 
miraculously supported, or she could never 
have held out. 

Yes, it was close upon two hours (as she 
afterwards reckoned) from the time of her 
jump, when the young man aforesaid turned 
his horse towards the house, attracted by the 
screams of his little favorite. ' ' Mother's down 
the well! mother's down the well!" was all 
the explanation he needed. Another moment 

and Mrs.S beheld the pale, astonished face 

looking down upon her. Her first thought, of 
•course, was for her child. She told the young 
man that he would find a rope tied to a tree 
near by, and with it the usual canvas-bucket — 
a large bag in which water is hoisted by horse- 
power. A few minutes more and the bucket 
was lowered, the child placed within it and 
drawn up. 

* O aching time! O moments big as years! 

— Keats. 



And now, too, most opportunely, the hus- 
band arrived upon the scene. For, having 
observed from a distance the young man sud- 
denly gallop towards the house, he naturally 
suspected some mishap, and made haste after 
him. So that his noble wife, having achieved 
the child's rescue, had not long to wait for 
her own. Her ' ' good man and true ' ' lost no 
time in adding his strength to that of his 
younger friend, and together, with the help 
of the bucket, they ennabled our heroine to 
do what would otherwise have been as diffi- 
cult as, the Sibyl assured ^neas, was the re- 
ascent from Avernus — to retrace her leap, and 
return to the air of day. * 

But one more marvel remains to be told. 
Instead of requiring extraordinary care for 
the preservation of his barely rescued life, the 
boy, after only half an hour's sleep, began 
to play about again as if nothing had hap- 
pened! 

So the family group were happily reunited, 
with a remembrance of God's goodness to 

gladden all their years. To this day Mrs. S 

can not recall the strange adventure but her 
eyes fill with tears, and her heart with love 
and gratitude to that sweet Mother, to whom, 
under God, she justly attributes the salvation | 
of her child's life and her own. { 

Now, it seems to me that this humble nar- 
rative is not utterly unworthy of a place in 
the "Glories of Mary." I send it you, there- 
fore, dear '.'Ave M ri'v," with the hope that 
it will increase in your readers their confidence 
in Our Lady of Perpetual Help. 

Your servant in Christ, 

Edmund of the Heart of Mary, 

Passionist 

Buenos Aires. 



How much books could aid us to employ 
our existence usefully ! They should pass un- 
der our eyes, like a moving picture — the his- 
tory of the world, the birth of sciences and: 
arts, the revolution of empires, the customs olj 
peoples, the recompenses given to good ac- 
tions, the shame attached to crimes. Knowl 
edge which is varied and solid enriches th( 
mind, forms the heart, and aids us powerfully 
in the great reformation of ourselves.— Car 
dinal Donnet. 



* Revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras 

—jE7ieid VI. 



\ 



The Ave Maria. 



135 



I Catholic Notes. 

French statistics just published contain 
a] irming information concerning the increase 
ol crime among children of both sexes. It is 
si own that within the last five years the ratio 
of crime among offenders under age ha? con- 
sMerabl}^ more than doubled. During the 
pst year there were 7,582 cases of suicide in 
Fi'ance. Of these, six hundred were women; 
mare than three hundred were young persons 
from sixteen to twenty-one years of age; and, 
most terrible of all, one hundred were chil- 
dren! This is the first time the statistics of 
this unhappy country have registered cases of 
suicide among children. What a frightful 
commentary upon godless schools and the 
administration of a professedly infidel Gov- 
ernment! 

The famous Trondhjem Cathedral of Nor- 
way, upon which the work of restoration is 
now going on, is a monument to the memory 
of the saintly King Olaf, who died a mart3^r 
at Sticklestadt in 1030. He was the patron 
saint of Norway during the time of faith in 
that country, and the grand temple, which is 
the glory of the land, is the result of gifts 
placed at the shrine of the Saint by pilgrims 
i-om all quarters of Europe. The Cathedral 
5vas consecrated in 1093. Frequent extensions 
md embellishments were made to it, until in 
:heyear 1300 it had reached its highest stage 
)f development, and had become what, despite 
he ravages of time, it still is — the most mag- 
lificent ecclesiastical edifice in the three Scan- 
iinavian Kingdoms. The length of the build- 
ng from east to west is 325 feet. Its western 
"agade, made rich with the carved figures of 
aints, is 124 feet wide. It had originally 
went5^-four altars of precious metals, studded 
vith jewels, and beneath the altar that stood 
n the precise spot where the body of Olaf had 
-rst been buried were deposited the Saint's 
emains in a silver shrine weighing 6,500 
l^orwegian ounces, outside of which were 
tiree wooden chests, mounted in gold and sil 
er and adorned with jewels. Very early the 
athedral showed signs of decay; then con- 
agrations— in 1328, 1432, and 1531 — swept 
ver it with devouring flames, and the entire 
estern wing became a heap of ruins. The 
tars, with their splendid decorations, were 



removed, and the body of the Saint was de- 
posited in a place t© this day unknown. 



The Rev. Randolph S. Foster, a bishop of 
the M. E. Church, pays a generous tribute to 
the Church in a recent article contributed to 
the New York bidependent. And this is not 
the first time we have had occasion to quote 
the testimony of "Bishop" Foster: 

"It can not be disputed that she descends in 
direct and unbroken line from the Apostolic time 
and Church. Within her pale, both recently and 
anciently, have been many of the most illustrious 
saints and scholars. That there are still many 
saints within her pale, there is no reason to doubt. 

"She presents the most compact and powerful 
orgranization that has ever been set up among 
men. She has wielded more power over wider ' 
spaces of time and place than any other institu- 
tion, ancient or modern. She is still to-day as 
powerful as ever in essential respects. Her epis- 
copal throne on the Tiber still moves the world. 
It is not perfectly clear that she will ever be less 
powerful than she is to-day. 

" Her communion is as large as in her palmiest 
days, and her children not less loyal. . . . There 
is no mission field in the world where she has not 
more converts than all combined Protestantism. 
. . . Missionary efforts in her own dominion have 
hitherto been effectual to win a score of thousands 
of converts, which are an inappreciable loss from 
her fold, not missed more than a hair from the 
head." 

We read with great interest in The Congre- 
gationalist, the earnest and most intelligent 
organ of Calvinistic theology in New Eng- 
land, a feeling and appreciative article upon 
Prince Dimitri Gallitzin, the devoted Roman 
Catholic missionary, whose settlements in 
Western Pennsylvania still preserve his mem- 
ory even for the thoughtless traveller, igno- 
rant of his religious character and services. 
When a Calvinist thus does justice to a 
Roman Catholic saint, we may well hope that 
the millennium is not far distant. — The Sun. 



Canon Farrar, one of the ablest divines of 
the Anglican sect, writes as follows, in his 
"Life of Christ," of those words of Our 
Blessed Redeemer addressed to the Blessed 
Virgin at the marriage - feast of Cana — 
"Woman, what have I to do with thee?": — 

"The words at first sound harsh and almost re- 
pellent in their roughness and brevity; but that 
is the fault partly of our version, partly of our 
associations. He does not call her ' Mother,' but 



136 



The Ave Maria. 



the address 'Woman' {gundi) was so respectful 
that it might be and was addressed to the queen- 
liest, and so gentle that it might be and was ad- 
dressed at the tenderest moments to the most 
fondly loved. And ' What have I to do with thee ? ' 
is a literal version of a common Aramaic phrase 
{mah Le veldk), which, while it sets aside and 
waives all further discussion of it, is yet perfectly 
consistent with the most delicate courtesy and 
the most feeling consideration." 

The Western Watch7nan has the following 
earnest and timely remarks on attendance at 
the daily Mass: 

"There is apparent in all the cities of this 
country — and we take it the movement is general 
throughout the world— a growing disposition 
among our Catholic men to attend the week-day 
^Mass. We have noticed this more in other cities 
than our own, but we have no doubt the same 
remark applies to our own people. This is a most 
consoling augury for the future of the American 
Church. There are thousands of our Catholic men 
here in St. Louis who could go to Mass every 
morning if they were at all disposed to do so. 
The time of the daily Mass is convenient in most 
of our parivSh churches, and their business leaves 
them free to indulge even most extensive relig- 
ious practices. Why do not more assist at the 
daily Mass? They have persuaded themselves 
that such extreme religiousness is adapted only 
for saints Leaving out the question as to the ob- 
ligation of all to strive after Christian perfection, 
we would assure them that the attendance at the 
daily Mass is not generally considered a work of 
very high sanctity; but, on the contrary, its neg- 
lect, where the result of indifference and luke- 
warmness.is asign of weak faith and dangerously 
lax moral conduct. The man who can go to Mass 
every mornins: and fails throughout a whole life- 
time to do it, will have a terrible judgment before 
him, and if he succeeds in saving his soul it will 
be after cycles spent in Purgatory. At this time, 
when so many are making their Jubilee, we ask 
them to seriously weigh and consider this ques- 
tion." 

The late Cardinal Guibert was the son of 
poor peasants In his childhood he took part 
in the labors of his father's little farm, and, 
like many other illustrious men, he herded 
the flocks of the family. That which was 
most striking in him was the character of 
austerity, or rather asceticism, which marked 
his career, whether we behold him in the 
episcopal purple, or in the humble habit of 
an Oblate of Mary Immaculate. The great- 
ness he attained altered nothing in him, and 
amidst the distractions of Paris he continued 



the same austere life which he began years- 
before amidst the solitude of the Alps. On 
the occasion of his reception of the Cardinal's 
hat, Pius IX., wishing to give him a token of 
his affectionate esteem, sent him a gold cross of 
magnificent workmanship— a royal gift, which 
was received by the monk- archbishop with 
profound emotion, but which, nevertheless, he 
gave at once as an offering to the Treasury of 
Notre Dame. 

Catholicism has lost a zealous champion 
in M. Jules Malou, Minister of State, who has 
been for many years chief of the Catholic 
party in Belgium. M. Malou died at his Clia- 
teau of Woluwe, aged seventy-six. He was 
born at Ypress. After occupying a post in the 
Ministry of Justice he became Governor of 
Anvers, and in 1841 entered the Chamber. 
Five years later he was appointed Minister of 
Finance in the Liberal Cabinet of M. Van de 
Weyer. Differences arose betw^een himself and 
his colleagues, and in 1 846 he alone among 
them was a member of the Cabinet of M. de 
Theux, which fell in August, 1847. He was 
one of the most brilliant speakers of the Bel- 
gian Chamber, where he was the leader of the 
Catholic opposition. M. Malou, who was sev- 
eral times appointed Minister of Finance and 
Premier, retired in 1884. He was subsequently 
elected a Senator. His moderation and affa- 
bility rendered him generally popular, and his 
loss is deeply regretted by his co-religionists. 
— Catholic Times. 

The elevation of Archbishop Taschereau to 
the Sacred College was the occasion of great 
rejoicing in Canada, particularly, of course, in 
Quebec. Illuminations on successive nights, 
salvoes of artillery, and the ringing of all the 
church bells testified the general joy, and the 
universal veneration in which the Archbishop 
is held. Both houses of the Provincial Legis- 
lature having unanimously voted an address 
of warm congratulation to the new Cardinal, 
they proceeded together in state the next day 
to present the address to his Eminence. At 
the reception which followed every public 
body and class was represented. The Prot- 
estant Bishop of Montreal and several of his 
presbyters were present. 



In a communication to The Catholic Sentinei 
Archbishop Seghers speaks thus of his con 
templated trip to Alaska: 



II 



The Ave Maria. 



m 



'A steamer, the Ancon,^\\\ convey us to Juneau 
'C :y, some eight hundred miles from Victoria. 
T ere we lay in a supply of provisions, and leave, 
it an Indian canoe, for Chilcoot Inlet, nearly one 
hi ndred miles north of Juneau. A portage of 
sc ne one hundred and twenty miles, over a range 
of mountains, in company with Indian packers, 
wjU bring us to the lakes that form the head 
w; ters of one of the tributaries of the Youcon 
River. How much each of us shall have to pack 
is, of course, as yet a matter of uncertainty; but 
th 3re is no other means to get into that part of 
thi country, except on foot with a load on one's 
shDulder. On the lakes we shall have to resort 
to a primitive mode of navigation: we shall have 
to make a raft, and float down to where we find a 
supply of good timber to build a boat, and thus 
to sail down the river as far as the mouth of 
Stuart, where we expect to find the first field of 
labor, the first cluster of people, the first instal- 
ment of the population of the interior. My com- 
panions are Father Tosi, S. J. , Father Rabaut, S. J. , 
and Brother Fuller. We will, of course, select a 
central place, where we intend to establish a 
permanent ' Mission of the Holy Cross,' besides 
the 'Mission of Our Lady ad Nives, or, at the 
3now,' which I prepared at Nulato in 1877. But, 
furthermore, we shall have to visit different parts 
Df the interior, travel among the various Indian 
;ribes, and scatter the seed of the word of God 
'ar and wide, with the expectation that, under 
he influence of the heavenly dew, it will grow 
ip into a tree, and stand firm and unmoved in de- 
lance of the fierce storms that may rage around 
t. My absence will probably be long, very long, 
f God's blessing accompanies us; and this bless- 
ng I expect your pious readers' charity to ask 
nd obtain for us." 

Mgr. Johannes Augustinus Paredis, Bishop 
f Roermond in Holland, v^hose death was 
itely chronicled, was the Nestor of all the 
ishops of the world, and one of the most re- 
larkable ecclesiastics of his time. Born at Bru, 
ear Maestricht, on August 23, 1795, he had 
ms completed his ninetieth year. He was a 
odel prelate, distinguished for his humility, 
;al, austere life, and charity. His devotion 
I the Blessed Virgin was of the tenderest but 
est practical kind, and with the names of 
^sus and Mary on his lips he died the death 
"the just. R.I. P. 



The Rev. A. M. Clark, who was ordained to 
e priesthood in the Church of St. Paul the 
postle, New York, a few weeks ago, was for 
me years an Episcopalian minister, and 
nnected with the Church of the Advent in 



Boston. Over three years ago he became con- 
verted to the Faith, .and, after visiting Rome 
and England, began to study for the priest- 
hood in the Paulist Order. Another Episco- 
palian minister. Father Nears, was ordained 
on the same day with Father Clark. — Catholic 

Citizen. 

* ♦ » 

New Publications. 

More about the Hugjjenots. A Review 
of Prof. William Gammell's Lecture on "The 
Huguenots and the Edict of Nantes." By Wil- 
liam Stang, Priest of the Diocese of Providence. 
The style of this pamphlet is unpretentious, 
and the facts are by no means new; but no 
doubt it will be necessary to continue to pre- 
sent them to the world so long as the subject 
of the Huguenots and their treatment in 
France affords a convenient pretext for invec- 
tives^and calumnies against the Church. 

Father Stang has divided his little study 
into four chapters. In the first he shows con- 
clusively that the Huguenots were enemies of 
the State in France, as well as of the Estab- 
lished Church ; and that governments at- 
tempted to suppress them not so much because 
they were heretics, as because they were the 
source of never-ending discord and civil dis- 
sensions. The Massacre of St. Bartholomew 
is shown to have been merely a political act 
of the reigning sovereign of France. In the 
second chapter the leaders of the Huguenot 
party are considered, and the utter baseness 
and criminality of many among them are 
clearly pointed out. The third chapter deals 
with the old, stereotyped charge that the 
Catholic Church is opposed to the diffusion 
of the Scriptures amongst the faithful, and 
the teaching and practice of the Church on 
this point are set forth. The fourth chapter 
points out the difference between dogmatic 
and civil intolerance, and shows how utterly 
false and contrary to the teachings of history 
is the claim so often made that the world is 
indebted to Protestantism for the civil and 
religious liberty which the nations now enjoy. 
Father Stang' s pamphlet will do good, and 
we hope that it will be widely circulated. 

The IvATin Poems of I^eo XIII. Done 
INTO English Verse. By the Jesuits of Wood- 
stock College. Published with the Approbation 
of His Holiness. Baltimore, U. S. A. : John 
Murphy & Co. , Publishers. 1886. 



138 



The Ave Maria. 



This is the title of a most elegant and at- 
tractive volume lately issued from the pub- 
lishing house of John Murphy & Co. The 
casket is not unworthy of the jewels that it 
contains, and it is indeed no exaggeration to 
say that many of the poems are gems. Pope 
Leo is one who has evidently drank deep at 
the fount of all that was best in classic antiq- 
uity, and these verses breathe the delicacy of 
thought and the charm of expression which 
distinguished the Golden Age of Latinity, 
while at the same time they are imbued with 
a loftiness of moral sentiment of which the 
authors of the Augustan Age had no concep- 
tion. The sapphic and the elegiac distich are 
the metres most affected The volume will be 
welcomed by intelligent Catholics as another 
illustration — if another were needed — of the 
wonderful versatility of the great Pontiff who 
now occupies the Chair of St. Peter. 

The poems have been done into fairly cred- 
itable English verse by the young ecclesiastics 
of Woodstock. A severe critic might find 
fault with a few of the rhymes as being some- 
what limp and halting, but these trifling blem- 
ishes can not obscure the general excellence 
of the work. 

Obituary. 

"// is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dea'd." 

— 3 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

Mr. Joseph Norris, a venerable Catholic citizen 
of Bay City, Mich. , who passed away on the morn- 
ing of the 2ist of July, fortified by the Sacraments 
of Holy Church. His characteristics were abun- 
dant charity and the strictest honesty. What he 
possessed in this world he also considered the 
possession of the poor. Mr. Norris was one of the 
first subscribers to The "Ave Maria." 

Miss Catharine Duffy, whose long and patient 
sufferings were crowned with a happy death on 
the nth ult. She had been a reader of Our Lady's 
Magazine from childhood. 

Mrs. Fannie McCafferty, who breathed her last 
on the 23d ult. She was tenderly devoted to the 
Blessed Virgin, and was a warm advocate of the 
Rosary, 

Mr. Richard Walsh, of Newark, N. J., whose 
death occurred on the 30th of June. 

Mrs. Sarah J. Carroll, who departed this life in 
San Francisco, on the 15th ult. 

Mr. John Burns and Mr. Michael O'Reilly, of 
Hudson, Mich. 

May they rest in peace! 




PA^TMENt 



Our Lady's Lilies. 



BY E. A. S. 

UOU wonder why my tropic lilies thrive 
In this small room, this crowded busy hive 
I call my home, 
More freely than beneath thy marble dome, 

And then declare 
Some charm lies in my touch or in the air, 
And this is why my lilies bloom so fair. 

Sweet friend, the mystery I will frankly tell; 
Upon it let thy heart one moment dwell: 

The lilies know 
As well as you and I where they will go, 

And from the root 
Their snow-white arrows ever duly shoot, 
Our Lady's feasts with gladness to salute. 

Our Lady's place, her own Son beside, 
Is where her lilies ever choose to bide, 

And there adore 
In ecstasy of silence evermore; 

Their perfumes plead 
For us, poor pilgrims, in our sorest need, 
And Jesus must His Mother's lilies heed. 



Bodger; or, How It Happened. 



BY E. L. D. 




AL, ef this don't beat all the 
rains ever / see ! ' ' And Cap- \ 
tain Ephraim Saltonstall, of 
the schooner Lively Polly ^ I 
b^i bent his head, gave a tug to his I 
W^ sou'wester, and literally shoul-j 
% dered his way through wind and 
!!!^ weather toward the wharf, where 
the Lively — as she was called in ordinary 
conversation — was bobbing and straining at 
her moorings. I 

As he reached the last warehouse, an unn 



I 



The Ave Maria. 



139 



ue jally fierce gust tore round the corner, 
ai d sent him staggering into its doorway 
fo shelter. Here he stumbled over some- 
th ng, from which issued a low wail. 

"Bless my stars!" said he, "wot's this 
he re ? " And he bent to see, when a tiny fist 
WJ-S reached from the thin old shawl that 
co/ered it, and he saw, or rather/^//, it was 
a child. 

' By gum ! ' ' said he, " it's a live child ; an' 
it's agoin' to be a dead un soon, ef some- 
thin' ain't done, and done quick. Whar's 
the watchman? Turned in. Don't blame 
him neether. Wisht some o' them there 
infant asylums was handy that the Roman- 
ists plant round. But they ain't. And the 
Lively^ s got to trip anchor and off down 
the Bay at daybreak. What' 11 I do with 
the critter, anyway? Take it up and kerry 
it aboard? Wal, that's easy enuf, but arter 
;hat? Sho now! Wisht I hadn't a-come 
his way! — wisht I didn't mind playing 
Driest an' levite, an' passin' by t'other side. 
Drk'ard bein' a Samaritan to a infant!" 

Here the bundle stirred again and 
noaned. 
' ' Wal, here goes ! Come along, young un. 
ain't never sheered off f'um a signal o' 
liistress yet, and I ain't a-goin' to begin wi' 
cock-boat like you." 
\ndhe lifted the little one ''ork'ardly" 
nough, opened his pea-jacket, wrapped it 
/arm, and strode off to the Lively with a 
uick step. 
By the light of the oil lamp in his cabin 
e examined his find with some curiosity, 
ad saw an undersized child about two 
ears old, wizened and pinched, and sleep- 
jig so heavily and breathing so unnaturally 
lat he muttered : ' ' Drugged, an' turned out 
)die!" 

It was drenched through, but he had no 
othes to replace its rags, so, forcing some 
im and water between its blue lips, he 
rapped it up in a thick blanket, put his 
cket under its head, and laid it on his sea- 
lest Then he hurried into his hammock, 
id, although greatly exercised about the 
atter, fell asleep at once, and only 'wak- 
ed when the cabin-boy pounded on the 



door, with the brief announcement, " Day- 
break, sir!" 

He turned out, hurried into pilot coat 
and boots, and in a few minutes was thun- 
dering his orders from the little deck; and it 
was not until the Lively was slipping down 
the Bay, with Minot's red eye glaring on 
the starboard beam, that he remembered his 
find, and wondered what it was up to. 

He plunged below, ducked his tall head, 
and went into the cabin. There it was, 
sitting up among the folds of the blanket, 
dry and warm, with tangled hair rampantly 
erect, and keen bright eyes, that looked 
half frightened and half sly as they caught 
a glimpse of him. 

"Wal, youngster," he said, cheerily, 
"how-de-do? Hungry?" But it made no 
answer, and as he drew near, it crouched 
aside,'and put up its hand as if to ward off 
a blow. 

"Why, I ain't a-goin' to hurt ye, ye little 
goose! On'y want to get ye somethin' to 
eat. Come along!" And, lifting it up, he 
smoothed its hair with one horny hand, and 
looked dubiously at his tin basin, but he 
shook his head. 

"Guess ye had 'nufFwashin' last night to 
last aconsid'able time." And he tramped 
into the little ' ' saloon, ' ' where the mate was 
already bolting his breakfast, and drinking 
cup after cup of black coflfee. 

The fellow looked up and was so amazed 
at what he saw — "the skipper wi' a young 
un in his arms" — that he stopped short, 
with his mouth wide open and his cup in 
the air: 

' ' Whar ' d that come from ? " he gobbled 
at last. 

"Rid up on th' anchor, p'raps," said the 
Captain, and, with a solemn wink, he set 
the child on his knee and gave it ' ' share 
and share alike" of his own meal, except 
the coffee, which he replaced by condensed 
milk, remembering vaguely to have heard 
somewhere that children and milk made a 
good combination. 

When they were through, he began : 

"Now, youngster, wot's your name? 
Tom?" 



140 



The Ave Maria. 



A shake of the small head was his answer. 

' ' Ain' t ? Is it Bill ? Jack ? Jim ? " 

A series of shakes. 

'"Ot a boy 'tall," it said, finally. 

"My glory! ye ain't a gall, be ye?'^ 

An emphatic nod proved it beyond doubt. 

' ' Wal, I' m jiggered ! " he gasped ; ' ' this 
doos complercate matters!" 

"Name's Bodger," she went on. 

"Bodger? What's that?" 

' * Bodger, an' I gits hitted.' ' And a vigo- 
rous action of her arm showed what that 
meant, at least. 

Captain Ephraim looked at her in dense 
astonishment, but all he said was: "Well, 
my little maid, ye must jes stay here a 
while, tell I git back." 

But she clung to his collar, and buried 
her face so close in his jacket, that he could 
not get free without hurting her. So with 
a patient, "I vum!" he went up on deck, 
with the child hanging like a monkey to 
his jacket. 

"See here, you fellows," he called as he 
stepped from the companion way; "this 
here young un's come aboard. She's a gall- 
child, an' has had ha'sh treatment. Look 
at that an' that " — and he pointed to a long, 
blue weal across her face, and a livid bruise 
•on her arm — "an' I want ye all to be good 
to her tell I git back to port, an' put her 
som'eres where she'll be keered for decent. 
Now haul away thar, and git that mainsail 
shook out; for the breeze is a-comin' over 
thar, an' no mistake. 

"Here you are, youngster!" And he 
swung her down on a coil of rope, gave a 
neat turn with one end of it, fastening her 
securely to the grating, and then fell to with 
a will to help his men. 

Some six months after, on a bright May 
night, the Lively came dancing home. 
"The Capen's maid," as the waif came to 
be called, was the pet of all hands, and was 
fairly good as children go, but she tyran- 
nized over Captain Ephraim to a degree 
marvellous to behold ; for he loved her as 
well as if she had been his own. 

On this night he stood leaning on the 



rail looking at, but not seeing, Minot's eye 
that beamed a welcome, and Nixie's Mate 
that lay like a shadow to the right. 

James O'Neil, one of his best seamen, 
came up to him: 

"Capen, ef I might make so free, what 
ye goin' to do wi' the maid when you git 
ashore ? " 

"Dunno," said Ephraim, setting his 
hair all on end, as he rubbed it worriedly; 
"dunno; ain't got any relations, and I've 
got so fond of the little critter I don't want 
to put her inter the poor 'us or a home, an' 
I've pretty near made up my mind to take 
her off again on the Lively. ' ' 

Then he gave his hair another rub — the 
wrong way, of course. 

"It's a hard life for a gall-child," said 
O'Neil, suggestively. 

' ' Yes, I know that, ' ' responded Ephraim; 
"but I don't see no — " 

"Wal, Capen, I ast you," said O'Neil, as 
he paused, "'cause my wife ain't got ne'er a 
chick nor child, an' I think she'd be glad of 
the comp'ny. I know she'd take good keer 
of her. Jes look at my shirts an' socks, an' 
my hussif, " * he added, with pardonable 
pride. 

"Wal, now, that's a reel good idee, 
O'Neil, an' I'll think it over. An' it was 
reel clever of ye to think of it, too." 

" Oh, sho ! " said O' Neil, " that' s all right. 
Ye see. I'm fond o' the maid too, and ye ain't 
such a bad skipper yerself. ' ' 

Which, coming from two Yankee sailors, 
meant civilities indeed. 

II. 
O'Neil was an American, but, several 
years before Captain Ephraim picked up 
' ' his maid, ' ' he had married a pretty Irish] 
girl just out from the old country, and had; 
set up a modest housekeeping in two rooms 
on the South water-front. These were as, 
neat as soap and water could make them,j' 
and as MoUie's clear-starching and laun-j 
dering were famous, she managed duringj 
! 

* "Housewife" — the sewing-case sailors tak<j 
with them to sea. It is filled with needles, thread! 
buttons, tapes, etc. 



i 




The Ave Maria, 



141 



I'e cruises of the Lively to add many little 
c )niforts to their furnishing — turkey-red 
c irtains for Winter, muslin ones for Sum- 
E ler, some pots of geraniums, a hardy rose 
c : two, and lately a bird. 

* Neat as a ship, ' ' was Captain Ephraim's 
c )rament, as he stood in the doorway, the 
little one clinging to him as usual; "and 
t]ie young ooman as fresh as paint," as 
^[ollie came forward, her pretty blue eyes 
giving a welcome to her husband, and her 
rosy cheeks blushing a shade pinker before 
the stranger. 

"Well, my girl," said O'Neil, kissing 
her, with a hearty pride in her comeliness ; 
"here's the skipper, an' here's the young 
un I told ye about. ' ' 

"Ye' re kindly welcome, sir," she said to 
the Captain; "an' I'll be glad indade to 
take the child." 

* * Now, that' s reel clever ! " he answered ; 

"fur I ain't never seen a place that I'd 

ruther leave a young un in; an'I think, 

mum, you're the right sort to do well by a 

' orphan." 

After a little more talk the two men left, 
I but not without a sore struggle on the part 
of the maid, who clung to the Captain, and 
long after he was gone cried in a subdued, 
unchildlike fashion, that made Mollie's 
heart ache. 

Finding words were of no use, she did 
the best thing she could have thought of — 
picked the child up in her arms, and cud- 
dled her close, rocking her back and forth, 
and kissing and petting her in a way that 
made Bodger hold her breath in surprise. 

The Lively s trip was a flying one, and 
before the next night she had fluttered out 
like a little white moth into the far blue. 
But the Captain left ample provision for 
the child, and Mollie's days were busier 
than ever, getting her fitted out, and yet 
trying not to let her own work suffer. 

As soon as the first decent suit was fin- 
ished, she took her around to Father Byrne, 
and told him as much of the story as she 
:ould, while Bodger watched the pigeons 
rom the other end of the room. In conclu- 
ion she added: 



"Indade, sir, I'm afeard she ain't bap- 
tized at all at all. 'She has no more idea of 
God an' His Holy Mother — blessed be their 
names! — than a hay then Pi-ute, as O'Neil 
says; an' she aint even got a Christian 
name, as near as I can sense it, so I thought 
she'd better have a conditional baptism, 
any way." 

"You are quite right, Mrs. — " 

"O'Neil," she said, with a courtesy. 

"Mrs. O'Neil. What name have you 
thought of for her? " 

"Well, sir, seein' as it's the month o' 
May, I thought p'raps it ud be good to call 
her afther the Blessed Virgin herself." 

That's a pious thought, and the name 
will bring a blessing to the child." 

And it seemed to; for a sunnier, sturdier 
youngster than the maid grew to be, was 
not to be found on the water-front. 

She loved Mollie and was fond of O'Neil, 
but her "daddy," as she called Captain 
Ephraim, she simply adored; and as for 
him, he soon fell into the habit of spending 
all his spare time in the little front-room, 
where, on winter evenings, the sausage siz- 
zled on the stove and the kettle ' ' puttered " 
on the hob, and in Summer the salt wind 
freshened the heat, and the flowers nodded 
in their pots, and ' ' little Mary, " " me dar- 
lint, " or " my maid ' ' (as she was variously 
called), hung about him as he told his sea- 
yarns, or listened while O'Neil and his 
Mollie chatted of the days to come, when 
they could have a little home of their 
own somewhere, and the sailor could turn 
farmer. 

At this last the Captain would smile, for 
he knew that when the sea once gets its 
grip on a man, it never looses it until his 
soul goes out with the ebb-tide * in some 
coast- village, or his bones go down into its 
silent keeping. 

These visits were high holidays for the 
maid, but when the two men were at sea 
she was as busy as a bee in a tar-barrel. 



* It is a curious fact that those who die in 
coast-villages, especially sailors, die as the tide i^ 
going out. 



142 



The Ave Maria, 



learning all Mollie could teach her about 
the house, sewing, going to school, and 
learning her Catechism with Father Byrne, 
who fancied the quaint child, and watched 
her development with interest. 

For a long time the name by which she 
always called herself — ' ' Bodger " — re- 
mained a puzzle, but Mollie fancied she got 
a clue to it about a year after the maid 
came to her. She was ironing one day in 
great haste, and accidentally touched her 
hand with the hot metal. 

* * Ah, bother ! ' ' she cried. 

The little girl was on the floor, playing 
with some building-blocks, but at this she 
stopped, cast a frightened look around her, 
then scrambled to her feet, and went to 
Mollie' s side. 

"Ot you want?" 

"Nothin', me darlint," said Mollie. 

^* You say 'Bodger'!" 

' ' I burnt me hand an' said, ' Bother ! ' " 

'"Es," said the maid, ''Bodger. 'At's 
me." 

Mollie' s quick Celtic wit leaped to a 
conclusion. She dropped on her knees by 
the child. 

"Glory to God!" she said, "were you 
called that, me dear?" 

The maid nodded. 

"An' hadn't ye anny other name?" 

This titne she shook her head. 

And Mollie thought: "Ah! mustn't that 
be a black, wicked heart that ud call a 
child nothin' but a bother?" 

So saying she put her arms round the 
maid, and kissed her silently. 

As Bodger grew older, and began to 
understand her religion, she developed 
an ardent devotion to the Blessed Virgin, 
of and to whom she often spoke as "Me 
dear. ' ' 

Mollie reproved her at first, for it seemed 
hardly reverent; but the little girl said, 
simply: 

"You call me that 'cause you love me; 
I love her^ an' so I call her it too. But av 
ye like I'll call her 'My I^ady,' like ye 
called the pretty Queen in the ould coun- 
try." 



' ' Not the Queen, darlint, but me Lady 
Clontarf at Castle Darragh." 

' ' Well her, then. Wasn' t she the biggest 
lady of 'em all, an' the prettiest, an' the 
swatest?" — for the maid had a touch of 
the brogue from association. 

"Indadeshe was," said Mollie; "an' it's 
meself should know. ' ' 

' ' Then, ' ' said Bodger, " it' s a good name ; 
for my Lady's the greatest an' prettiest an' 
the swatest of all that ever lived. ' ' 

And when Mollie, in some anxiety, told 
Father Byrne, he said : 

' ' Let her call Our Lady so if she wants 
to. There can never be any harm in the 
natural expressions of love made by an in- 
nocent child." Then he asked for O'Neil 
and the Captain, in the latter of whom he 
was much interested; for the skipper, al- 
though "no perfessor of religion," had a 
deep, natural piety, and was a singularly 
honest, straightforward nature. 
(to be continued.) 



From TIpperary to Texas. 



The Adventures of Tibby Buti^er. 



BY T. F. GAIvWEY. 



(CONCI,USION.) 

VIL 

Shortly after the round-up Connemara 
Ranch lost something of its usual bright- 
ness. Countenances bore a watchful, almost 
anxious look. The Apaches, those redoubt- 
able and bloodthirsty warriors of the moun- j 
tain and plain — almost the only Indians in | 
the United States who have resisted the 
efforts of Catholic missionaries — were grow- 
ing restless once more, after an unusually '■ 
long period of peace. There were rumors 1 
of fearful atrocities perpetrated by themi 
among white settlers in the valley beyond i 
Aguas Dulces, and of cattle having been! 
driven off by them from herds in the neigh- 
borhood. 

Colonel Lynch, therefore, determined tc 
take his wif"? aud the small children, with 



11^ 

It] ere i: 



^ke Ave Maria. 



H3 



feir nurse, to El Paso, and leave them 
tl ere until this rising of the savages was 
q lelled. The now diminished herd and the 
h )rses were corralled near the ranch build- 
ii gs, and from the corral to the buildings a 
d tch was dug, and the earth from the ditch 
tl rown up on both sides into dikes, so as 
t( form, in case of attack, a means of com- 
ir unication that would be covered from the 
b illets or arrows of the Indians. 

As most of the vaqueros were gone with 
the drove to Kansas, the number of men 
available for the defence of the ranch was 
greatly reduced. Besides the Colonel, and 
two vaqueros who were to accompany him 
to El Paso and back, there were Dan 
Carroll, the foreman; Phil I^ynch, Tibby 
Butler, and five vaqueros. One of these 
last, a Mexican named Juan, was nearly 
seventy, and consequently not active. But 
Juan was brave, and he knew the Apache 
character perfectly, so that his presence was 
of value. The eight were all fully armed, 
having a Winchester rifle each and a re- 
volver, with an ample supply of ammuni- 
tion and of food to stand a long siege, if 
I necessary. 

All the preparations having been made, 
the Colonel with his little party set out for 
El Paso at daybreak. He left Dan Carroll 
in charge, and directed Phil and Tibby 
to act as aids to Dan in every arrangement 
which that reliable man should make for 
the care and defence of the ranch. The 
Colonel, with his two well-armed compan- 
ions, hoped to be back at the ranch by noon 
of the following day. 

Reports of the near approach of the 
Apaches continued to reach the ranch dur- 
ing the day, and the night was one of great 
watchfulness and anxiety. Breakfast was 
scarcely over next morning when the sav- 
ages were descried near the Aguas. 

Alongside of the corral, and connected 
with the covered-way to the ranch residence 
buildings, was a good-sized log structure 
ised as a blacksmith shop and tool-house, 
md having a small square window at each 
)f three of its sides, and at the other side a 
vide door facing the corral. The logs were 



thick enough to resist bullets, and they had 
been laid so tightly that even the chinks 
were nearly impenetrable. The blacksmith 
shop had been selected to be the citadel in 
case. the Apaches should come. 

The sun was high up in the heavens, and 
all was ominously still about the ranch, 
except for the occasional bellowing of the 
cattle impatient at being shut up, when 
a shrill whoop from the distance caused 
everyone to make haste into the blacksmith 
shop; for it was the Texan danger signal. 
On a bare knoll, a quarter of a mile off, in the 
direction of the Aguas Manuel, a vaquero 
on the lookout was galloping his horse in 
a circle, and extending both arms alter- 
nately from the body, to notify the ranch 
that Indians were approaching, and in great 
numjjers. It was he that had given the 
whoop. He then came in flying to join his 
comrades in the defence. 

All being in the blacksmith shop, the 
door was closed and secured, and the little 
garrison disposed itself at the windows, 
and at the slit in the door, two at each 
post. 

' ' Here they come, boys ! ' ' said Dan, in a 
low but steady tone. "Now everyone be 
ready to do his duty like a man and a 
Christian." 

^'^ Hombres y Cristianos!^^ echoed Juan, 
making the Sign of the Cross, in which 
he was imitated by all. 

Tibby thought of pleasant Tipperary, 
and the kindly ways of Ireland. His heart 
leaped — but only for an instant. He clutched 
his rifle, rested it on the window-sill, and 
then wondered at himself for his own cool- 
ness. 

One, two, five — there must have been 
fifty mounted figures approaching over the 
prairie, with wide intervals between them. 
Their tall crests of feathers waved threaten- 
ingly. In front came one who was flutter- 
ing a piece of canvas that sometime was 
white. 

"Steady, boys! Don't fire yet!" was 
Dan's order. ' ' That fellow wants to parley. 
Can we trust him, Juan?" he shouted to 
the old Mexican. 



144 



The Ave Maria. 



' ' No trus' Apache por amor de Dios! ' ' 
was- Juan's reply. 

And Juan was right; for at this moment 
Phil, who had been peeping through the 
window that looked towards the residence, 
discovered a group of the savages circling 
around in that direction. 

"I don't like to fire on a white flag," 
said Dan, with momentary indecision. But 
he had scarcely spoken than a sharp twang 
made the blood in Tibby's body cease to 
circulate for a second, and an arrow fast- 
ened its head in the window-frame along- 
side of him. 

''Now give it to them, and don't miss a 
shot!" exclaimed Dan. 

Tibby, who had the Indian of the white 
flag in his aim, made an act of contrition 
for all the sins of his past life, and a firm 
purpose of amendment, and pulled the trig- 
ger. He was inclined to be sorry the next 
moment; for the savage's pony was running 
off without its rider, and Tibby did not like 
to kill or wound, even in self-defence. 

"I have hit that Patchy," said he, as he 
cleared the cartridge case from his rifle, 
and made ready for another shot. 

"You have hit nothing!" shouted Phil, 
half-derisively . ' ' Look at that ! ' ' 

All the enemy's ponies were running 
off, and all seemingly without riders. 

"The redskins," said Phil, "are hang- 
ing on to the other side of the ponies. 
What can be the matter?" he continued. 
"See how they are clearing out!" 

The next moment a ringing cheer and 
a rapid rattle of rifles broke on the ears of 
the besieged, and then the cause of the 
Apaches' sudden flight was apparent. A 
thin line of blue-jacketed cavalry men was 
seen scouring like the wind across the 
plain, in pursuit of the fast disappearing 
Indians. 

The door of the blacksmith shop was 
scarcely opened when Colonel Lynch and 
his two cow-boy companions to Bl Paso 
appeared, along with an officer of the cav- 
alry. 

" It' s all over ! ' ' exclaimed Dan ; ' ' thank 
God!" 



' ' Gracias a Dios y a la Virgen puri- 
sima! ' ' responded Juan. 

"Well, it's a good lesson, boys," said the 
Colonel. ' 'A few minutes ago I know you 
were all praying, brave as you may be, 
and making acts of contrition, because you 
did not know but the next second would 
be your last. Now let everyone keep the 
good promises made then, and all will be 
right." 

This little menace of danger served to 
draw more closely together those who had 
been associated with it. Tibby and Phil 
for weeks found it plentiful source of dis- 
cussion as to what might have happened if 
what did not happen had happened. The 
two boys became warmly attached to each 
other, and when, later on, the Indians 
having been quieted, the family was again 
assembled at Connemara Ranch, Colonel 
Lynch and Mrs. Lynch concluded that 
when Phil went to college the next year 
Tibby should go with him. 



O Mary! O my Mother! 



St. Benedict Joseph Labre left home and 
parents to live as a poor beggar near the 
sanctuaries of Jesus and Mary. His ragged 
and miserable state procured for him in- 
sults and blows, and he was turned out of 
the church itself as a hypocrite and vaga- 
bond. But the presence of Jesus in the tab- 
ernacle warmed his heart, and the thought 
of Mary turned his sorrows to joy. He wore 
her Rosary round his neck. Her shrine at 
Loreto was his favorite pilgrimage, her 
picture at Santa Maria dei Monti his chosen i 
spot for prayer. There he w^ould spend 
hours rapt in devotion, unconsciously edi- ' 
fying all around him ; while the words, j 
' ' O Mary, O my Mother ! ' ' would burst from \ 
his lips. There he knelt for the last time 
in prayer, and thence his soul made its la[St 
pilgrimage to Mary and to God. { 



Quod Deus imperio, tuprece Virgo potes,- 

"God can do all things by behest; 
Thou by prayer, O Virgin blest!" 




[Ck>p]hrigbt :— Riv. D. 

le Origin and Use of Holy Water. 



BY THE REV. A. A. LAMBING, I,L. D. 




[EADER, as you sometimes stand 
at the church door, and see the peo- 
ple enter and depart, taking holy 
water, and some making a well-defined 
Sign of the Cross, while others make a mo- 
tion that might be taken for the brushing 
[iway of an importunate mosquito, or for 
my thing else but what it is intended to 
"epresent, did you ever feel a desire to learn 
inything more about holy water than that 
t is blessed by the priest as necessity re- 
quires, and placed at the church door for 
he convenience of the people ? Or do you, 
)erhaps, belong to the large number of 
hose who are content to practise their re- 
igion without caring to trouble themselves 
nth an inquiry into the history and sig- 
j.ification of its sacred rites? 
It is a fact, of which we have little reason 
) feel proud, that Catholics, as a rule, know 
ir too little about their religion. Whether 
is that they have not the opportunity, 
r that they have not the time to devote to 
, or that they are satisfied to take every- 
ling on faith, the fact can not be denied 
lat even educated and well-read Catholics 
low far less about their religion than they 
) about almost any other branch of knowl- 
tge. iVnd the information they possess is 
•mmonly found to be of a general and in- 
finite character, and not of that precise 



nature which the well-defined teaching of 
the Church would enable one to acquire. 

The reader must pardon me for drawing 
this very uncomplimentary picture; no one 
would more gladly be persuaded than I that 
it is overwrought. In view of this, a brief 
inquiry into the question of Holy Water 
may be of advantage. 

The first point that presents itself is the 
extensive use of holy water in the Church 
and among the faithful. From the grand 
basilica to the hut of the beggar holy water 
is found, and it enters into the imposing 
ceremonial of the one as well as into the 
simple devotions of the other. It is required 
in almost all the blessings of the Church, 
and in some of her Sacraments, and few 
sacred rites are complete without it. The 
room in which we are born is sprinkled 
with it; in one of its three several forms it 
is poured on our brow in baptism ; it ac- 
companies the last rites of the Church over 
our remains, and the ground in which we 
are laid to return to dust is consecrated with 
its hallowed drops. This is an evidence of 
the importance the Church attaches to it, 
as well as of the perfect manner in which 
the faithful have imbibed her spirit; and 
it must also be regarded as a proof of its 
efficacy in conferring a blessing, and repel- 
ling the attacks of the enemy of mankind. 

What, then, is holy water? We need not 
be told that it is water that has been blessed 
with certain exorcisms and prayers, and 
into which salt similarly blessed has been 
sprinkled. But what is the designation of 



146 



The Ave Maria. 



holy water in the liturgical language of the 
Church? It is called a sacramental. This 
may, perhaps, be a new word to some per- 
sons, and a definition of it will not for that 
reason be out of place. The reader will 
pardon me for writing in an instructive 
strain; I have little imagination to draw on, 
if I were disposed to treat of subjects in 
which it would come into play; and, be- 
sides, I feel that a plain instruction on some 
useful every-day subject of this kind will 
be read with greater profit. 

It has just been said that holy water is 
one of the sacramentals. But what is a 
sacramental? The meaning will be best 
learned by contrasting sacraments and sac- 
ramentals. Three things are required to 
constitute a sacrament: (i) The conferring 
of inward grace, (2) by an outward sign, (3) 
in virtue of institution by Christ. ' ' Now, 
the sacramentals, like the sacraments, have 
an outward sign, or sensible element; but, 
unlike them, they are mostly of ecclesias- 
tical origin, and do not, of their own power, 
infuse grace into the soul." * "If the sac- 
ramentals are used with pious dispositions, 
they excite increased fear and love of God, 
detestation of sin, and so, not in themselves, 
but because of these movements of the 
heart toward God, remit venial sins. They 
have a special efficacy, because the Church 
has blessed them with prayer; an,d so when, 
for example, a person takes holy water, ac- 
companying the outward act with the de- 
sire that God may cleanse his heart, the 
prayer of the whole Christian people is 
joined to his own."t Sacramentals may 
be arranged under two general heads: (i) 
The prayers of the Church, and (2) the 
blessings bestowed by the Church on cer- 
tain objects, as crucifixes, scapulars, water, 
candles, etc. 

It is important to inquire not only into 
the history of holy water in the Church, 
but also into the part which water played 
in the religious ceremonies of both the Jew- 

* "The Sacramentals of the Holy Catholic 
Church," by the Rev. W.J. Barry, p. 14. 

f "A Catholic Dictionary": Article, Sacra- 
mentals. 



ish and the pagan nations of antiquity. 
Water being the natural element for the 
removal of external defilements, it was to 
be expected that any system of religion, 
whether true or false, abounding, as all did 
in ancient times, in symbolical rites, would 
adopt water as the emblem of interior 
purity. We do not, however, read of water 
having been used in the religious ceremo- 
nies of the worshippers of the true God be- 
fore the establishment of the Mosaic I^aw. 
Nor need we be surprised at this; for up 
to that time the ceremonial of divine wor- 
ship had hardly begun to be developed, 
but consisted almost entirely of the offering 
of sacrifice by the patriarch of the tribe or 
family. But with the establishment of the 
Jewish Dispensation, when the ritual pre- 
scriptions were defined with the greatest 
precision, purification by water was found 
to play an important part. But it is not nec- 
essary to inquire into this matter in detail 
in this place. The reader who is anxious 
to find instances of it is referred to Exodus, 
xix., 10; XXX., iS^etseq.; lycviticus, viii., 
6; Numbers, xix., i, et seq.; Deuteronomy, 
xxi., I, et seq.^ etc. 

The student of the Greek and Latin clas- 
sics need not be reminded that among the 
Greeks and Romans lustrations and other 
religious ceremonies in which the use of 
water entered largely, formed an important 
part of the ritual exercises of their temples, 
and the following will suffice for the gen- 
eral reader: " Originally ablution in water 
was the only rite observed by the Greeks, 
but afterward sacrifices, etc., were added. 
They were employed both to purify indi- 
viduals, cities, fields, armies or states, and 
to call down the blessing of the gods. The 
most celebrated lustration of the Greeks 
was that performed at Athens, in the days 
of Solon, by Epimenides of Crete, who 
purified that city from the defilement in 
curred by the Cylonian massacre. A gen^ 
eral lustration of the whole Roman people 
took place every fifth year, before the cen- 
sors went out of office. On that occasion the 
citizens assembled in the Campus Martins 
and the sacrifices termed Siiovetauriha 




The Ave Maria, 



147 



sisting of a sow, a sheep, and an ox, 
re offered up, after being carried thrice 
r >und the multitude. This ceremony, to 
^ hich the name lustrum was particularly 
a )plied, is said to have been instituted by 
S arvius TuUius in 566 B. C. , and was cele- 
b ated for the last time at Rome in the 
n ign of Vespasian. . . . All Roman armies 
were lustrated before they commenced mil- 
itary operations. The Roman shepherd at 
the approach of night adorned his fold with 
branches and foliage, sprinkled his sheep 
with water, and oflfered incense and sacri- 
fices to Pales, the tutelary divinity of shep- 
herds. Whatever was used at a lustration 
was immediately after the ceremony cast 
into the river, or some place inaccessible to 
man, as it was deemed ominous for any one 
to tread on it. " * 

In the Egyptian pagan worship lustra- 
tions were more frequent than among any 
I other people, the priests being required to 
I wash themselves twice every day and twice 
every night, t But it is needless to multiply 
examples from pagan antiquity; suffice it 
to say that so universal was the custom 
that it found its way into the New World, 
the more civilized tribes of Mexico and 
Central America having their sacred water, 
;vhich was used for various religious and 
nedicinal purposes. % And among some at 
east of the pagans, as among Catholics, the 
mstom existed of sprinkling themselves, 
)r of having themselves sprinkled by the 
)riests, with water on entering their tem- 
)les.|| 

The fact that a sort of holy water was in 
ise both among the Jewish and the pagan 
ations of antiquity might appear to give 
otne plausibility to the statement so fre- 
uently advanced that the Christian rites 
nd ceremonies are but a reproduction of 
lose of the pagan world; or, as one writer 

* American Cyclopedia: Article, Lustration. 

t Herodotus, Book II., No. zi- 

\ Hubert Howe Bancroft's "Native Races," 

ol. II., pp. 601,611; and Vol. III., p. 370, et seq., 

c. 

Wetzer's "Kirchen Lexicon": Article, Weih- 
mer, 



charitably puts it, the Romanists are only 
baptized pagans. • Without attempting a 
defence of religion against these attacks — 
for instruction and not argument is the 
purpose of this article — it may be said that 
there are several different replies to these 
accusations. In the first place, water being, 
as was said above, the most ready and nat- 
ural element for the cleansing of external 
defilements, it was to be expected that it 
would also be used as the symbol of purifi- 
cation from the defilements of sin, as in 
baptism. 

Again, the Jews having employed water 
in certain religious rites, the use of it in the 
New Dispensation would have a tendency 
to aid in winning some, at least, of them to 
the Christian religion. As such an adapta- 
tion we have the blessing of women after 
parturition, as an act of thanksgiving, tak- 
ing the place of the legal purification en- 
joined on similar occasions by the Mosaic 
Law. And the same course of action was 
sometimes found to be of advantage among 
pagans whom it was sought to convert to 
Christianity. When St. Augustine, who 
had been sent to England to preach the 
Gospel, found the custom of having idols 
placed in the hollow of trees and other sim- 
ilar places, he was perplexed as to the best 
means of winning the people from this 
idolatry. Knowing, as he did full well, that 
even if the idols were removed not a few 
of the people would retain a superstitious 
veneration for the places they had once oc- 
cupied, he wrote for advice to St. Gregory 
the Great, who was then ruling the Uni- 
versal Church. The Pope advised him to 
substitute for the pagan idols the images 
of the Blessed Virgin and the saints, which 
he did with the desired effect. Finally, it 
may be answered that the Church has re- 
ceived from her divine Founder the plen- 
itude of power for the institution of such 
rites and ceremonies as may seem best to 
her, enlightened as she is by the indwelling 
of the Holy Spirit, for the carrying 
her exalted mission. Those who mj 
to pursue this question further 
little difficulty in finding books 




148 



The Ave Maria. 



impart the necessary information. Turn we 
now to the history and use of holy water 
in the Christian Church. 

The present rite of blessing water by 
prayer and an admixture of salt is fre- 
quently referred to Pope St. Alexander I. , 
who reigned from 109 to 119. But from 
the words which he uses in his decree it 
would appear that the rite is more ancient 
than the time of that Pontiff. He says: 
"We bless, for the use of the people, water 
mingled with salt." Marcellius Columna 
attributes the introduction of holy water to 
the Apostle St. Matthew, whose action was 
afterward approved by the other Apostles, 
and soon became general.* Whether we 
are disposed to accept this evidence as con- 
clusive or not, it is all but certain from 
other proof that the institution dates from 
apostolic times, as St. Basil, among others, 
maintains, f 

The blessing of water before the High 
Mass on Sundays, and the sprinkling of the 
people with it by the celebrant before com- 
mencing to offer the Adorable Sacrifice, are 
commonly attributed to Pope St. Leo IV., 
who governed the Church from 847 to 855, 
but there are very learned authorities who 
trace it to a far remoter antiquity, and re- 
gard the words of the Sovereign Pontiflf as 
rather referring to an existing custom than 
to the introduction of one i^ot yet in gen- 
eral use. His words appear to admit of this 
interpretation. He says, addressing the 
clergy on their duties: "Bles=^ water every 
Sunday before Mass, whence the people 
may be sprinkled, and have a vessel espec- 
ially for that purpose." % 

The custom of placing holy water at the 
door of the church for the use of the faith- 
ful entering and departin.fr is still more an- 
cient, as may be inferred from the fact that 
the idea was evidently suggested by the 
Jewish custom of requiring purifications 
before entering the Temple to offer or assist 
at the sacrifices; but it would be impossible 



* ^^Institutiones LiturgiccB'' by J. Fornici, pp. 
353. 354. 
f "Kircheti I.exicon." % Fornici, p. 356. 



to fix the precise date. Nor is documentary 
evidence wanting to confirm this. The cus- 
tom of Christians sprinkling themselves 
with water, or even of washing their hands 
and face before entering the house of God, 
existed throughout the Church as early as 
the days of TertuUian, that is before the 
end of the second century. * 

The use of holy water among the people 
at their homes is of still greater antiquity, 
as may be learned from the "Apostolic 
Constitutions," which contain a formula for 
blessing it, that it may have power ' ' to givfe 
health, drive away diseases, put the demons 
to flight," fete. 

Let us now turn to the historical and 
liturgical view of the question. There are 
three, or in another sense four, kinds of 
holy water. According to the first division, 
there is baptismal water, which is required 
to be blessed on every Holy Saturday and 
eve of Pentecost, in every church that has a 
baptismal font. This water, after the holy 
oils have been mingled with it, is used only 
in the administration of baptism. There is 
a short formula in the Ritual for blessing 
baptismal water to be used in missionary 
countries, where baptism has to be admin- 
istered at stations or in private houses at 
a considerable distance from the church, 
where it would be impossible, or at least 
very inconvenient, to carry the water from 
the church. Next, there is water blessed 
by a bishop to be used in consecrating 
churches, or reconciling churches that have 
been profaned. It is called Gregorian Water, 
because Pope Gregory IX. made its use ob- 
ligatory for the piirposes specified. Wine, I 
ashes, and salt are mingled with it." j 

Then there is common holy water, which, I 
as is well known, is usually blessed by a j 
priest. This blessing may be performed at j 
any time, and in any becoming place; but| 
it generally takes place in the church orj 
sacristy. It is required to be done, as hasj 
been said, on every Sunday before Solemn 
Mass, with the exception of Easter and 



* "Kirchen Lexicon." 

t " A Catholic Dictionary ' ' : Article, Holy Water. 



I 



The Ave Maria. 



149 



P ntecost, when the water blessed on the 
p: evious eve is used for the Asperges. In 
tl e Oriental Churches there is the custom 
oi solemnly blessing water on the Feast of 
E uphany , in memory of the baptism of Our 
D vine Lord in the River Jordan, which 
e\ent is commemorated in the Church on 
thitday* 

According to another division, ther^ may 
be said to be four kinds of holy water; for 
wjien it is being blessed for the baptismal 
fo It it is usually put into a larger vessel, 
and at a certain stage of the ceremony the 
font is filled to receive the holy oils, and 
the rest is left for distribution among the 
people. This is what is popularly called 
'Easter Water." It may be remarked, in 
passing, that the laws of the Church require 
the water to be removed from all the fonts 
Df the church during the last three days of 
Holy Week. 

When we come to examine into the act- 

lal blessing of common holy water it is 

■Qund to consist of exorcisms, prayers, and 

he mingling of salt with the water. By 

he fall of our first parents the spirit of evil 

)btained an influence not only over man 

)ut also over inanimate nature, whence he 

s called in Scripture ' ' the prince of this 

\rorld." For this reason when any mate- 

ial object is to be devoted to the service of 

rod, or of the people of God, an exorcism 

; first pronounced over it, to banish the 

vil spirit and destroy his influence, after 

hich a prayer is read over it to call down 

le blessing of God upon it, and upon those 

ho use it in a spirit of faith and contri- 

on. In the exorcism of the salt the priest 

idresses it, declaring that he exorcises 

by the Living God, the True God, the 

oly God, by the God who commanded the 

rophet Eliseus to cast it into the water to 

irify it; that it may become exorcised for 

e use of the faithful ; that whosoever uses 

may enjoy health of soul and body; 

at all phantasms and wickedness and all 

ceits of the devil may depart from the 

ice where it is sprinkled, and every evil 



" Kirchen I,exicon.*' 



Spirit adjured by Him who is to come to 
judge the living and the dead and the world 
by fire. The salt, having been exorcised, 
is blessed with the following beautiful and 
expressive prayer: ''Almighty and Eternal 
God! we humbly implore Thy boundless 
clemency, that Thou wouldst mercifully 
deign to bless and sanctify this salt. Thy 
creature, which Thou hast given for the 
use of mankind, that it may bring salvation 
of mind and body unto all that take it, and 
that whatever is touched or sprinkled with 
it may be freed from all uncleanness and 
from all attacks of spiritual wickedness." 

' ' We see from this prayer that the Church 
begs God to attach a triple eflicacy to 
blessed salt: ist. That it may be a means of 
salvation to the soul; 2d, that it may be a 
preservative against corporal dangers; 3d, 
that it may sanctify everything with which 
it comes in contact. It does not produce 
these effects of itself, as a Sacrament does, 
but it obtains actual graces for the pious 
user, which will, if co-operated with, obtain 
them. The same remark applies to the 
efficacy of the water. ' ' * 

Then follows the exorcism of the water, 
in the name of God the Father Almighty, 
in the name of Jesus Christ, His Son, Our 
Lord, and in the name of the Holy Ghost, 
for the dispelling of all the power of the 
enemy of man, and that the same enemy 
with his apostate angels may be utterly 
expelled by the power of the same Jesus 
Christ Our Lord, who is to come to judge 
the living and the dead and the world by 
fire. This exorcism is followed by the sub- 
joined prayer: "O God! who, for the salva- 
tion of mankind, hast wrought many gyeat 
mysteries and miracles by means of the 
substance of water, listen propitiously to 
our invocations, and infuse into this ele- 
ment, prepared by manifold purifications, 
the power of Thy benediction: in order 
that Thy creature [water], being used as an 
instrument of Thy hidden works, may be 
efficacious in driving away devils and cur- 
ing diseases; that whatever in the houses 



* Barry, p. 60. 



^So 



The Ave Maria, 



or in the places "^f the faithful shall have 
been sprinkled with this water may be 
freed from all uncleanness and delivered 
from all guile. Let no pestilential spirit 
reside there, no infectious air; let all the 
snares of the hidden enemy be removed; 
and if there should be anything adverse to 
the safety or repose of the indwellers, may 
it be put entirely to flight by the sprinkling 
of this water, that the welfare which we 
seek, by the invocation of Thy Holy Name, 
may be defended from all assaults; through 
Our Lord Jesus Christ," etc. 

"This formula of prayer implores the 
following effects for the holy water: ist. To 
drive away the devils; 2d, to cure diseases; 
3d, to free houses and their contents from 
all evil, particularly from a plague-infected 
atmosphere. After these prayers the priest 
puts a little salt into the water three times, 
in the form of a cross, saying: 'May this 
commingling of salt and water be made in 
the name of the Father, and of the Son, 
and of the Holy Ghost. '" * 

A few words on the use of salt in this and 
certain other solemn rites of the Church. 
Salt is frequently referred to in both the Old 
and New Testaments. Says Father Barry 
(pp. 58, 59): "The union of water and salt 
is not without mystery. The property of 
the first is to cleanse, of the second to pre- 
serve. The Church wishes that this sac- 
ramental should help to wash away sin 
from her children, and to preserve them 
from a relapse. Water quenches fire and 
fosters the growth of plants; thus, in the 
spiritual order, holy water serves to quench 
the fire of the passions and to promote the 
growth of virtues. Salt is the symbol of 
wisdom; it typifies the Eternal Wisdom, 
the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity. 
Water represents human nature. Hence 
the mingling of the two substances is em- 
blematic of the Incarnation — of the as- 
sumption of human nature by the Eternal 
Word. Water represents repentance for 
past offences ; salt, from its preservative 
properties, represents the care which the 



* Barry, pp. 60, 61. 



true penitent takes to avoid future falls. 
' ' There is a remarkable instance in the 
Fourth Book of Kings, 2d chapter" — to 
which reference is made in the exorcism of 
the salt — "of the efficacy which God at- 
taches to salt. The inhabitants of Jericho 
complained to the Prophet Eliseus that the 
water of their town was bad and the ground 
barren. The holy man then said to them: 
' Bring me a new vessel, and put salt into 
it. And when they had brought it, he went 
out to the spring of the waters, and cast the 
salt into it, and said: Thus saith the Lord 
I have healed these waters, and there shall 
be no more in them death or barrenness.' " 

The custom of mingling salt with the 
water is of great antiquity in the Church. 
One of the Apostolic Canons says: "We 
bless the water mingled with salt, that all 
who are sprinkled with it may be sanctifiedj 
and purified. " * 

The importance which the Church at-' 
taches to indulgences, more especially irj 
modern times, and which, unfortunately, 
it is to be feared is not sufficiently appre 
ciated by the great body of the faithful 
makes pertinent the inquiry. What indul 
gences, if any, are granted to the use 
holy water? The only one that I have beei 
able to find is that given in the Raccolta ii 
these words: "His Holiness Pope Pius IX. 
by a brief (March 23, 1876) granted to al 
the faithful, every time that, with at leas 
contrite heart, they shall make the Sign c 
the Cross with holy water, pronouncin 
at the same time the words. In the Nam 
of the Father,, and of the Son^ and of th 
Holy Ghost^ an indulgence of one hundre 
days." 

Much more might be said on the subje* 
of holy water, but this, it is hoped, will \ 
sufficient to give the reader a more inte 
ligent idea of its origin and use. 



Kirchen Lexicon.' 






Why add sorrow to the afflicted? Mo 
painful to Christ are the wounds of our si 
than the wounds of His Body. — St. Bv 
nard. ' 



I 



The Ave Ml 



ana. 



15^ 



The Assumption of Our Lady. 

\ BY THE REV. R. BELANEY, M. A. 

in HEN Mary's sinless soul had passed 

•^ away, 

ln(. wbile her breathless body lifeless lay, — 

Vh le Death, in joy, stood gloating o'er his 
prize, 

'ht fruit and crown of all his victories, — 

A:sunipta est!'' a choir of angels cried, 
\:sumpta est!'' an empty tomb replied. 

i.n^.els and saints, alternating to greet 
heir Queen in heaven, ''Assumpta est!" re- 
peat. 

ot with the golden beams of that glad day 
as that sweet song of triumph died away: 
Assumpta est! Assumpta est!" is sung 
I every land, by every race and tongue. 
Assu7npta est ! Assumpta est!" will be 
he song which saints will sing eternally. 

Mother blest! though hence of thee bereft, 
ly spirit with thy children still is left; 
ly love remains, to be with theirs entwined, 
ly tender heart to be with theirs enshrined, 
]■ this consoled, to heaven we raise our eye, 

iid lo! thou'rt there in all thy majesty! 
/elve radiant stars encompassing thy head, 
e sun, as mantle, o'er thy shoulders spread, 
e moon beneath thy feet, to all proclaim 
1 y royal state, thy ever- living fame. 



lat homage is thy due, O glorious Queen! 
ly children read in this celestial scene, — 
that we see thee, through the vision given, 
thou art seen by all the hosts of heaven; 
that we see how God has glorified 
I Virgin Mother of the Crucified; 
hat we see, too, what our love must be, 
ke the love that God Himself gives thee. 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID, 



VII. 



r was a strange thing to do, Alice," 

, said Mrs. Percival. 

I suppose it seems so to you," Alice 
aii:kred, in a somewhat meditative tone, 

le was sitting in the twilight, by the 
sid of the couch on which her mother 



spent the greater part of her life; but the 
flickering light of the fire, which the in- 
valid required at almost all seasons, fell on 
her face, and revealed to her mother's eye 
its beauty and its gentle gravity. She was 
looking at the fire, and her lips parted 
slightly in a smile as she went on: 

"It seems strange to me — now, but at 
the time it did not. There is something 
very winning about the young man: he is 
so frank, and apparently so unspoiled by 
the world. I should have preferred not to 
know him, but since accident has brought 
him across my life, why should I be rude to 
him because his uncle is — what we know ? ' ' 

"There is no reason for being rude," 
said Mrs. Percival; "but one has a right 
to choose one's acquaintances." 

"Yes," answered her daughter, in the 
same meditative fashion: "one's intimate 
acquaintances, of course; and I have no in- 
tention of admitting him to intimacy. But 
ordinary social acquaintance, that I can not 
refuse because his name is Thornton, ' ' 

" It is not only that his name is Thorn- 
ton," said Mrs. Percival, with some agita- 
tion, "but he is the nephew, the adopted 
son, of the man who has wronged us. ' ' 

' ' Granting that, ' ' said Alice, laying her 
hand gently down on the thin fingers of 
the other, "I feel that we occupy so much 
the highest plane, that it is easy to ignore 
even the wrong. We have been robbed, 
but what is that in comparison with bearing 
the stain that darkens that man's soul, and 
his good name, too, in the eyes of all honest 
people? What can be said of my father 
except that he stripped himself of every- 
thing to make amends for his imprudence? 
But the other — all men know that he has 
taken and kept tenfold the amount of the 
debt due to him. Would you not rather — 
a thousand times rather — be in our position 
than in his ? For my part, I am so glad that 
I am Percival instead of Thornton, that I 
have only pity for him, and greater pity still 
for the young man who, as you have said, 
is his adopted son, and who does not know 
how deeply stained is the wealth he will 
inherit, ' ' 



152 



The Ave Marta. 



Mrs. Percival looked at her daughter with 
Some surprise. Alice often surprised her 
by a way of regarding things which, to say 
the least, was not common. Gentle and 
unvindictive though the elder woman was, 
it required all her Christian faith and feeling 
to subdue the bitterness witU which she 
thd>ught of the wrong that had been inflicted 
on her daughter and herself; she could not 
attain to Alice's lofty point of view, yet, 
while it was presented to her, she acknowl- 
edged and appreciated it. 

"That is all very true," she said pres- 
ently ; ^ ' but I can not think that it would 
be pleasant to have any association with a 
member of the family. ' ' 

' ' Not unless it were accidental, as it has 
been to-day, ' ' replied Alice. ' ' In that case 
I do not think that it is for me to shun it. 
I am, as I have said, in the higher position, 
and I should feel that it was ungenerous to 
make an innocent person bear the odium of 
a wrong in which he had no share. ' ' 

"He will have the share of profiting by 
it," said Mrs. Percival. 

" Ignorantly , " answered her daughter. 
"The people nearest such a wrong are the 
last to know of it, and he knows nothing. ' ' 

Mrs. Percival thought that it was a pity 
such ignorance should not be enlightened, 
but she did not express this opinion, for 
she also thought it likely that Alice would 
diifer with her. So they were silent for 
several minutes, while the dusk deepened 
more and more around them, and the fitful 
light of the fire rose and fell, playing over 
the pale countenance of the invalid lying 
on her pillows, and the beautiful, stately 
presence of the girl beside her. 

Presently the latter rose and lighted a 
lamp, which she covered with a shade and 
placed on a table near her mother's couch. 
Then she went to an upright piano in a 
corner of the room, and, touching the keys 
softly, began to sing an evening hymn to 
the Blessed Virgin. The tender cadences 
were still filling the room when a ring at 
the door-bell was followed a minute later 
by the entrance of a visitor, who came in 
with the ease of a familiar habituk. Mrs. 



Percival held out her hand, but -Alicefe fin- 
ished the last strain of her hymn before she 
rose from the piano and greeted the new- 
comer with a smile. 

' ' How do you do, Mr. Graham ! ' ' she said, 
"It is some time since we have seen you.'^ 

' ' Yes, ' ' said Graham, with a pleased look, 
' ' it is some time. I have been very busy. ' ' 

"So have I," replied Alice. "What a 
great thing it is to be busy, so long as one 
is not worked beyond the measure of one's 
strength! I am really sorry for the idlers 
of the world, who no doubt would be very 
much surprised by my compassion." 

' ' I am often sorry for them myself, ' ' said 
Graham, "while at the same time I have 
not much patience with them. How much 
I would give for some of the golden hours 
they seem to desire so much to be rid of ! '* 

"It is a pity — is it not? — that people 
could not dispose of their surplus time!'^ 
she said, a little absently. "I should like 
to purchase some if it were possible. Poor 
mamma should not be left so much alone 
then." 

"Oh! I do not mind being left alone 
when it can not be helped," observed Mrs. 
Percival. "But I confess I grew impatien^ 
and anxious this afternoon when you wi 
so long coming. ' ' 

' ' I knew you would be, ' ' said Alice, ' ' and 
that made the delay worse to me. I was in a 
railroad accident, ' ' she continued, turning 
to Graham. ' ' Do you not think I have come 
out of it with tolerably steady nerves?" 

"A railroad accident!" he repeated 
looking at her with a startled air. * 'Are yoi 
in earnest? Where?" 

"Have you not heard that there was an 
accident at the Junction this afternoon ? A 
misplaced switch or an obstacle on the track 
— some people said one thing, some another 
— threw off the engine and several cars. 
Fortunately, the car in which I was did not 
leave the rails, although there was at one 
time imminent danger that it would." 

"And you were not hurt at all?" 

"No; how could I be? The shock was 
disagreeable, and so was the fear that other % 
people were injured. But I believe no one 



I 






The Ave Maria, 



53 



T as hurt seriously. There was mucli con- 
f ision and delay, of course; but I soon left 
i behind and walked into the city. It was 
r 3t far, you know. ' ' 

"No: only a mile or so, " replied Graham. 
' Did the other passengers follow your ex- 
anple?" 

WNo — that is, only one accompanied me. 
was a gentleman whom I met not long 
a.yo at Mrs. King's, and who is an acquaint- 
aice of yours, I believe — Mr. Thornton." 
She lifted her eyes to Graham's face as she 
S])oke, so she had the advantage of seeing 
a 1 the astonishment which his countenance 
betrayed when she uttered the last name 
which he expected to hear. He looked at 
her for a moment, as if he could scarcely 
believe his ears; but her quietness seemed 
to make belief necessary, so he finally an- 
swered : 

"Yes, I know a man of the name — Philip 
Thornton. We were at college together, 
else I should hardly be likely to know him ; 
for he is a butterfly of fashion — one of the 
idlers of whom we spoke a few minutes 
ago — while I am a hard-working grub, as 
you are aware." 

"He gives me the impression of being 
rather a pleasant person," she said, as 
quietly as she had spoken before. 

Graham flushed suddenly. "If I could 
have imagined that you would find him 
so," he said, "I might have acceded to a 
request which he made me some time ago 
to introduce him to you. But I could not 
present him without asking your permis- 
sion, and I felt sure that you would have 
refused it." 

"You were quite right," she answered. 
'I told him so this afternoon when he 
Jpoke of the matter. I should have declined 
:o know him, if the opportunity to decline 
lad been given me; but it was not. He 
;ame into Mrs. King's one day when I was 
here, and she presented him, as a matter 
>f course. He has never presumed on the 
ntroduction in the least. Although I see 
lim every Sunday in the choir, we have not 
xchanged a word since our first meeting 
util this afternoon, when he very kindly 



offered to render me any assistance that I 
needed." 

Graham's somewhat sardonic lip curled 
a little. To himself he said: "It was just 
the opportunity he wanted!" But he did 
not say this to Miss Percival. Instead he 
observed, carelessly: 

"That is very like him. He is pleasant, 
as you have said, and is inclined to be 
chivalric where women are concerned. It 
is a pity that he has little depth of charac- 
ter or purpose — or, perhaps, I should say 
that it would be a pity if life had not been 
made so smooth to his feet. But as it is he 
has no need of more than he possesses." 

"I must disagree with you," said Miss 
Percival. " I do not think that life can pos- 
sibly be made so smooth to any one's feet 
that there would not be need of depth in 
character and purpose. But why should 
you think that he does not possess any?" 

Graham shrugged his shoulders. "Sim- 
ply from my observation of him. He is one 
of those characters who float with the cur- 
rent, but have no strength to go against it. 
At present he is a Catholic, after a fashion; 
but some day the world will offer him an 
inducement, and he will give up his relig- 
ion, as his uncle has done." 

"Will he?" said Alice, as if to herself 
She did not contradict Graham's opinion — 
what basis of knowledge had she on which 
to do so? — but Philip's face rose before her 
mental vision, and she thought that it in- 
dicated something better than the moral 
weakness of which the other accused him. 

"I have just been telling Alice that I do 
not consider the young man a very— de- 
sirable acquaintance," said Mrs. Percival' s 
soft, hesitating tones. 

Graham glanced keenly at Alice. "It 
surprises me a little, ' ' he remarked, ' ' that 
Miss Percival should desire him as an ac- 
quaintance." 

Miss Percival met his glance as calmly 
as ever. "Have you understood me so little 
as to imagine that I desire his acquaint- 
ance?" she asked. "But I will not be so 
unjust, or seem so vindictive, as to visit on 
him the fault of another person. I can not 



154 



The Ave Maria. 



regard him as outside the pale of that cour- 
tesy which one owes to everybody, though 
I have not the least intention of showing 
him anything more than courtesy. And 
now I think that we have surely exhausted | 
the subject." 

"I am not responsible for it," observed 
Graham, dryly; "but I agree with you that 
it is exhausted. Mrs, Percival," he added, 
turning to that lady, "I am forgetting all 
this time that I have brought you some- 
thing — a mere trifle in itself, but which I 
hope will add to your comfort." 

He rose, went out into the hall, and re- 
turned in a moment with one of the book- 
rests which are made to be placed in front 
of an invalid, and support a volume that 
may be too heavy for the hand. It was a 
very happy diversion. Mrs. Percival was 
charmed, Alice was grateful for the kind 
thought of her mother, and Graham was 
pleased by the cordial acceptance of his 
gift. 

''I saw it in a shop- window to-day, and 
thought of you at once, ' ' he said. ' ' I know 
that you are so much alone, and that read- 
ing is your chief pleasure, while I am sure 
that holding a book must be very fatiguing 
to you. ' ' 

"Oh! yes: it is often so fatiguing that I 
am forced to put down the volume at a 
point where I most wish to go on," she 
said. ' ' This will be delightful. ' ' 

"I wonder that / never thought of it," 
remarked Alice, in a tone of self-reproach. 

"I am glad that you left it for me to 
think of, ' ' said Graham. 

He spent a pleasant hour with them after 
this, and Alice sang his favorite songs for 
him before he went away. But no sooner 
was he outside their door than a cloud fell 
over his face. He would certainly have said 
that no fear of Philip Thornton's possible 
power to attract, but only a sense of what 
was fit and proper, had made him refuse to 
present him to Miss Percival. Yet it was 
with keen regret that he heard how the 
young man had carried his point — for it was 
in this light that he regarded the affair, — 
and been admitted to her acquaintance. 



He knew how winning Philip was, how 
gracious in nature as well as in manner, 
and he overrated the possible effect of these 
qualities, as a man who does not possess 
them is very likely to do. 

The strong and hard nature may feel 
something of scorn for the lighter and sun- 
nier one, yet this scorn is often mingled 
deeply with envy, since the man who pos- 
sesses the first knows that many things are 
beyond his reach which the charm of the 
latter can win. And, beside this instinctive 
fear, Graham was startled by Alice Perci- 
val' s attitude. He was not able to realize or 
fully grasp the sincerity with which she 
felt that it was beneath her, in dignity as 
well as in justice, to visit upon the nephew 
the fault of the uncle. For once he failed to 
understand the nature which he had reason 
to know well, and gave a lower reading to 
her conduct than it deserved. 

The reason for this was not far to seek. 
He was himself so deeply attached to her, 
that the jealousy which usually accompa- 
nies strong passion was ready to be stirred 
by a shadow. He did not imagine for a 
moment that Philip would be seriously his 
rival, for he knew that there were influ- 
ences of the present as powerful as those of 
the past to forbid this; but he felt that he 
might suffer by comparison with a "butter- 
fly of fashion," as he had contemptuously 
called him, and that the gracious charm 
which he had himself often acknowledged 
might cause Alice Percival to turn from a 
nature formed in so different a mould. 

As the young man walked on, revolving 
these thoughts, with his dark brows knitted 
and his face set in heavy lines, did no spirit 
suggest to him, in the words of Holy Writ, 
that out of the heart are "the issues of 
life," and that it was a dangerous passion 
which had entered to possess his? He had! 
not hesitated to prophesy that Philip would 
lightly resign his faith for some worldly 
inducement: was there no reason to fear 
that he might himself forget its strongest 
precepts under the influence of the feelings 
that now overpowered him? I 

(to be continued.) ' 






The Ave Maria, 



155 



Three Days at Lourdes. 



BY A BENEDICTINE ABBOT. 



(Conclusion.) 
FTER assisting at High Mass in the 
Basilica, which was richly decorated 

th votive banners and costly presents, we 
repaired to the mission house, where, with 
about one hundred other guests, we were 
invited to dine. 

Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament 
was given in the Grotto at five o'clock, 
Arch-abbot Maurus officiating. Before he 
had replaced the Sacred Host in the taber- 
nacle a general wish was expressed to honor 
the Eucharistic King with an improvised 
procession. The Abbot declared himself 
teady to carry the monstrance, and after a few 
moments' delay the procession was formed. 
It was a solemn and edifying spectacle. 
Hundreds of clergymen with lighted tapers 
took the lead ; next came the Holy of Holies, 
' followed by the afflicted pilgrims, some 
walking, some being carried, while fervent 
petitions in their behalf were offered up by 
those accompanying them. Having entered 
the city, and conveyed the invalids to the 
hospital, the procession turned towards the 
Basilica, where a pious discourse, prayers 
for the sick, and Benediction, brought the 
devotions to a close. 

While the pilgrims were thus engaged in 
paying their adoration to the Blessed Sac- 
rament more cures were obtained than dur- 
ing all the previous part of the day; just 
as though Our Holy Mother had only been 
waiting for this public expression of our 
belief in the Real Presence of her Divine 
Son in order to shower down her favors. 

The sun had now sunk behind the neigh- 
boring hill-tops. Leaving the Basilica, we 
proceeded up to the terrace which over- 
hangs the Grotto. Its balustrade, studded 
with lighted lamps, resembled a sparkling 
diadem. But the unsurpassing splendor of 
the lighted procession which we here 
caught sight of made an impression that 
death alone can efface. No illumination. 



no pyrotechnical display, however grand, 
can give any idea-of the torch-light proces- 
sions which we witnessed at Lourdes on 
each of these three days. Both eye and ear 
were ravished with delight. From eight 
o'clock till ten the vale, now covered by 
the shades of night, twinkled with myriad 
lights, that seemed to vie in numbers with 
the clustering stars of the dome above. 

Now the procession proceeds, and as it 
winds its way along it resembles a gigantic 
fire- drake, now coiling, now uncoiling its 
massy folds. On moving, a hynin consisting 
of six stanzas, celebrating the apparition of 
the Blessed Virgin at Lourdes, was intoned. 
Each stanza concluded with a repetition 
of the refrain, ^^Ave^ ave^ ave Maria I ^^ 
accompanied by soul-stirring strains of in- 
strumental music. The procession wended 
its way up the terrace, around the Basilica, 
and down again by the crowned, illumi- 
nated statue of the Blessed Virgin; then 
proceeded onward to the end of the avenue, 
where, forming an immense fiery cross, it re- 
turned to the Grotto whence it had started. 

No language can describe the emotions 
that thrilled us to the very soul as we stood 
upon the terrace that evening, regarding 
the sea of glittering lights spread out be- 
fore us. Finally the signal for dispersing 
was given by the Rev. Father Picard, in 
words of burning eloquence, which were lis- 
tened to by a throng of more than 10,000 
persons. Then rows of quivering torches, 
separating from the concentrated mass, 
swept onward, as hymn and music came 
floating through the air, until the whole 
appeared an undulating ocean of enchanted 
harmony. Then came stealing into our 
hearts a mysterious peace and heavenly joy 
never before experienced. And we thought 
within ourselves: How infinitely more mag- 
nificent even than this must be the choirs of 
heavenly spirits beyond the stars, who for- 
ever surround the throne of the Most High! 
The reflection also strongly impressed itself 
that so glorious a spectacle could have been 
inspired only by the Immaculate Virgin 
herself, who refers all the homage offered 
her back to its source^ — her divine Son. 



156 



The Ave Maria. 



On Saturday, Our Lady's day, we had 
the happiness of saying Mass in the Crypt, 
near the place where the Apparition stood. 
Communicants were receiving almost con- 
tinually at the high altar, while the con- 
fessionals were besieged by penitents. Next 
morning brought with it the same privi- 
leges and scenes as the day before. 

Quite a peculiar ceremony was set apart 
for the afternoon. A large cross, which had 
been brought from Jerusalem, was erected 
near the Grotto. The previous year, four 
hundred pilgrims, conducted by the Augus- 
tinian Fathers, embarked at Marseilles for 
the Holy Land. The ship had been char- 
tered by the Fathers, and on its deck an 
altar with a tabernacle had been raised. 
On this altar, as well as on seventeen others 
in the cabin, one hundred priests celebrated 
Mass every day. The celebrant was as- 
sisted by a priest on either side of him, who 
protected the chalice against the rocking of 
the vessel. When the Masses were all said, 
the rest of the day was devoted to silence, 
meditation, and prayer. The tabernacle, 
within which reposed the King of kings, 
was continually surrounded by a devout 
throng of worshippers. 

Arrived at their destination, the pil- 
grims caused the cross above mentioned to 
be made of olive wood. It is twenty feet 
high, one foot wide, and one and a half 
thick. The pious pilgrims bore it toilsomely 
through the streets of Jerusalem up to 
Mount Calvary. Thus consecrated, it was 
shipped to Lourdes, and there erected pro- 
visionally. Now it was to be brought to a 
place definitely chosen for it — a granite 
cliflf of considerable height, and situated 
above the vale. It was a penitential cross, 
having no image attached to it. Placed on 
the lofty eminence, its outstretched, naked 
arms would seem to invite all true lovers of 
the Cross to its embrace. The solemn cere- 
mony of putting it in position was to take 
place at three o'clock, in honor of the hour 
at which the world's Redeemer expired. 

The path from the Grotto up to the 
eminence was marked by fourteen small 
wooden crosses, representing the Fourteen 



Stations, and around each of which were 
grouped thirty persons, of all ages, ranks, 
and conditions of life. They had voluntarily 
offered to carry, barefoot, the heavy cross 
up to its place on the height. On being re- 
lieved at each station by those in waiting, 
they took their places in the rear of the 
procession, behind the two officiating prel- 
ates, the Bishop of Oran and Arch-abbot 
Maurus, both of whom were also barefoot. 
The procession, 10,000 strong, including 
many ladies of high rank, began to move.. 
Supported on shoulders and firmly grasped 
by hands, the olive colored cross slowly as- 
cended the hill. Now it disappears behind 
the mission house, and enters the steep, 
rubble-stone mountain path. The long line 
of pilgrims, both before and after the cross,, 
was very impressive ; piety and enthusiasm 
beamed from every countenance as the cross 
was borne onward amid psalms of penitence 
and hymns of praise. The Vex ilia Regis 
was often repeated, but oftener still the lines:. 

"Hail, Cross of Jesus! blessed tree! 
Our joys and hopes are all in thee; 
Grant to the just increase of grace, 
And every sinner's crimes efface." 

Which wa^ responded to, in turn, by: 

'' Hosannas sing to Jesus' Name; 
The glory of His Cross proclaim. 
He gave His life — oh! love most rare! — 
Our love to win, and lives to spare. 
Then, Christians, high your voices raise,. 
Both Jesus and His Cross to praise." 

Every time this stanza was sung thousands 
of arms were uplifted towards heaven, and, 
like the roaring of thunder, broke forth the 
exulting cry, "The Cross forever!" 

The heat of the sun became more intense, 
the ascent grew steeper and steeper, but 
the stout-hearted pilgrims toiled bravely 
on under their load. There were many who 
marched along with arms extended. It was 
a spectacle worthy the Ages of Faith. The 
Calvary was reached in little more than an 
hour. The view which here greeted the eye 
was most picturesque. In the distance stood 
the wooded Pyrenees encircling us ; be- 
neath us, winding in its downward course, 
was the valley, with Lourdes, its pretty 




The Ave Maria. 



157 



the 



*astle and its graceful Basilica, nestled in a 
fond embrace. 

Like the waters of a river when it reaches 
the ocean, the pilgrims, leaving the pro- 
cessional train, spread themselves over the 
sloping surface of the hill-top, encircling 
the rock which had been prepared for the 
eption of the cross. This, while slowly 

sing to the perpendicular.was greeted with 
a hymn, which was intoned by a Capuchin, 
who attracted much notice by his stentorian 
voice and lively gestures. Finally, when 
the cross was raised and fixed in its place, 
shouts rent the air, the like of which the 
mountains had never heard before — *'The 
Cross forever! The Church forever! Praised 
be Jesus Christ! France forever! Long 
live Leo XIIL ! Blessed be Our Lady of 
Lourdes ! ' ' Enthusiasm was at its highest, 
and every eye shed tears of joy. 

Now the people's beloved orator, Fa- 
ther Maria Antoninus, a slender, emaciated 
friar, ascended the scaffold- pulpit, and was 
greeted by deafening cheers. Then, ad- 
dressing the multitude in a loud and dis- 
tinct tone, he said: 

"Friends and brethren, thivS day marks an im- 
portant epoch in our lives. The Cross has given 
undying fame to three memorable eminences — to 
Golgotha, upon which it triumphed over Death 
and Hell; to the hills of Rome, whence it has 
marched in triumph over the world; and to this 
Calvary hill on which you stand, where so many 
thousands of voices announce its triumph over 
France A passage which I read in the Prophets to- 
day struck me very forcibly: 'And saviours shall 
come up into Mount Sion, to judge the Mount of 
Esau; and the kingdom shall be for the Lord.' 
Abd., i,, 21.) You, my brethren, are these sav- 
iours, who are to save-our country by your faith. 
Mount Sion is this granite hill of Lourdes. The 
Mount of Esau represents the proud and haughty 
enemies of religion . Truly the Cross will triumph ; 
but that it may be victorious, you must all plant 
it firmly in the granite of virtuous hearts, and cry 
out with me: ' I^ive, Jesus, in our hearts! ' " 

The shout of exultation that arose was, 
at different intervals, re-echoed back to the 
multitude, whose enthusiasm became so 
great that even we Germans were almost 
infected with it. The Bishop then gave his 
blessing,and the people descended in groups 
to the Grotto, where Benediction of the 



Blessed Sacrament closed the ceremony. 

Next morning we again visited the hos- 
pital, into which, out of 800 sick persons — 
all French — 432 had been brought. Now we 
found in it but very few, among whom was 
a dying girl; the others had been carried 
to the Grotto. As we descended the stairs 
of the Basilica, in order to join those wha 
were paying their devotions to the Immac- 
ulate Mother preparatory to their depart- 
ure, we encountered one of the missionary 
priests. His countenance beamed with joy, 
and tears glistened in his eyes. At his 
side he carried a small leathern valise. He 
seized our hand, and said, with trembling 
voice: "Only think! a moment ago I was 
sent from the Grotto to the mission house, 
to get the holy oils for a dying w^oman, and 
when I returned I found her — cured!" 

We passed on to the Grotto, and, having 
reimpressed the whole scene upon our swell- 
ing hearts, we prepared to return home. As 
the Angehis sounded from the steeples the 
iron horse began to snort impatiently. We 
mounted, he rushed forward, and Lourdes, 
unrivalled Lourdes, was quickly lost to- 
view. But its memory can never fade. 



St. Joseph's Chapel.* 

BY EDNA PROCTOR CLARKE. 

7]" HE land lies hushed in slumber deep,, 
^ The, very birds are sunk in dreams; 
The pale moon's crescent hanging low 

Touches the earth with trembling beams; 
I look across the meadows wide, 
Where, gray against the mountain-side, 
St. Joseph's Chapel gleams. 

Lone hermit of the mountain-top, 
He lifts his stony cross on high, 

The silent dead beneath his feet, 
Above, the tender, brooding sky; 

Rippling with heavy-headed grain 

The fields, once heaped with foemen slain. 
In peace around him lie. 

* South Mountain, Washington Co., Md., where 
a beautiful chapel dedicated to St, Joseph is sit- 
uated, was the scene of a memorable battle during 
the late civil war. 



158 



The Ave Maria. 



Above his cross a single star 

Hangs pendent in the pulsing air, 

Pointing, as did that one of old. 

To where all hearts should bow in prayer; 

For in the chapel, swaying low, 

The lamp, with holy flame aglow, 
Reveals the Presence there. 

Across the meadows hushed and still 
Shines out the blessed, hallowed light. 

And with a splendor strange and new 
The chapel greets the wondering night. 

As if within that stony frame 

A heart of fire, a soul of flame. 
Had burst in radiance bright. 

"Within, upon the carven cross. 

The pitying Christ in anguish lies; 
But see! upon the wings of flame 

His crowned soul triumphant rise. 
And angel choirs, hovering nigh, 
Hail with glad songs of victory 
The King of Paradise! 
» 
Ah. no! 'tis but the murmuring sigh 

Of the low night-wind blowing chill; 
No vision strikes my longing eyes. 

Or sets my yearning heart athrill. 
But o'er the meadows dark and drear, 
The light shines steadfast, soft and clear, 
And whispers: "Peace! be still." 

Oh, Christ! who on the cruel Cross 

Suffered to set us sinners free, 
Come down into our stony hearts. 

Kindle therein a flame for Thee; 
And let Thy glorious love divine 
Above all other glories shine 
-Throughout eternity! 



Palms. 



8Y ANNA HANSON DORS^Y. 

CHAPTER XVI.— (Continued.) 

THERE was no need for Nemesius to 
count the cost of becoming a Christian, 
for he was familiar with the methods of the 
persecution, and knew exactly what it was; 
but the arrangement of his affairs and the 
disposal of his wealth required considera- 
tion. Whatever the details of his plans 
might be, he was resolved that, in case he 



and his child should be called upon to 
suffer martyrdom, the persecuted Church 
should inherit his wealth for the benefit of 
her needy and suffering members; and even 
should they be left unscathed — which he 
had no reason to expect — he would devote 
the greater part of his substance to the same 
objects, as a thank-offering to God for the 
miraculous and inestimable favors they had 
received at His hands. 

On the following morning Nemesius had 
an early interview with his old steward, to 
whom he confided some of the prelimina- 
ries relating to certain plans which he pur- 
posed to intrust to his supervision, among 
them the liberation of his slaves, whose 
number he did not know. But Symphro- 
nius had been the factor of the rich estate 
on the Aventine too many decades to be 
ignorant of that, or any other business de- 
tail connected with it ; his service had 
been too vigilant and honest, his accounts 
too thoroughly well kept, for him to feel 
disturbed now at the prospect of his present 
task by a wearisome sense of anticipated 
toil, or a dread of uncertain results. His 
systematic methods of the past simplified 
the undertaking, while the motive sweet- 
ened and lightened it. 

Zealous to begin the work confided to 
him, the old man went back to his office, to 
take from the secret corners of his cabinet 
accounts and records which he had not ex- 
pected would ever see the light again until 
he had passed to the shades. He knew 
that everyone of them would bear the most 
captious scrutiny ; but now, since every- 
thing had ta be divided and parcelled off", 
and the slaves liberated, it wa^ quite a dif- 
ferent matter, in spirit and in fact, from all 
that had gone before; for in this the old 
leaven of idolatry had no part, the honor 
and glory of the only True God being the 
incentive. 

Nemesius sought Claudia in the apart- 
ment where the light morning repast was j 
usually taken. She had just come in from I 
the beautiful gardens, and was waiting for | 
him. She was arrayed in a white, silver- i 
broidered robe and tunic ; her eyes sparkled 



llie Ave Afar/ a. 



159 



if, like the fountain's spray, they had 
drank the sunlight; her cheeks, delicately 
tinted, were dimpled with smiles; her hair, 
irown back fro^ her round, childish fore- 
lead, flowed in light, golden waves over her 
loulders ; and Nemesius thought, as she 
lew to his embrace, that so the angels of 
rod must look; for with her human love- 
iness there was that nameless light irra- 
liating her countenance, which, like the 
^'beauty of the King's daughter," was from 
rithin. 

Ivucilla miaf^ he said, tenderly, as he 

^azed into the bright eyes uplifted to his. 

The light is beautiful, padre mio; it 

fills me, and, oh! it makes my heart so glad 

that r stretch out my arms so" — showing 

him — "to fly like the doves!" 

"Thou hast not wings yet, carina^"^^ he 
answered, laying his hand caressingly on 
her golden head — "not yet. But come: I 
must eat something and be off"; for I have 
much to attend to to-day." 

Instead of offering the customary liba- 
tion, Nemesius made the blessed Sign ot 
the Cross, which Claudia did also, while 
she breathed the Holy Name that glowed 
in her heart; then as the minutes flew she 
told him with childlike rapture of all she 
had seen that morning — the sunrise, the 
fountains glittering in its beams; her doves 
and her wonder to see them spread their 
snowy wings and sail away in the air; the 
flowers, and last of all — Grillo, whose ap- 
pearance filled her with surprise and mer- 
riment; his long ears, his long, solemn face, 
his bright eyes and small hoofs, altogether 
forming an image strangely unlike the one 
her imagination had pictured of him. He 
knew her by her voice, and she knew him 
by his; for in his delight at seeing her he 
had lifted it up aloud, holding her in half- 
frightened suspense, until his vociferous 
welcome subsided. 

There was not a shadow to dim the ec- 
static happiness that had so unexpectedly 
come into her life; by Zilla's tender, vig- 
ilant care, nothing of pain or sorrow had 
ever been permitted to reach her ears; con- 
sequently she had not as yet heard anything 



of the persecution and its horrors, and a 
sudden pang smote her father's heart as the 
thought of what might await her in the 
near future now passed vividly through his 
mind. Would she not die in wild afl"right 
if confronted with the ghastly horrors of a 
cruel death? Would not her child-heart 
fail at the very last before the appalling 
paraphernalia of torture? 

He had too often faced carnage and death 
on the battle-field to dread it in any shape 
for himself; to have lost his life under the 
proud, advancing eagles of Rome would 
have been fame, but to lose it now for Christ 
who had suffered all things for his salvation, 
would not only sweeten the ignominy, the 
insults and tortures of martyrdom, but win 
for him a fadeless glory, and crowning be- 
yond all that earth could give. But for her 
— ah! he could not yet endure the contem- 
plation of it; he put it away from Mm, arose 
from the table, and, after embracing her 
with great tenderness, hastened out to 
mount his horse, to go to his camp and 
transfer his command in due form. He was 
beginning to learn how possible it is for 
human nature to be crucified without the 
cross and the nails. 

When half-way down the avenue, Neme- 
sius saw a chariot, attended by slaves, pass 
the bronze gates. As it approached nearer, 
he observed that it was occupied by a lady 
of distinguished appearance, whom he al- 
most instantly recognized as Camilla, the 
wife of Tertullus, and he drew rein. Her 
fine, spirited face lighted up with pleasure, 
and after the usual salutations were ex- 
changed she said, in a low tone: 

' ' I have come to make the acquaintance 
of thy little daughter, and wish thee joy." 

"I will turn back and introduce her to 
thee, for she is shy with strangers. Thy 
thought of her is most kind," he replied, 
remembering that the Pontiff" had promised 
that this lady would instruct Claudia in the 
rudiments of Christian doctrine. 

Camilla was not critically beautiful, but 
the intelligence, brightness, and frank ex- 
pression of her face imparted to it a winning 
charm which was irresistible. She had been 



i6o 



The Ave Maria. 



the gayest woman in Rome, full of auda- 
cious courage to overstep conventional cus- 
toms if they interfered with her pleasures; 
witty, outspoken, and carrying off every 
thing she did with such cheerful grace that, 
instead of blame, she won admiration, and 
had, notwithstanding her escapades, a rep- 
utation that was without a flaw. By her 
sayings or doings she kept her large circle 
of friends well provided with amusement, 
while her entertainments, quite out of the 
beaten track of such things, were made 
delightful more by their novelty than their 
splendor and profusion. But suddenly, so 
her friends said, she had taken a caprice, 
and adopted a more quiet mode of life ; she 
excused herself by declaring, in a laughing 
way, that she was only learning how to 
grow old with a good grace, and how at last 
to assume the dignity of a Roman matron, 
which sl« had been accused of lacking. 

But the fact was — sub 7^osa — that Camil- 
la's husband, TertuUus, whom she idolized, 
had become a Christian, through having 
heard the testimony and witnessed the 
martyrdom -of a friend he loved, and she, 
by the. grace of God, followed his example. 
Since then many daring things had been 
done in Rome for the persecuted Christians 
— many an edict had been brushed over 
with lime or pitch"; many a martyr's body, 
destined for the cloacce^ mysteriously dis- 
appeared; but neither the instigators nor 
perpetrators of these outrages could be 
traced. But had she chosen to speak, Ca- 
milla could have given the key to it all; for 
her own daring spirit was no^ exercised 
otherwise than for the amusement of her 
friends, and it was she who incited many of 
these exploits. 

She and her husband had many a laugh 
together in secret when she recounted her 
hairbreadth escapes; how, by ingenious 
devices, she had set magistrates and prison 
officials by the ears, thereby delaying, by 
a confusion of orders, the torture and ex- 
ecution of those who at a given time were 
sentenced to die for their steadfast faith in 
Christ; and how, on a dark, stormy night, 
she had caused to be suspended from the 



neck of one of the marble deities a rude 
portrait of Valerian Imperator, head down- 
ward. She had alert hands and willing, 
agile feet to do her bidding, and gold in 
plenty to bribe sordid jailers and execu- 
tioners for certain purposes, not unlike that 
which inspired Joseph of Arimathea and 
Nicodemus to go secretly, after the Cruci- 
fixion, with fine linen and spices, to give 
sacred sepulture to the dead Christ. It was 
she who planned everything, and some- 
times, moved by her adventurous spirit^ 
took an individual and personal share in the 
attendant perils. 

This was, however, but one side of Ca- 
milla's present life; the reverse showed a 
sweet, womanly tenderness in her minis- 
trations to the suffering and afflicted, an 
unsparing hand in relieving their necessi- 
ties; she had words of strong fervor and 
consolation for the weak and faint-hearted, 
and courage herself to die, whenever called, 
for the love of Him whom she so zealously 
loved and served. 

By this time the villa is reached, and, 
assisted by Nemesius, Camilla alights from 
her chariot. Claudia is straying among the 
flowers, and listening to the carols of her 
old friends, the finches and thrushes, hidden 
among the leafy coverts overhead. She 
hears her father call her, drops the violets 
and roses she has gathered, and, emerging 
from a tangled screen of white jasmine and 
eglantine which had concealed her, she 
runs with swift, graceful steps towards him. 
Taking her hand, he introduces her to the 
strange lady, who had watched her approach 
wnth moistened eyes and a sweet, friendly 
smile. After one quick, penetrating glance 
into her face, which the child seems to read 
instantaneously, she lays her hand in the 
lady's soft clasp, and in few simple words 
gives her welcome. 

Then Nemesius, well satisfied, left them 
together; he had not a moment to spare; 
he must be at his camp by a certain time; 
his business there would consume at least 
an hour, and at noon he was due at the old 
walled villa out near the Via Latina. 

Camilla attracted and won Claudia, and 



\h 



The Ave Maria. 



i6i 



after Nemesius had mounted and ridden 
away, she proposed that they should go and 
5nd a seat in some shaded, sequestered spot 
n the gardens, saying, with a bright smile: 

"I have things to tell thee, carina mia^ 
neant only for thine own ear. The birds 
md the fountains babble only of their own 
ifFairs. I want to talk to thee of yesterday, 
md thy visit to my villa beyond Rome. Ah ! 
jow thou knowest! Come." 

*'Dost thou know Him who opened my 
>lind eyes — the Christies ? ' ' asked the child, 
her countenance radiant with sweet eager- 
ness. 

"Aye, and in truth do I, my little one; 
:and it is to speak to thee of Him that the 
holy Bishop Stephen has sent me here to- 
'day," answered Camilla, as, hand in hand, 
they wandered through the fragrant, shaded 
.alleys to the Grotto of Silenus, where they 
found comfortable seats on the moss-grown 
mounds that surrounded it. 

(TO BE CONTINUED.) 



The 16th Convention of the C. T. A. U. 
of America. 

REV. FATHER CONATY'S SERMON. 

THE 1 6th Annual Convention of the 
Catholic Total Abstinence Union of 
America was held at the University of 
Notre Dame, Ind. , Wednesday and Thurs- 
day, August 4th and 5th. Delegates, cler- 
ical and lay, assembled in large numbers 
from various parts of the country, making 
the Convention one of the most successful 
thus far held by the Union. A notable 
feature was the presence of very many cler- 
ical delegates, who gathered to the number 
of about seventy-two, which far exceeded 
that of any previous Convention, and was 
a token of the greatly increased interest 
taken in the movement for which these 
societies are banded together. Of the higher 
order of the clergy, the Most Rev. Arch- 
bishop Elder, of Cincinnati, and the Rt. 
Rev. Bishop Ireland, of St. Paul, attended 
the sessions of the Convention, and spoke 
words of encouragement and counsel to the 



delegates. The Rt. Rev. Bishop Gilmour, 
of Cleveland, had also come to Notre Dame 
to encourage the movement, but illness 
prevented his attendance at the meetings. 
Encouraging letters were received from his 
Eminence Cardinal Gibbons, the Most Rev. 
Archbishops Ryan of Philadelphia, I^ynch 
of Toronto, CWBrien of Halifax; from the 
Rt. Rev. Bishops Keane of Richmond, 
Mclntyre of Charlottetown, Jannsens of 
Natchez, Ryan of Buffalo, Chatard of Vin- 
cennes, O' Sullivan of Mobile, McCloskey 
of Louisville; also the Rt. Rev. Monsignor 
McColgan of Baltimore, and the Very Rev. 
J. Adam, Vicar-General of Monterey and 
Los Angeles. A telegram was received from 
St. Mary's Society, of Norwich, Conn.; 
and a greeting from St. Patrick's Society, 
of Wa3hington, D. C. 

The President of the Union, the Rev. J. 
M. Cleary, of Wisconsin, in his annual re- 
port made an eloquent address, setting forth 
the noble ends of the Union, and giving 
valuable counsels as to the best means to at- 
tain these ends. He dwelt especially on the 
importance of establishing cadet and ladies' 
societies, and on the emphatic endorsement 
of the late Plenary Council of Baltimore. 
The report of the general Secretary, Mr. 
Philip A. Nolan, showed that there were in 
the Union 651 societies, with a membership 
of 43)995) a g^in for the year of 12 societies 
and 1,955 members. The resolutions passed 
by the Convention condemned the liquor 
traffic, in accordance with the counsel of 
the Fathers of the Plenary Council; recom- 
mended the formation of Temperance asso- 
ciations among the young; repeated the 
advice given by our Holy Father in his En- 
cyclical on the Constitution of States — that 
Catholics everywhere should take a manly 
and intelligent part in the workings of gov- 
ernment; and finally expressed sympathy 
with the struggle for right in which the 
Irish people are now engaged. 

The deliberations of the Convention were 
characterized by an intelligent and Chris- 
tian spirit, and we feel assured that the out- 
come will be most happy for the Union, 
and most beneficial to the social sphere 



l62 



The Ave Maria. 



wherein the"infliience of the gentlemanly 
delegates is felt. Most fittingly the blessing 
of Heaven was first invoked by a Solemn 
Pontifical Mass, celebrated by the Most Rev. 
Archbishop Elder, in the Church of Our 
Lady of the Sacred Heart at Notre Dame. 
During the Holy Sacrifice an eloquent ser- 
mon was preached by the Viee-President of 
the Union, the Rev. T.J. Conaty, of Worces- 
ter, Mass. We take pleasure in presenting to 
our readers a synopsis of his forcible plea for 
the cause of Temperance. Father Conaty 
spoke in substance as follows, taking for his 
text the words: "Have courage, and show 
thyself a man." (HI. Kings, ii., 2.) 

May it please your Grace, Brother Dele- 
gates, dearly beloved brethren: — I congratu- 
late you upon this auspicious opening of your 
1 6th Annual Convention in this University 
city of the West. I congratulate you upon the 
splendid organization which you represent, 
which sends you here to look into one anoth- 
er's faces, to meet the friendly smiles and kind 
words of brethren, to consult as to the means 
and methods best adapted to promote the 
ends of your Union. You come to raise again 
your voice in no uncertain tones against a 
giant evil, warning men of its closeness to 
their doors, and showing them the means by 
which to protect themselves from its ravages. 
Brother Delegates, all men agree that In- 
temperance is a great evil. All men agree that 
this evil is in every community, but not all 
seem to realize that no one can claim that for 
him it has no dangers, or for them there is no 
need of interest. Intemperance erects in our 
midst a monument, in the presence of which 
all the monuments of men pale into insignifi- 
cance. It is not granite, nor marble, nor 
bronze, but it is crime committed by it; pov- 
erty and destitution wrought by it; jails, 
lunatic asylums, orphan homes filled by it; 
faith ruined, religion robbed, homes shattered, 
communities paralyzed, men degraded, souls 
lost. lyook at it, this monument of Intem- 
perance, as, Babel-like, it fills the earth, and 
raises itself against Heaven, threatening the 
destruction of God Himself 

Yes, Brother Delegates, Intemperance is a 
scourge, a plague, a foulness in society, de- 
stroying more men than Asiatic pestilence or 
the horrors of war. It wages an unceasing, an 
unrelentless war upon man, and a ceaseless, 



unrelenting force must meet it and attempt 
its destruction. Intemperance is a monster- 
fiend, threatening man, the home, .society, and 
the Church. The home and society must 
unite for protection, while the Church blesses 
and aids the union, which is but a co-operator 
in her work. What greater enemy has man, 
— a being created by God for God, endowed 
by God with all the faculties necessary to 
know the good and the true, to love the beau- 
tiful, to enjoy life in its best gifts, and, by 
fidelity to truth, to purchase the inheritance of 
God? Intemperance clutches the mind, and 
renders it unfit to know the truth. It weakens 
the will, and renders it unable to follow the 
good. It makes the man ordinarily intelligent 
a babbling fool; it makes the man ordinarily 
pure of speech and reverent of manner, obscene 
and blasphemous; it makes the man ordina- 
rily obedient to law and rea.son, a violator of 
all law and the most unreasonable of men. It 
wastes man's energy, by which his daily bread 
is earned; it paralyzes industry, and makes 
improvidence and beggary. In a word, it takes 
man, whom God made little less than the an- 
gels, and degrades him beneath the brute. 

Intemperance is truly the enemy of man. 
But man lives not for himself alone: he is a 
social being. At his advent into the world, he 
finds himself in the home. He is child and 
parent. Home! home! — how sweet the mem- 
ories evoked, how tender the affections there 
formed! How, like the ivy, the traditions that 
are lasting cling around it! Home, which is 
but heaven in miniature, a little kingdom 
wherein are learned the first lessons of man- 
hood, where is found man's first happiness! 
As the home, so the State. Home is the nur- 
sery of true citizens and brave soldiers. To 
enjoy and possess home, good laws are de- 
manded; to protect and defend home, true 
courage and bravery are needed. Yes, indeed, 
the strength of nationality, the vigor of citi- 
zenship, the bulwark of country are all in the 
homes of the land, whence go forth men with 
intelligence and morality to shape the laws 
that govern them, to observe the laws made for 
them, and to avert the dangers that threaten 
them. 

Intemperance is the great enemy, the great 
curse of the home. The traveller who has 
visited scenes of devastation wrought by tem- 
pest and torrent has seen the wrecks of homes 
laid waste even in the midst of bounteous, 






The Ave Maria. 



jeauteous nature, and busy, prosperous in- 
iustry. He has seen the roof torn from many 
I cottage by cruel war, villages depopulated 
Dy giant famines, peasantry scattered by the 
ron rule of despotic land laws. But torrent 
md tempest, war and famine — aye, even the 
.niquities of tyrants, all combined, have not 
;trewn along the highways of life such wrecks 
of homes as those caused by Intemperance. 
War and famine and tyrant were agents out- 
side the home for its destruction: Intemper- 
ance uses the /amily itself as the instrument 
by which to destroy the home. How many 
parents sworn to defend the home have been 
led by Intemperance to destroy it! How many 
children sent by God as angels of the hearth 
have been changed to demons! Never until 
the great reckoning day will man know what 
a curse Intemperance is to the home. 

If this nursery of the State, this source of 
true manhood, this mould of character, pro- 
duce bad men or weak men, the State is en- 
dangered thereby. For man finds himself in 
society face to face with duties as well as 
rights. On liim devolves the duty of giving 
to the State his best intelligence to shape its 
laws, his greatest activity to develop the re- 
sources of nature, his entire being to contrib- 
ute to his own happiness and the welfare of 
his fellow men. How can the intemperate 
man fulfil these duties, with an intellect dulled, 
an activity wasted on evil, an unhappy life ? 
Is he not rather a danger where he should be 
a protection, a burden where he should be an 
assistance, a destroyer where he should be a 
preserver ? Intemperance forces the State to 
increased expenditures for poor-houses, asy- 
lums, and jails, where the wretches ruined by 
drink, and the childhood uncared for, as a re- 
sult of drink, may be housed and nourished. 
Society, then, has an interest in any organiza- 
tion against the demon of Intemperance, and 
no man can say it does not affect him; for what 
injures the body politic injures every member. 

What shall we say of the Church ? Placed 
on earth to save men, planted near the home 
to assist it in the formation of the good man 
and the true citizen, where does it meet with 
difficulties, where does it find the greatest — 
yes, the most insurmountable obstacle? In 
Intemperance, which neutralizes its efforts, 
paralyzes its energy, disgraces its garments. 
It alone defies God, renders the Blood of 
Jesus valueless, places a barrier between sin 



and grace, which not even the almighty power 
of God can remoye; for it destroys the will; 
and God, who made us without our will, does 
not save us unless in our co operation. The 
strong words of the Plenary Council of Balti- 
more tell us the cry of agony from the heart 
of the Church against this plague. 

This is an age of organization. On every 
side men band together for mutual relief, for 
political ambition, and for good or evil de- 
signs. Did ever men have greater reason for 
organization than that given by the dangers 
of Intemperance ? Shall we not band together 
to battle the giant, to defend our homes and 
our manhood against their arch-enemy ? Our 
Union, based upon the great cardinal prin- 
ciple of Temperance, urges men to the Gospel 
counsel of Total Abstinence, and bids them 
enter the ranks of the Temperance Crusad- 
ers, and save the Holy Land from a tyranny 
worse than that of the Moslem. This Union 
is Catholic, and in the warfare against evil, it 
teaches not to rely upon man, but upon God. 
It gathers you to the altar; it encircles you 
with the network of the divine economy; it 
opens to you the treasures of Heaven; it 
strengthens you with the Blood of the Sav- 
iour; it warns you against the heretical 
teachings of sectaries, who make a religion of 
Temperance. It tells you that Temperance is 
not the moral code, but only one of the many 
virtues you should practise; that the pledge 
is not a charm, but an aid; that it is not cow- 
ardice, but true courage. Men may sneer at 
you, call you hypocrites and fanatics. These 
names are not new; this scorn is as old as 
virtue. All men who labor against an evil, all 
men who denounce a great wrong, all men 
who struggle for the renovation of society, 
must expect the hatreds of men whose lives 
are not in sympathy with them 

Brother Delegates, we are on hallowed 
ground, beneath these shades of learning, 
within the walls of the great University, 
whence go forth men armed for the battle of 
life — educators, teachers, reformers. May we 
not catch inspiration from these surround- 
ings? Are you not educators, teachers, apos- 
tles, commissioned to educate and evangelize, 
spreading the gospel of total abstinence every- 
where? Reform is the want of the hour — 
reform in politics, reform in State, reform in 
public life. You are reformers, not self- con- 
stituted, but under the guidance of the only 



>i64 



The Ave Maria. 



true reformers, to whom alone the Saviour 
said: * * Go, teach all nations. ' ' To you society- 
may look for relief in her contest against polit- 
ical dishonesty and impurity. To you labor 
in its great battle should extend a friendly 
hand, for Temperance is labor's best friend. 
May your deliberations here be blessed by 
God and men! May the Church find in them 
assistance in her great work! Be men; have 
courage. Be true to your principles, and you 
will be men. Character, which is the badge 
of manhood, will be built upon solid founda- 
tions. Be unflinching in your fight against 
the saloon which threatens your home. Have 
no compact with Belial, have no alliance with 
evil. Intemperance is a curse: woo it not. 
Intemperance is a plague: shun it. The saloon 
that breeds it is the nursery of evil: raise your 
hand against it. Cling closely to the Church, 
frequent the Sacraments, and have recourse 
to prayer. And your life in Temperance will 
pass in God's love, and when you pass away 
to God men will say: " He had courage: he 
was a true man." 



Obituary. 



'•// is a koly and vjholesotne thought to pray for the dead." 

— 2 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
^readers the following persons lately deceased: 

The Very Rev. Father Denis, a well-known Pas- 
sionist, whose death occurred in England on the 
i8th of July. 

The Rev. Thomas Blake, for thirty-five years 
rector of St. Bridget's Church, Xenia, O. 

Mother Ignatia, sub-prioress of the Convent of 
Mt. Carmel, Baltimore, whose life of self-sacrifice 
was crowned with a precious death on the 14th ult. 

Sister Mary Xavier, of the Sisters of Mercy, who 
rendered her pure soul to God at Auburn, N. Y. 

Mrs. William Pickett, a devout Child of Mary, 
deceased at Hartford, Conn., on the 21st of July. 

Mr. D. Collins, of Binghamton, N. Y., whose 
happy death took place on the 19th ult. 

Mr. John McMahon, a prominent citizen of Ker- 
sey, Pa., who passed away last month. His death is 
deeply regretted by all classes of the community. 

Mrs. Esther Halloran, a model servant of the 
Blessed Virgin, who breathed her last on the Feast 
of Mt. Carmel. 

Mr. James B. Farrell, of Co. Roscommon, Ire- 
land; Mrs. Maria L. Dempsey, Macon, Ga. ; Rod- 
ger J. Mahoney, Rochester, N. Y. ; Winifred V. 
Duffy, Baltimore; Mrs. P. Redmond, John Quinn, 
and Thomas Craby. 

May they rest in peace! 




PARTMENT 



Bodger; or, How It Happened. 



BY E. L. D. 



III. 



The first time Father Byrne met the Cap- 
tain he asked him several questions, and 
the characteristic answers of the skipper 
made an impression. 

' ' No, I don' t b' long to any Church ' zactly, 
but o' course I hev some chart-lines laid 
down, ' ' he said. ' ' Thar was a ole chap — 
Taylor, I think they called him — that was 
al'ays pokin' round the docks, an' in an' out 
the shipoin'. Reel nice ole man too, ven- 
er'ble and soft-spoken; an' oncet he said to 
me: ' Young man, you air with a bad set o' 
fellows. Git out of it. You wouldn't want, 
ef you was in the tropics, to go herdin' 
around with a lot o' hungry sharks. ' An' 
I says : ' Not much I wouldn' t. ' An' a cold 
chill went down my back; fur I'd seen one 
o' my shipmates chawed and mauled in the 
Bay of Rio Janary jest that a- way. An' then 
he says: 'These here fellows ull do ashore 
fur you what the sharks ud do afloat, on'y 
one would destroy your body, an' t' others 
your soul. ' Then says he : ' Respec' God 
and women, be honest to your neighbor, an' 
if you want to be ha'sh try it on your own 
faults, an' you'll git through.' " 

"That's good, sound Catholic doctrine," 
smiled Father Byrne, "as far as it goes; 
but why not come farther ? Suppose a great 
ship-owner sent you out in a fine ship, 
which he promised to give you for your 
own, if you went on a certain cruise, and fol- | 
lowed certain instructions, that were simple 
and sensible. What would you do ? " 

''Do it!" said Captain Bphraim. "Fool 
ef I didn't!" 

"Well," continued Father Byrne, "the 
great Ivord of Heaven has lent you your 
soul; you are sent out on the sea of life; this 




The Ave Maria, 



165 



oul is more noble and is finer than any 
/essel that ever slipped off" the stocks, and 
t will be yours for a happy eternity if you 
bllow out the simple and sensible plan laid 
lown in the Gospels. ' ' 

' ' Wal, now, ' ' said the Captain, ' ' that doos 
.sound reasonable. But it 'pears to me the 
:j_(^rections<2/;«'/f so simple an' easy." 
fc**Come into the Catholic Church and 
*u'll think differently. The line between 
ight and wrong is as clean-drawn as the 
(iquator. ' ' 

But the old sailor shook his head. 

''Idunno," hesaid; "Idunno. O'Neil's 
the best sailor I've got, an' Molly's a good 
gall ; an' ef the maid grows like her through 
bein' a Romanist, why I'll be glad of it. But 
fur me — ' ' And he shook his head again. 
" Howsomdever, passon, ' ' he added, ' ' I like 
to hear ye talk, an' I like a good square 
stand-up an' knock-down argyment, so ef 
it's agreeable to you we'll go at it again 
when the Lively gits back. ' ' 

And they did many times, but there was 
always a lurking doubt somewhere in the 
old sailor's brain, and he came and went as 
before. 

Meantime, with little Bodger everything 
dated from these comings and goings of her 
"daddy," and the days between were 
counted carefully on a string of beans Mol- 
lie gave her. Her joy may, then, be imag- 
ined when one Christmas Eve, in the midst 
of a whirling snowstorm, and while the 
beans had two weeks still to run, in walked 
Captain Bphraim, looking like a polar bear 
in the eddy of flakes that clung to him and 
chased after him as he shut the door. 

When the .excitement had subsided a 
little he said to Mollie: 

"O'Neil's got the mid-watch, and can't 
git off till four o'clock, but he says he'll 
meet ye at the church, at the Mass." 

Mollie' s pretty face, which had fallen 
when he began, cleared up with such a 
brilliant, happy smile that the Captain re- 
marked: 

"Ye cert'nly do set an amazin' store by 
that theer Mass o' youm ! ' ' 



We do that! 



said Mollie; "an' small 



wonder, too, whin it's the mim'ry of Cal- 
vary an' the reminder of the Real Pres- 
ence. ' ' 

Then she turned to the maid. 

"Come, me darlint, ye must lay down 
and sleep a while, so ye can go rested. ' ' 

' ' Who' s goin' with ye ? " asked the' Cap- 
tain, suddenly. 

"Just the two av us," said Mollie, adding, 
shyly, " unless ye'd go with us yerself." 

' ' O my daddy ! yes, do come ! ' ' cried Bod- 
ger, flying to him and throwing her arms 
around his neck. ' ' Do, do ! " And every time 
she said it she kissed him. "It's the glad- 
dest day o' the year, an' av ye come it'll be 
some like the Wise Men; fur ye've come 
so far — on'y the Lively ain't a camel," she 
added, somewhat sadly. "But that don't 
matter; it was the comin' that was the good 
part, not the way they come. ' ' 

Wise Bodger! 

Captain Bphraim thought a minute, 
then: 

"Yes, my maid," adding in a half-apolo- 
getic tone to Mollie, "it ain't safe fur you 
two galls to go alone. ' ' 

But when he reached the great church, 
and saw the vast crowds hurrying in, saw 
them kneeling with absorbed devotion, saw 
the altar massed with flowers and shining 
like a moonrise; when he saw the Bethle- 
hem with its group of figures, and heard 
the exultant, glorious music, he realized 
that no Catholic is ever alone in his relig- 
ion, and he was amazed at the splendor and 
magnificence about him. 

A dim memory of Ephraim and his idols 
swept over him, and he shook his head 
uneasily. But when Father Byrne turned 
from the altar, and in a few clear sentences 
recalled the significance of Christmas, and 
dwelt on its tender meaning, the Captain's 
face cleared. The burden of the refrain 
was, "And a little child shall lead them," 
and just as the priest uttered the words the 
first time, the maid, in sheer contentment, 
slipped her little paw into her daddy's 
horny hand. 

It gave Captain Ephraim a thrill of 
strange emotion, and seemed like a tangible 



1 66 



The Ave Maria, 



summons to receive the baptism Father 
Byrne had several times urged upon him ; 
but the feeling passed as he watched the 
scene about him, and he had almost forgot- 
ten it, [when suddenly across the silence of 
the church smote the clash of silver bells, 
and every figure swayed forward, bowing, 
adoring. 

A strange awe fell on him, but he saw 
nothing except something round, which Fa- 
ther Byrne held high above his head. Then 
the Captain knelt too ; for ' it was more ship- 
shape to do it, ' he thought, ' ef all the others 
was a-doin' of it. ' 

But even after this when the Lively 
sailed it was only a good heathen that paced 
her decks as skipper. 
IV. 

The Lively had been out on a long cruise, 
and one that paid so well that Captain 
Ephraim chuckled as he chinked his bags 
of dollars, and thought how near the little 
home was of which O'Neil and his MoUie 
dreamed. 

"I'll buy it, by gum! An' the maid an' 
MoUie shell keep house, an' me an' O'Neil 
ull have a reel stylish time of it — a-sailin' 
in our Lively here when time an' tide an' 
bizness sarve, an' goin' off to the country 
to take our ease when they don't. I'll git 
it round about HuUway, so's the two galls 
kin see the torpsails arisin' , and anchorage 
clus to hum ull be easy. Thet thar O'Neil, 
now he's a proper kind of a chap. Guess 
I'll take him out ez mate nex' time, fur ef 
/ buys the house he kin put his savin's into 
a share in the Lively. ' ' 

He was so full of his plan that he was 
eager to get ashore; but, as the little craft 
slipped along under the green hills of the 
harbor, a round-robin was presented to him 
to the effect: 

'Bein' as how he hadn't got no kith nor 
kin, an' all of them a-bein' fambly men — 
'cept the cabin-boy, an' his name was put 
in to make the robin round — would he 'low 
all hands to go ashore till midnight, when 
any watch he'd name ud come back prompt, 
so help 'em davy?' 

' ' Sho now ! ' ' thought the Captain ; ' ' sho 



now! The maid ain't mine except by rights 
o' salvage, but I'm disappinted, that's a fac'. 
Howsomdever, here goes till midnight." 

And he told them that, if the two senior 
men (for in spite of that fine-sounding 
phrase "any watch he'd name," there were 
only four men on the Lively beside the 
Captain and the cabin-boy) would be back 
promptly at midnight, they might go. 
Thereupon, with throats of brass and lungs 
of leather, they hurrahed ' ' three- times- 
three," and shortly after the anchor was 
dropped Captain Ephraim was pacing the 
deck — for the cargo was valuable — atten- 
tively watched by the cabin-boy, whose 
one ambition in life was to grow up to a 
skipper. 

O'Neil hurried home, and his Mollie, 

" Lookin' as fi-esh as the morn, darlint," 
met him, with the maid at her apron-string. 

"Glory to God ye' re home, my man!" 
she said. * ' An' it' s meself as hopes to have 
a bit of yer soci'ty for a few weeks; ye' re 
that agreeable, ye see," she added, with a 
laugh. 

But the maid lifted up her little pipe. 

"My daddy — where is he?" 

"He sent ye his love, an' he'll be here 
bright an' early the morn," said O'Neil. 

But the maid thought the morning was 
too far off, and her daddy so very unkind 
that her heart swelled. Wasn't she dressed 
in her best, and hadn't she almost forgot 
to say her beads properly at May Devotions 
for fear she would not be home in time to 
catch the first glimpse of him as he came 
down the street? And now — now he 
wasn't coming at all! 

She ran back, as fast as her feet could 
paddle, to the church- — for, although almost 
eight o'clock, its doors were still open — 
and crept to the railing before the altar of 
Our Blessed Lady, where she sat down for 
a good cry. After sobbing out the first of 
her grief, she looked up to the sweet coun- 
tenance above her, and whispered : 

"Wasn't it mean of him, my Lady, not 
to come home to his maid?" 

But the taper flickering in the wind that 
stirred the flowers on the altar lent a mys- 






The Ave Maria. 



:6^ 



"■J 

B 



erious smile to the fair face, and the 
aaid, repenting her of blaming her daddy, 
aid: 

"But maybe it wasn't his fault. Was it, 
ay Dear?" 

The flickering light lent a still sweeter 

ile to the carven mouth, and the child 

nt on: 

*'So I'll just say me prayers, and then 
go— go— " 

Into her little head popped an idea, and 
who shall say it was a chance thought? 

"My Lady," she said, quite loud, her 
cheeks red with excitement, and her eyes 
shining, "I'll go to him. I know the way as 
well as well. It's dark and scary down on 
the wharfs, but I don't mind, if you'll take 
care of me. ' ' 

And the wind rustled through the flow- 
ers once more, and out of the garland laid 
across the statue's outstretched hands fell 
a piece of May-flower. 

"I'll take that, my Dear," she said. 
"It's one of your own flowers, an' I'm 
thinkin' maybe it's a mark you're willin' 
I should go. ' ' 

And down the street she trotted to where 
a street-car stood, the conductor of which 
was a great friend of hers. 

"Do you want a ride, my maid?" he 
asked. 

' ' Please, Mr. White, I do, " she said ; " but 
I ain't got any money." 

''Well, I calculate your weight won't 
break down the car, nor one free ride won' t 
bust the Comp'ny," he answered, agreea- 
bly. "Hop on!" 

And they had a pleasant ride through 
the crowded streets, and to the far- distant 
wharf, off which lay anchored the Lively. 

Here the maid stepped down with a polite 
' ' Thank you. ' ' But Mr. White said : 

"Can't leave ye here, young un, at this 
hour, by yourself" 

"I'm goin' to meet my daddy." 

"Sure?" he asked, dubiously. 

"Yes, sir," and she nodded her head till 
he was quite dizzy watching it. 

"Well," he said, "if it's all right, it is all 
right. But reely now, my maid, I wouldn't 



advise ye to do that Chinese mandarin busi- 
ness with your h^d too often, for it might 
come off" some day. ' ' 

At which witty remark they both laughed, 
and the maid skipped down the wharf, and 
was soon lost in the shadows. 

" Now," she said, "I'll get a boat, and off 
I'll go. And won't my daddy be surprised 
when he sees me a-climbin' up the — " 

Here a big voice said : ' ' Clear out, little 
gal ! We don' t want no children a-fallin' off 
these here wharfs at this time o' night." 

Her heart sank to her boots. It was a 
great, big, fierce policeman. 

"Please, sir," she said, meekly, "I'm 
here to see my daddy. ' ' 

"Yer daddy? What is he? A steve- 
dore?" 

"He's ^skipper o' the Lively^ sir. Don't 
you see her off yonder? ' ' And she poiilted 
to where the pretty schooner lay in the light 
of the young moon. 

"Oh! is he?" said the big policeman. 
" Is he coming ashore soon ? " 

"I don't know," she faltered; for, some- 
how, he did not look like a man who would 
approve of her plan. 

' ' Well, ' ' said he, still gruffly, but kindly, 
"you jest run home an' wait for him. He 
wouldn't be too pleased to find ye round 
about sich a place as this, little gal. ' ' 

But her hardy spirit rose, and as he 
turned away she whisked into the shadow 
of a post, drew her gown close about her, 
and bided her time. 

It was so much longer, however, than she 
bargained for, and the watchman patrolled 
so steadily up and down, that she fell into 
a sound sleep. 

(to be continued.) 



Has a sensible man ever been seen to 
visit the abodes of people attacked with 
some violent pestilence, with the intention 
of amusing and diverting himself? Who 
then, can doubt that bad books carry with 
them a pestilence equally real? — Des^ 
cartes. 

Attach yourself to study; it will be one 
of your sure safeguards. — Mgr. Dubois, 



1 68 



The Ave Maria. 



Episodes of the Reign of Terror. 

Messenger of the Sacred Heart. 
A Tyrolese promoter of the Sacred Heart 
League furnishes the following instance of the 
loving protection which Our Blessed Mother 
extends to her zealous servants. The facts oc- 
curred during the Reign of Terror in France, 
when everything was in the hands of the rev- 
olutionists, and the practice of religion was 
punished with death. 

The Abbe Colmar, afterwards so well known 
as the indefatigable Bishop of Mayence, was 
then living in Strasburg. Far from being 
terrified at the threatening state of .affairs, or 
quitting his country, he resolved to consecrate 
himself entirely to the salvation of souls, 
and especially to affording the sick poor the 
consolations of the Sacraments. He accord- j 
ingly sought and obtained a refuge in the 
house of a faithful and pious family in a re- 
mote corner of the city. From this place of 
concealment he used to venture forth daily, 
always in some new disguise, exercising his 
sacred ministry wherever he could penetrate, 
and frequently at the peril of his life. 

Such success, however, attended him in spite 
of his dangers, that he was soon encouraged to 
form a band of zHatrices, as he called them. 
This consisted of a number of pious women, 
who ascertained for him the whereabouts of 
the needy, and the best course he should fol- 
low in order to reach them, besides praying de- 
voutly for him, and offering their beads for his 
pious intentions. They were chiefly humble 
servant girls and matrons of lowly station, and 
they devoted themselves with heroic eager- 
ness and constancy to their labor of love. God 
alone, for whom they thus endangered their 
lives, knows what an amount of good they 
accomplished. They seemed to be endowed 
with special grace, and Heaven more than 
once displayed its protection in a visible and 
striking manner, but never more so than on 
the following occasion. 

After his usual apostolic journeys of the day 
along the route marked out for him by the 
holy women, the Abbe was seated one even- 
ing at table in the house of the friends who 
sheltered him. He had already been frequently 
denounced to the police, and had almost daily 
found himself the object of their vigilant pur- 



suit. But on the present occasion he had seen 
no reason for being alarmed. The meal, how- 
ever, had not progressed far, when a loud noise 
was heard in the hallway, and the door was 
burst open A government official with a posse 
of assistants entered. 

"Citizen," exclaimed the officer, in an in- 
solent voice, "I demand the surrender of the 
Abbe Colmar. We have tracked him to your 
house, and know that he is hidden here." 

With a wonderful instinct, none of the fam- 
ily betrayed themselves by any indiscretion. 
The father grasped the situation at once: the 
Abbe was not recognized. 

"Gentlemen," he said calmly, rising, "I 
shall be happy to lead you through the whole 
house, and if you discover the Abbe anywhere, 
you are free to arrest him." 

The officer followed him closely, and in- 
spected every corner of the house from cellar 
to attic, but, after at least an hour's delay, 
was compelled to retire, greatly chagrined. 
The Abbe meantime remained quietly at the 
table with the others, lost in fervent prayer. 
He knew not why, but he felt a sense of great 
security. Ten of the assistants had all the 
while remained in the room, but without 
saying a word. On the departure of the po- 
lice the family at once began to express their 
astonishment that the good Father had ap- 
parently been utterly disregarded. He could 
not account for it himself, but modestly said 
that God had hearkened to them as they 
prayed during the awful suspense. Hereupon 
the smallest of the children exclaimed: * * How 
could they have seen the Abbe when a beauti- 
ful Lady came and threw a great white cloak 
about him, which hid him completely! " 

This, in fact, must have been the case. Our 
Blessed Lady had worked a miracle in behalf 
of her faithful servant, but only the innocent 
child had been allowed to witness visibly her 
motherly protection. We need not attempt 
to describe how deep the thanksgivings were 
in the family that evening. The Abbe, thuS 
assured of Mary's ever- tender solicitude, con- 
tinued his good work till the Reign of Terror 
passed away, and the comforts of religion 
could again be procured without the risk of 
human life. On being promoted to the See of 
Mayence, his profound gratitude to his earthly 
protectors was only surpassed by that to Our 
Lady, and he found means of suitably reward- 
ing their heroic charity. 




Vol. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, AUGUST 21, 1886. 



No. 8. 



[Copyright :— Riv. D. E. Htosoh, C. S. C] 

The Assumption in Art. 



BY ELIZA ALIvEN STARR. 




TANDING close on the line of the 
way leading to St. John Lateran, 
not more than a stone's throw from 
the Coliseum, and exactly opposite the 
Santi Quattro Incoronati, the Basilica of St. 
Clement draws the feet of every traveller to 
Rome across its threshold. And this not 
only because of the beauty of the marbles, 
the perfection of the ecclesiastical archi- 
tecture of the interior, which first meets the 
eye, but because of wonderful revelations 
made known to us by the shovels of exca- 
/ators, under the inspiration of the late 
3rior, Father MuUooly; so that, attractive 
is the well-known Basilica of San Clemente 
las always been, the giddiest tourist in all 
5lome is now eager to follow the guide down 
he twenty-three steps of Alban peperiiio 
narble, which lead to what is, to-day, a sub- 
erranean region, lighted only by the torches 
ashing through its cavernous spaces, 
•ringing out the inscription of a St. Da- 
lasus no later than A. D. 366, and of frescos 
n wall and stuccoed pillar, which carry us 
ack to the twilight of Christian art, to the 
arly traditions and the early faith. For 
cm the year 896, when a memorable earth- 
iiake shook even the walls of St. John 
ateran, to 1857, this was a region not only 
ibterranean but sealed, — a tomb, to be 
)ened after more than a thousand years to 



give its testimony to the undying faith of 
Christians. 

It is on the left hand as we approach the 
place of the ancient sanctuary, and about 
half-way between it and the entrance, that 
we see not only a Crucifixion — on one side 
of the divine Sufferer Our Blessed Lady, on 
the other St. John, the sepulchre, and the 
holy women — but what in this instance 
seems to fill out the series like a veritable 
Resurrection, the Assumption of Our Lady 
herself into heaven ! while, as in the pict- 
ure of the Crucifixion, the traditions ob- 
served in it are identically the same as those 
we see in the latest representations of the 
same subject. 

In the middle of the foreground is an 
empty tomb, and the twelve Apostles at the 
sides in every attitude of amazement, ad- 
miration, and veneration ; two throwing a 
hand heavenward, pointing out the Blessed 
Virgin, who is seen ascending from her 
tomb, crowned with a nimbus, her- arms 
spread forth in ecstasy, her eyes lifted to her 
Divine Son, who appears in a glory amid 
the stars of heaven, supported by four re- 
joicing angels, seated in supreme majesty 
on an arc, which may represent a rainbow. 
Around the sacred head is the cruciform 
nimbus; one hand rests on an open book 
standing on His knee, the other hand is 
raised, as if welcoming Mary, and present- 
ing her as His Mother to the whole court of 
Heaven. 

The joyful solemnity of this composition 
has never been exceeded during all these 



tyo 



The Ave Maria. 



centuries, which is explained by the picture 
itself. On one side of the apostolic group 
stands a tonsured figure looking directly 
out of the picture, carrying a small cross in 
his hand, and on each side of the round 
nimbus we read, in letters placed vertically, 
SCS VITVS. On the other side of the apos- 
tolic group stands another tonsured figure. 
He carries a book, although his hands are 
covered by the folds of his mantle, over 
which is seen the white pallium with its 
black crosses. Instead cf a circular nim- 
bus, however, we see a square nimbus sur- 
rounded by a small cross, and on each side 
a long inscription, written horizontally: 
SancHssimus Dom. Leo — r/., PP.RoTuanus; 

or, ' ' Most Holy Lord Leo , Pope of 

Rome"; while the precious border of this 
picture is made by one of those inscriptions 
to which we of to-day are so much indebted 
for positive knowledge: Quod hcBC prcE 
cunctis splendet pictura decore^ coTnponere 
hanc studuit presbyter ecce Leo^ — ' ' That 
this picture may outshine the rest in beauty, 
behold the priest Leo studied to compose 
it." 

Father Mullooly, from whose book on his 
beloved Basilica we copy the inscriptions 
and translations, adds : " It is not easy to 
determine whether he is Leo III. or Leo 
IV., for the letters preceding are almost 
effaced, and can not be read. If it be Leo 
III., it must have been painted before 795; 
if Leo IV. , before 847. The latter had been 
priest of the Church of the Four Crowned 
Martyrs, opposite St. Clement's." 

Our picture thus takes its place, as to 
time, among those mosaics which adorn 
the most venerable basilicas of Rome, and 
we see how personal was the attention 
given by the Roman Pontiffs to the works 
of art in those ages^ securing not only their 
beauty, but the authenticity of the Church's 
legends delineated in them. 

To the present time, this Assumption in 
the subterranean San Clemente is the old- 
est representation of this mystery, which 
claims in its honor one of the six feasts now 
of universal obligation even in the United 
States of America; and certainly, from the 



latest date given by Father Mullooly, has 
been an authorizeciaas well as favorite sub- 
ject for painting and sculpture, for exte- 
riors as well as interiors, above city gates 
as well as altars; and municipal as well as 
private devotion has honored in every way 
possible the Assumption of the Mother of 
Our Lord. 

This Assumption^ moreover, must be re- 
garded as the middle act of a drama in three 
parts, viz. : her death, assumption, and cor- 
onation ; sometimes, indeed often on the 
walls of the noble churches of Southern 
Europe, represented as a whole, but more 
frequently in parts ; yet always in a way to 
bring to memory the acts unrepresented, as 
belonging to the glorious phase of Chris- 
tian realities, the perfect efflorescence of 
dogma and faith, the complete victory over 
death in the creature as in the Creator. 

And to this drama there is a prelude; 
for there is nothing sharp or abrupt among 
these old painters and sculptors. Just as 
an Archangel waited upon Mary to an- 
nounce the coming Incarnation, an Arch- 
angel announces to her the coming of that 
hour when she will enter upon the full and 
perfect reward of her long life of obedience 
and conformity to the will of God; the 
kneeling Archangel bringing not a lily but 
a palm — the palm of the martyr; for is not 
Mary rightly called Queen of Martyrs, and 
who has ever known 'sorrow like unto her 
sorrow ' ? Orcagna includes this subject in 
his grand bass-reliefs in the Church of Or 
San Michele, Florence; and we see in his 
noble composition that the aged widow of i 
Joseph, the childless Mother of the cruci- j 
fied Nazarene, as she was in the eyes of the | 
world, had lost nothing in the eyes of thej 
heavenly court; and the Archangel bears i 
his triple palm, as he floats slowly down- 
ward towards the Virgin Mother placidlyi 
awaiting his approach, one hand raised as if 
in gentle surprise, with a veneration full! 
of pathos. In a small German picture thei 
Archangel kneels with his palm to the 
Virgin Mother, who turns, still kneeling,; 
from her prayer-book. Like Orcagna' s 0: 
the year 1359, it is direct in its motive auc 




71ie Ave Maria, 



171 



\ imple in its circumstances, pervaded by a 
( ertain quietude peculiar to a holy old age. 

RlWe have often wondered that this sub- 
let has not had a place in our popular 
] ictures of the life of the Blessed Virgin. * 
]''ilippo Lippi substitutes a lighted taper 
f )r the palm ; and in the scene of her death 
a lighted taper is placed in her hand by 
an Apostle, generally St. John. Cimabue 
painted the death of the Blessed Virgin in 
his grand series called her Life, in the 
C'hurch of St. Francis at Assisi ; Giotto 
painted it also, with two angels at the head 
and two at the feet, holding reverently the 
drapery of her couch, showing how grandly 
this drama was expected to open ages ago. 
Fra Angelico's Death of the Blessed Virgin 
represents her on her couch of death, sur- 
rounded by Apostles and angels, while her 
Divine Son, standing beside her in an au- 
reole of glory, receives her soul under the 
form of a child. We need not say that this 
exquisite picture draws every visitor to the 
Uffizzi Gallery in Florence. 

In the Palazzo Pubblico at Siena the 
death, burial (or procession through the 
streets of Jerusalem), and the Assumption, 
are on the walls of the chapel where the 
magistrates of Siena found wisdom to direct 
their councils. All these pictures are char- 
acterized by the tenderest solemnity — the 
two first preserving the usual arrangement; 
but in the Assumption is a departure, show- 
ing how the imaginations of devout artists 
of those ages were nourished by medita- 
tion. The scene is laid in the Valley of 
Jehoshaphat, among the tombs of the kings, 
where, as a daughter of the house of David, 
the Virgin Mother had been laid. The 
mountains rise in sharp peaks to the sky ; 
all is gloom, as if the dawn had not yet 
pierced the darkness of the valley, when we 
5ee thel^ord of Life descending towards her, 
surrounded by seraphs; stretching forth His 
^ands, in which are the prints of nails, He 
seems to say to her: "Mother, it is time to 
ise ! ' ' Who could resist that call, even from 



* This last picture was given in the Diisseldorf 
series of Religious Prints a few years ago, Or- 
agnais might be more popular, perhaps. 



the slumber of death ? And Mary, hearing 
not only the voice t)f her Lord and her God, 
but of her Son — the same voice which must 
have roused her so often in the holy house 
of Nazareth, sweeter to her than that of any 
matin bird, — just lifts herself from her bed, 
stretches forth her hands to those of her 
Son, as if He would help her to go to Him, 
while the rosy seraphs place their wings 
under her half-reclining body. That look 
between the Son and the Mother of perfect 
recognition, of a never-interrupted union of 
• love, is one to prepare us for the vision of 
this Son and His Mother in heaven. 

We have spoken of the annunciation of 
the death of the Blessed Virgin by Orcagna 
in the beautiful Church of Or San Michele. 
This is succeeded by the entombment, in 
which Our Lord is seen as in pictures of the 
death-bed, holding her soul in His arms. 
He is accompanied by angels. St. Peter is 
reading the Christian burial-service at her 
head, and an angel at his side holds a cen- 
ser; while St. John, still nearer, with the 
sweet privilege of a son, softly raises the 
drapery of her pall, as 'does another Apostle 
at her feet, and St. James reverently kisses 
her hand. The early Christians are also 
present as well as the Apostles, and are dis- 
tinguished by caps on their heads. Above 
this scene of the entombment, and as if just 
leaving the earth, the Blessed Virgin is 
seated on a throne within a mandorla^ or 
almond-shaped glory, supported by four 
angels, while two play on musical instru- 
ments; and as a cloud — the last cloud of 
earth — ^touches the mandorla,2XiA will soon 
come between her and mortals, she drops 
her girdle to St. Thomas, who clutches it, 
kneeling. This incident is also introduced 
into The Assumption over one of the doors 
of the Cathedral of Florence, and in many 
compositions of this period. 

Perugino, in his picture of the Assump- 
tion in the Belle Arti, Florence, has given 
to the earth which she has just left a group 
almost as celestial as that which bears her 
to heaven : the ' ' four ambrosial saints, ' ' as 
they are called, because they seem to have 
fed on the delights of angelical meditation 



172 



The Ave Maria. 



on this mystery; viz.: the Cardinal John, 
of the Order of St. John of Gualbert, who 
stands next him; then St. Benedict, and 
lastly the Archangel Michael, who presides 
over death and judgment, in all the glory 
of the leader of the heavenly host, and rest- 
ing his hand on his shield, — a type of St. 
Michael hinted at in the missals of an early 
age, and even by Fra Angelico, but perfected 
and an actual inspiration under the pencil 
and brush of Perugino. 

Among the early pictures by Raphael in 
the gallery of the Vatican is a Coronation. 
Still, it is not the Coronation so much as 
the scene at the tomb just left by the Blessed 
Virgin which we oftenest remember; for 
around this tomb, blind to the glory of her 
assumption to heaven, are the Apostles, 
looking vainly for the immaculate casket 
now united to her immaculate soul, while 
in its stead they see only vases and lilies; 
the lilies painted with such perfection that 
we imagine they emit perfumes. 

It would be vain to endeavor to enclose 
in anything less than a large volume a de- 
scription of the representations of the As- 
sumption. But The Assumption by Titian, 
his greatest work, will also keep its place as 
one of the greatest pictures in the world; 
while it follows, strange to say, more closely 
than any other we remember, the type of 
the earliest Asstimption known at present, 
viz. : that of the subterranean Church of 
San Clemente. It is, in truth, the picture of 
the 9th, possibly of the 8th century, glori- 
fied, while that picture was still entombed 
and actually forgotten. 

Below, giving the mortal actors in the 
drama, are the Apostles, who see their 
Mother and their Queen ascending to the 
Sou, who is awaiting her in the heaven of 
heavens, while myriads of angels surround, 
fill the "circumambient space, illimitable." 
But all this is lost for the moment in the 
ecstasy of that figure, floating, ascending, 
soon to be embraced by Him who made a 
heaven for her at Bethlehem, in the wilder- 
ness, in Egypt, and then at Nazareth, and 
even on Calvary's height. No words could 
ever give, in its fulness, what is here de- 



picted, and for once even music must keep 
silence before the limner's art in the ex- 
pression of rapture. 

On the third act of this mystery we may 
venture to dwell, after The Assumptiojt by 
Titian; and we are recalled by it to that 
Coronation painted by Correggio for the cu- 
pola of the choir in the Church of St. John 
Evangelist, at Parma, in which is given the 
bliss of absolute fulfilment, as she sits on 
the clouds beside her Son, with her hands- 
crossed on her virginal bosom ; * and even 
with a profounder interest to the apse of 
St. Mary Major, where above The Death of 
the Blessed Virgin is set, in a mosaic of 
matchless beauty, the glory of this Virgin 
Mother in heaven; while the Coronations 
by Fra Angelico arrest the pilgrim, not only 
among the churches and shrines for which 
they were painted, but in the gallery of the 
lyouvre, which keeps, even in Paris, a place 
where Christianity can display the choice 
pearls of art, and win, we must hope, the 
merest butterflies of modem travel to the 
love of her who has been called by the 
King of kings to sit with Him on 'His 
starry throne.' 



Enough Remains. 



BY B. I. D. 



I^ROUD Science, with his ruthless shears, 
-^ Delights to clip the poet's wings, 
That he no more from earth may rise, 

Nor fan the ether as he sings. 
The swan no longer sings and dies, 

Though truest minstrel still must do; 
We now may gaze upon the skies, 

But see no angel smiling through. 
The maelstrom sucks no vessel down, 

Nor "whirls to death the roaring whale'- 
The 'law of storms' is known, and hence 

No spectre rides upon the gale. 
The albatross no omen brings, 

No mermaids now the sailors drown; 



* This cupola was dCvStroyed in 1584, but the 
original of the Coronation was preserved, and is 
in the bibliotique. The engravings after this pict' 
ure are very beautiful, 






The Ave Maria. 



173 



* he ugly toad has ceased to wear 

A "precious jewel" in his crown; 

* 'he mother pelican no more 

Bleeds at the breast to feed her brood, 
:{■ hells echo not the ocean's roar, — 

Nature is better understood. 
I^ Can's heart, that foolishly was deemed 

The citadel of hate and love, 
1 5 but a force-pump, nothing more. 

Nor haunt of tiger or of dove. 
Religion, too, and "Poetry 

The smaller intestines produce," 
And thought secreted by the brain — 
As from the liver, bile — 'tis plain 

Is but a sort of juice. 
Drag down, O vain, progressive crab. 

The fancies that might lift us higher! 
Prove clearh^ that we are of earth, 

Not as of old, "earth, air, and fire." 
In pride of heart and shallow head 

Teach (damnable humility!) 
That man is brother to the ape. 

Gorilla, monkey, chimpanzee! 
Cut, like the cold anatomist — 

Who finds no soul in lifeless brain, 
And through whose pebble-spectacles 

The mystery of life is plain — 
And take with thy mechanic hand 

Wiiatever is within thy reach; 
More than enough remains beyond 

Thy hooded eyes and prosy speech. 
While grass shall grow arid water run, 

And Spring from Winter's bosom rise, 
And darkness flee before the sun. 

The painter of the earth and skies. 
This wondrous web of mortal life, 

-Of warp and woof divine and human. 
Mixed with dark threads from the abyss — 

Will charm the thought of man and woman. 
The beauty of the works of God, 

The love in which they all began, 
The wisdom and Eternal Power 

That light the consciousness of man, 
A^ill keep alive in this bright world. 

To touch the soul of age and youth, 
True Poetry, — which is a name 

For wisdom, beauty, love, and truth. 



God — my God! — God is all forgotten; 
nd men try to turn into an everlasting tab- 
rnacle this Arab's tent raised for a night's 
lelter in the wilderness. — Father Tracey 
^larke, S. J. 



Philip'^ Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



VII. 



THE stars in their courses seemed to fight 
for Philip, so far as his acquaintance 
with Miss Percival was concerned. The 
next Sunday after the railroad accident, a 
sudden heavy shower at the end of Mass 
detained a large part of the Cathedral con- 
, gregation, who were totally unprepared for 
it. Among the rest, the choir came down 
from their gallery to the stone portico on 
the side of the church, which was their 
place of exit, and, confronting the white 
sheets of rain, paused. A few donned gos- 
samers, opened umbrellas, and went away; 
others retired to the church, to wait until 
the shower should be over; but a small 
group lingered on the portico, and among 
these was Miss Percival. Philip, in the 
shade of the doorway, watched her for a few 
minutes unobserved. She was standing 
alone, regarding the rain with evident con- 
cern, and in the noise which it made did 
not hear his step as he approached, until he 
spoke t(3 her. Then she turned with a start. 

' ' Oh, Mr. Thornton ! " she said. ' ' So you 
are detained, too ? ' ' 

"Yes," he answered. "I have not even 
an umbrella to ofifer you, and I see that you 
are anxious to get away. ' ' 

"■''My mother is not as well as usual to- 
day, and I dislike to leave her longer than 
I can possibly avoid, ' ' she said ; ' ' that is 
why I am anxious. If I had only brought 
a waterproof! But who could have sus- 
pected such a sky as one came to church 
under!" 

' ' This will not last long; it is too sudden 
and too violent, ' ' said Philip. ' ' I am sure 
that in half an hour it will be fair again. 
Meanwhile let me hope that you felt no ill 
effects from your walk on Tuesday?" 

' ' None at all. Why should I ? It was 
not much of a walk. ' ' 

' ' Some ladies would have thought it a 
good deal of a walk, especially preceded by 



174 



The Ave Maria, 



such a nervous shock. Our escape was 
really remarkable. I do not understand 
yet why our car did not go over as well as 
the others. ' ' 

"It was something for which to be very 
grateful that it did not. ' ' 

"Yes; for we should have been badly 
bruised, at least. ' ' He paused a moment, 
then added, with some hesitation : " I wanted 
to inquire the next day how you were; it 
seemed very strange not to do so; but I 
feared to presume on the acquaintance you 
had permitted me." 

"There was no need," she said, a little 
hastily. "I was as well as possible the 
next day. My nerves never trouble me. I 
thanked God for my preservation, and after 
that thought no more of the matter." 
Abrief silence followed thisremark ; then: 

' ' You thanked God ! ' ' said Philip. ' ' Of 
course that was a duty. Would you believe 
that I never thought of it?" 

The frankness of his tone almost pro- 
voked her to smile as she looked at him. 
"I fear that you can not think much of 
what you owe to Him," she said. 

"I fear that I do not," he answered. 
"You remember what I told you once be- 
fore — that there were times when I forgot 
that I had a soul ? You see now how true it 
is. It is terribly easy to forget!" he added, 
with a slight sigh. 

' ' I suppose it is — for some people, ' ' she 
answered, thinking of Graham's remarks 
about this candid self-accuser. No depth 
of character or purpose : surely such words 
as these seemed to substantiate the charge. 

' ' Yes, for some people, ' ' Philip echoed. 
' ' I know that it is not so with other people — 
with strong, earnest, spiritual natures. But, 
unhappily, I have no such nature. I am 
easily influenced, and worldly to the ends of 
my fingers. I can only say one thing for 
myself: that sometimes my soul wakes up, 
and is conscious of higher things — feels 
them for a time keenly and intensely, but | 
it very soon and very easily goes to sleep 
again. Does that mean that there is hope 
for me, or does it not. Miss Percival?" 

' ' Hope of what, Mr. Thornton ? ' ' asked 



Miss Percival, interested in these revela- 
tions, yet conscious that they were strange. 

"Of my ever being any more alive to 
spiritual influences than I am; of my soul 
waking up for good, and dominating my 
life?" 

Alice remembered afterward that her 
proper reply would have been that she 
really did not know him well enough to be 
able to answer such a question, but at the 
moment she did not think of this mode of 
evasion. He looked at her with a serious 
inquiry in his eyes, and she felt constrained 
to reply, to the best of her ability, to the 
question propounded. 

"Since you can feel spiritual things 
keenly and intensely," she answered, "I 
should say that there was hope of your be- 
coming more alive to their influence, es- 
pecially if — but this is really too personal!" 

"No, no!" said Philip, eagerly. "Prayj 
go on." I 

"Well, then, I was going to say if youj 
were less prosperous. Of course prosperity 
strengthens the influence of the world." 

"Everyone says so," he replied, doubt 
fully ; ' ' but my experience is that there are 
quite as many worldly people in adversity 
as in prosperity.. It must be just as bad 
for the spiritual life to desire riches as to 
possess them." 

"Worse, perhaps, since envy may be 
mingled with the desire. But the worldli- 
ness of people in adversity does not lesser 
the danger of those in prosperity. Shall 1 
remind you of the camel and the eye of c' 
needle?" 

"No, don't; for I shall be a rich 
some day, I suppose." 

' ' Then there is the more reason that y 
should be reminded of it; for it was a Wi 
ing, not a denunciation. I often think 
the sad gentleness with which Our Lor* 
looked after the young man, whose grea 
possessions made him turn away, and said 
'A rich man shall hardly enter into th 
Kingdom of Heaven. ' ' ' 

"It was a terrible saying — to com 
from the lips of God Himself," remarkci 
Philip, gravely. "Some day I shall med: 



r 



Tim Ave Matrm-. 



175- 



:at '. on it, and go and become a Trappist" 
'No doiubt it is easier to resign riches 
the n to employ them wisely," said Alice. 
"Vet it is a great thing to be the steward 
of he gifts of God." 

}t did not occur to her any more than it 

die to him to think at this moment how it 

jjp-Gild be with riches that had been un- 

us:ly gained. She had herself received a 

rreat gift from God in the possession of a 

lature that never dwelt u*pon the sense of 

vrong. The Thornton wealth was nothing 

her, save, perhaps, matter for compassion ; 

or she knew the stain upon it, and felt 

lerself far richer with empty hands. 

At this point of the conversation both 

erceived that the rain was diminishing in 

iolence, and while they were speaking of 

, Mr. Richter, the director of the choir, 

ame up to them. 

"I am glad to see you two together," he 

lid; "for I want to suggest that I think 

would be well if you practised your duets 

little outside of the choir. They do not 

) quite smoothly, and it is your fault". 

arning to Philip), "for Miss Percival is 

ways exact to the faintest shade of tone 

.dtime." 

"Of course it is my fault," answered 
lilip, looking at Alice with something 
]:e a flash of pleasure in his eyes. "Miss 
Ircival is an admirable musician. I shall 
1: only too delighted to practise with her 
- if she will allow me. ' ' 
Miss Percival hesitated, and, for the first 
le since he had known her, colored with 
barrassment. "The difficulty is," she 
sd at length, "that I am so closely en- 
^ed — I have so little time to spare — ' ' 
' You have your evenings, ' ' replied Mr. 
liter. "Mr. Thornton can go to your 
ise, and a little practice will give him all 
t he needs. ' ' 

Unfortunately my evenings also are very 
:h occupied with my mother," she said, 
:ing down, and feeling that she seemed 
racious; but how^ was it possible to in- 
uce Philip Thornton into her mother's 
ence? ' ' I really fear — I do not see how 
n be managed. ' ' 



Mr. Richter, surprised, full of musical 
zeal, and utterly devoid of social tact, waS' 
about to remonstrate, but Philip interposed 
quickly: 

"I am very sorry, but if it would in- 
convenience you fn the least, pray do not 
think of it. I could not be guilty of tres- 
passing upon your time. I will find a music- 
master, and I will instruct him to improve 
my tone and time. Perhaps that will have 
the desired result." 

Alice looked at him gratefully. She 
could not help the glance, so much was she 
pleased by his manner as well as by his 
words. There was not the faintest trace 
of offended feeling in either, only perfect 
courtesy, and an apparently eager desire to 
spare her any annoyance. 

' ' You are very considerate, Mr. Thorn- 
ton," she said, with the dark eyes still rest- 
ing on him. "At present I do not see how 
it would be possible for me to practise with 
you ; but if any arrangement can be made, 
I will let you know." 

Philip bowed his thanks. " It is you who 
are kind," he said. "I only beg that you 
will not make any arrangement that could 
possibly prove inconvenient to you." 

"Oh, inconvenient! — why should it be 
inconvenient?" exclaimed obstinate Mr. 
Richter. "It is an affair of half an hour. 
And you should practise together — you 
really should!" 

"The rain has ceased, I believe," said 
Miss Percival, hastily; and, giving no time 
for further words, she hurried away, while 
Philip, watching her, asked himself why 
he should be debarred from attending her, 
and why she was so manifestly reluctant to 
receive him into her house. 

These were questions more easily asked 
than answered, however, — at least by him. 
He felt that he could not presume on such 
acquaintance as Miss Percival permitted 
him, and yet the restrictions on their inter- 
course began to fret him greatly. This was 
not only because whatever is surrounded 
by difficulty becomes in equal measure at- 
tractive to human nature in general, espec- 
ially to masculine human nature. There 



176 



The Ave Maria, 



were qualities in Alice Percival that would 
have taken his interest captive under what- 
ever] circumstances he had met her; and 
had those circumstances been favorable to 
their intercourse, this interest might have 
deepened even more surejy and rapidly than 
it did. For, to any one with sufficient ele- 
vation of character and fineness of percep- 
tion to appreciate her, she was charming 
as only the noblest wjomen are charming. 
And Philip, whatever else he lacked, was 
not deficient in fineness of perception. He 
felt, if he did not yet knoiv, all that she was, 
and he never saw her without wishing to 
see her more frequently and with more 
freedom. " If I could be with her oftener 
I really believe that I should become a 
different man," he thought; and then he 
sighed, for there seemed no prospect of 
compassing such association as that which 
he desired. 

Nevertheless, he was rewarded more 
quickly than he anticipated for his self- 
command on that Sunday -morning. Hardly 
a week later he received one day a note from 
Mrs. King, bidding him come to her house 
that evening, and when he went he found 
Alice Percival there. That the arrangement 
was no plan of hers, however, he quickly 
learned. Mrs. King met him with a laugh. 

"Mr. Richter came to me," she said, 
"with a complaint of two indolent people 
who would not practise together, so I prom- 
ised him that the practising should be done, 
and that under my own eye. Therefore I 
have inveigled you both here, and now 
practise you must and shall. ' ' 

Philip looked at Miss Percival with a 
deprecating air. "It is all on account of 
my mistakes, ' ' he said, ' ' that you have this 
trouble. I am very sorry. ' ' 

"I am not sure that it is altogether on 
account of your mistakes," she answered, 
with a smile ; ' ' but if it were it would really 
be no trouble. You don' t know how I like 
to sing. " 

"And your voices accord so well," said 
Mrs. King, "that I promise myself great 
pleasure in listening." 

She settled herself by the fire while the 



two young people went to the grand piano 
which occupied the end of her large draw- 
ing-room. And then followed an hour of 
pleasure as great as Philip had ever known 
in his life. To hear Alice Percival' s noble 
voice rise in the great harmonies which 
suited it so well, to let his own voice blend 
with it until they flowed together like two 
united streams — this in itself was delightful. 
But in such practising there is always much 
beside singing; there is the interchange of 
opinion and criticism, the common interest, 
and the sense of growing intimacy. All of 
this Philip enjoyed, even while he felt that 
it was something which slipped through 
his fingers and left no tangible result be- 
hind. He would be no nearer to Alice Per- 
cival for this hour of association; he had 
an instinct of that. 

And indeed the hour had hardly ended 
when an interruption came. They were 
still at the piano, and Philip was saying, 
" If it does not tire you, let us try that once 
more, ' ' when the door suddenly opened, and | 
a servant ushered in Graham. The eyes| 
of the latter at once fell on the two so fa- 
miliarly together at the instrument, and he 
knew that all his fears were realized. Philip 
had made good his position with Alice. 
' ' What will not a womati overlook for the 
sake of a handsome face and winning man- 
ner!" he thought bitterly; and he would 
hereafter be contraste.d with a man whom 
he knew to be far his superior in socialj 
grace. His countenance darkened so mucli 
that Mrs. King, looking up, and compre 
bending the state of the case at once, fel 
it necessary to smooth matters by an ex 
planation. 

' ' Sit down, Mr. Graham, ' ' she said, ' ' aii< 
enjoy the music with me for a few minu 
It will not last more than a few minu 
longer, fot it is merely an affair of practi 
Mr. Richter came to me and complain 
that he could not induce these two to pra^ 
tise together, so I laid a trap, drew the: 
both here, and set them to work whethe 
they would or no." 

"Indeed!" said Graham. He glano 
at the two faces at the piano. "They 






f 






The Ave Maria. 



177 



n( t look as if you had exercised any very 
di agreeable compulsion," he observed. 

''Oh! they both like music," returned 
M •S.King; "and after they get to work 
th iy are interested, of course. The trouble 
wi s, by Mr. Richter's account, to get them 
toi;ether." 

"Miss Percival did not care to receive 
Thornton at her house, I presume," said 
Graham, dryly. 

' Yes, that was it, ' ' answered Mrs. King, 
3;kncing at him. "But why do you speak 
;o significantly? Why should she not re- 
:eive him at her house?" 

'Well, for one or two very weighty rea- 
;ons — which do not, however, seem to weigh 
j/ery much with her when it comes to a 
![uestion of intercourse elsewhere," replied 
jraham, sarcastically. 

"You are talking in riddles," said Mrs. 

Cing. ' ' What kind of weighty reasons do 

jou mean? I insist upon knowing, for I 

'itroduced Mr. Thornton to her." 

"Oh! the reasons are not personal to 

' continued Graham. "He is well 

ttough, as far as he goes. They have to do 

ith another generation. Have you never 

eard that Mr. Percival and Mr. Thornton 

ere partners once, and that while one 

as ruined, the other is now the richest 

lan in Riverport ? ' ' 

"No, never. How did it happen?" 

The young man shrugged his shoulders. 

Thereby hangs the tale — a tale which is 

ily dimly understood by the public, that 

»ndones anything in a man who succeeds. 

lit a good many things come to a law3^er's 

rs, and I by chance have heard the par- 

:ulars from good authority. It was a plain 

se of robbery, and from that robbery 

mes Thornton's fortune dates." 

' ' How dreadful ! ' ' said Mrs. King, with 

i startled glance toward the two at the 

]ino. "Does she know?" 

Yes," answered Graham, gloomily. 
And does he know?" 
' ' I think not — no, I am sure he does not. 



It," the speaker added, grimly, "he shall 
ow before he is very much older. ' ' 
(to be; continued.) 



Palms. 



BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 



CHAPTER XVI.— (Continued.) 

WHIIyE the fountain tossed its spray 
towards the sun, with a sound like far- 
off silver bells, — while the birds sang, and 
the blue Roman sky looked down from 
its viewless depths over the indescribable 
beauty of the scene, Camilla, in simple, 
touching language, related to the child the 
wonderful story of God's infinite love and 
mercy, which had moved Him to give His 
only Son to die for the redemption of His 
creatures, whose sins made them worthy 
only of condemnation; and how His Virgin 
Mother — Advocata nostra — had suffered 
willingly with her Divine Son, holding 
nothing back, crucifying nature, and ac- 
cepting her desolation and sorrow, so that 
nothing should be wanting to complete the 
sacrifice. Tears filled Camilla's eyes; her 
strong face grew soft and tender as she spoke 
to the little neophyte, who listened with 
rapt attention, as if fearing to lose a single 
word. 

^''O madama/'*'' she exclaimed, clasping 
her hands, "if / had been there I would 
have asked the cruel ones to take my life, 
and spare His. How could the Holy Mother 
bear such grief? Was it for the love of us 
she stood by His Cross, silent and weep- 



ing 



?" 



"It was all for us, cara 7ma^ that both 
suffered — through love whose depths can 
never be sounded, whose heights the human 
mind ca ; never reach; He in His sacred 
flesh, she in her sacred, maternal heart,' ' said 
Camilla, who in her fervor almost forgot 
that she was speaking to a child. 

' ' I can not understand it all yet, madama, 
but I can love ! I can love ! His name, Jesus 
ChrisHis^ is in my heart, and I will ask Him 
to let me be the child of His Holy Virgin 
Mother, to live at her feet and learn. He 
opened my blind eyes but yesterday, and 
then I knew Him — not until then; and 
now my father and old Symphronius and I 



The Ave Maria. 



no longer worship the gods, but Him only.' ' 
said Claudia, her face aglow with earnest 
desire. 

"Love like thine, dear child, is most pre- 
cious to Him — more precious than knowl- 
edge; for it was love that stood by Him at 
the Cross when all had abandoned Him, — 
love that had no thought of self, and was 
exalted to the highest courage. Thy love, 
cava 7nia^ is precious in His sight, and His 
grace will be sufficient unto thee. I heard 
with great joy what had happened at my 
villa yesterday; and my husband, who is a 
brave officer of the Praetorian Guard, and a 
Christian, could scarcely contain his de- 
light when the holy Bishop, after the divine 
function, at which we were both present, 
told us the glad tidings; for thy father is a 
noble conquest, over whom the persecuted 
Church rejoices. I am coming to see thee 
often, cava tma^io teach thee the rudiments 
of the Christian Faith, and lead thee to a 
knowledge of its divine Sacraments, which 
will unfold new joys, new mysteries of love, 
that will bring thee in nearer communion 
with the dear Jesus Christ every hour, every 
day." 

"O madama! how much I thank thee!" 
exclaimed Claudia, kissing Camilla's hand, 
which held hers; "I think He will help 
me to understand, for I am only a child." 

"He will help thee, little one, never 
fear," answered Camilla, with one of her 
radiant smiles, as her eyes rested lovingly 
on the angelic face uplifted to hers. "Dost 
thou know the Sign of the Cross, and how 
to bless thyself in the Name of the Most 
Holy Trinity?" 

"I know the sign, but not the words," 
was the simple answer. 

Camilla taught her, the little girl repeat- 
ing the holy names after her distinctly and 
reverently. 

"Do this often, sweet child; it is the 
Christian's aegis in all dangers. Now I must 
be gone, but here is something I have 
brought thee to wear next to thy heart — 
a little picture of Advocata nostra^''^ said 
Camilla, giving Claudia a crystal medal- 
lion, on the inside of which was painted 



the lovely face of the Virgin Mother. * 
"And this .is 7ny treasure," continued 
the noble lacly, drawing a gem from her 
bosom, on which was cut in intaglio a head 
of Christ, copied from a famous one of the 
reign of Tiberius Caesar ; f the face that of a 
"man of sorrows and afflicted with grief," 
who had "never been seen to smile, but 
often to weep," — a face on which the griefs 
of the w^orld were stamped. The child's 
eyes grew sad as she gazed upon it; her 
heart was so full, she whispered, scarcely 
breathing. His Name: "O Christ Jesus!" 
then, pressing the sacred image to her lips, 
she gave it back to Camilla. 

"And this," she said presently, as they 
were returning to the villa, while she held 
the crystal medallion close to her heart,"] 
will keep right here, that the thought o: 
her and of her Divine Son may dwell then 
together. Thou hast been very good to me. 
madama mia^ and I wish I knew how t( 
thank thee; but perhaps the next time thoi 
art so kind as to come, and after I have 
thought it all over, I shall have found th 
words I want." 

"Love me, sweet one," said the Romai 
lady, with a bright smile; "I wish no othe 
thanks. Now we must part, but not fo 
long, and may the dear Christus keep thee 
Farewell!" Then she bent down, and 
kissing her, stepped into her chariot; th 



* Crystal medallions of this description, whic. 
open like lockets of the present day, have occf 
sionally been found, with the bodies of the ma) 
t3'rs, in the Catacombs; some with sacred image 
painted within, others plain. It is .supposed th? 
in times of persecution the Christians, in view c 
the perils to which they were constantly exposed 
were permitted to bear the Sacred Host abotj 
their person in these crystal receptacles, to t| 
used as their Viaticum in extremit}-. 

t Tertullian and other writers of the earlie 
times refer to portraits of Our Lord and His Vi 
gin Mother which they had seen. The emera' 
intaglio cut by order of Tiberius Caesar— the 1 
gend states — is preserved among the gems of tl| 
Vatican. The writer has an engraving of th 
head, the countenance of which expresses all ar] 
more than words can describe There is also JJ 
oil-painting of the same in the Church of tl| 
Jesuits — the Gesii — in Rome. — A. H. D. 



II 




The Ave Maria. 



179 



s )irited animals dashed off, and a few mo- 
1 lents later were out of sight. 

Giving one more look at the tender, gra- 
c ous face on her medallion, Claudia went 
i I to find Zilla — pale, sad Zilla. She wanted 
a chain for the crystal ornament; she would 
not rest until it was suspended on her neck, 
aid lying against her heart. 

Never so happy as when serving her, 
e specially now that she was no longer blind 
aid dependent on her at every turn, Zilla 
looked over the ornaments and trinkets of 
her dead mistress, which had been confided 
to her care, and found one formed of light 
links of gold curiously wrought, upon 
which the medallion was slipped, the clasp 
of the chain fastened, and, without question 
on her part as to what it was or whence it 
came, she passed it over the child's shining 
head, lifting the bright, silken curls to give 
it place; saw her press the pictured image 
to her lips, and drop it under the folds of 
her tunic into her bosom. Then, full of the 
old child-love, throwing her arms around 
Zilla, she kissed her. 

"Some Christian sorcery, doubtless," 
bitterly thought the poor, faithful heart; 
"and perhaps more deadly than the amulet 
that Laodice gave her. O bona Dea! hast 
thou no power to save this child . from de- 
struction?" But she returned the little 
one's caress, and began to talk with her as 
if nothing had happened. 

Nemesius, having reached his camp in 
good time, arranged the temporary transfer 
of his command to the officer second in 
rank, and reached the villa of TertuUus 
some minutes in advance of the hour which ' 
had been named by the Pontiff Stephen. 
The holy man received him with paternal 
kindness, bestowing his blessing, which the 
aptain knelt to receive, after which the 
Pontiff proceeded to instruct him on the 
necessity and importance of Baptism as a 
ondition to salvation. To the receptive 
md upright mind of Nemesius no difficul- 
ties presented themselves; for, already en- 
ightened by divine grace, he questioned 
lothing, knowing that God was the Eternal 
Truth, and that, through His Son, He had 



revealed to His Church all things necessary 
to salvation. 

When the subject was explained and 
made clear to his understanding, and the 
Pontiff told him that he was then ready to 
administer the sacred rite, Nemesius hesi- 
tated, and said: 

' ' There is a question I would ask ; one not 
implying doubt, but ignorance, on which I 
would be enlightened." 

' ' Thou wilt not ask amiss, for the Church 
is a divine guide. What wouldst thou 
.know?" was the gentle response. 

' ' This. God being supreme, omniscient, 
and infinite in all His attributes, could He 
not have saved man, whom He created, 
without sending His Divine Son to suffer 
the torments, ignominy, and cruel death He 
endured for man's salvation?" 

"That is a question which naturally pre- 
sents itself to some minds on the threshold 
of Faith, but a few words will throw light 
upon it," answered the saintly Stephen. 
"Man, as thou hast learned, was created by 
God in order to fill the place of the angels 
who had fallen. But when man fell into 
sin it became needful for God to punish 
him, or God would have manifested an in- 
difference to sin, and would have ceased to 
be a righteous moral Governor. It behooved 
that man's sin should be punished, but had 
the punishment been inflicted on man it 
must have been unending, and man would 
never have fulfilled the object and end of his 
creation. Thus would God's honor have 
suffered. 

' ' How was the sin of man to be punished 
as God's honor required, and man likewise 
restored to God's favor, and the place of the 
angels supplied, as God's honor also de- 
manded? No created being could make 
the atonement, for no created being could 
offer to God anything beyond which he was 
already bound as a creature to offer. It re- 
mained, then, that the task must be under- 
taken by the God-Man, who alone could so 
atone for sin that man should be restored to 
favor. God did not inflict the punishment 
of sin on Christ, who voluntarily offered 
Himself as the Victim and propitiation, and 



i8o 



The Ave Maria, 



assumed human flesh in the womb of the 
undefiled Virgin Mary, and became the Re- 
deemer of man, who through His sufferings 
and death alone could be restored to the 
favor of the Eternal Father. ' ' * 

The countenance of Nemesius, which had 
been somewhat overshadowed at first by 
the gravity of his thoughts, grew clearer as 
the Pontiff, speaking impressively and dis- 
tinctly, unfolded each link of his argument, 
which was not only grand and simple, but 
so divinely logical, that he threw himself 
at his feet, exclaiming: "Make me a Chris- 
tian by the holy rite of Baptism, I beseech 
thee, sir, that I may not be another moment 
separated from Him who made a sacrifice 
so great and perfect for me. Henceforth I 
am His even unto death ! " 

(to be continued.) 



A Noble Three. 



ON a damp, foggy evening in the month 
of December, 1841, a man above the 
medium height, leaning on a staff, was 
wending his way along the principal street 
of one of the chief Continental cities. His 
steps were slow and tottering, his face al- 
most hidden by the drooping rim of an old 
hat, and his hoary _hair and beard hung 
down his bended shoulders and breast. Un- 
der his arm he carried an oblong package, 
wrapped in a handkerchief The streams of 
light, the peals of laughter issuing from the 
crowded hotels and restaurants seemed to 
confuse him, and he hurried on, like one 
under the influence of some powerful stim- 
ulus, directing his course towards the Court 
of the Fountains. 

Arrived there, the weary wanderer raised 
his head, and, seeing lights shining from 
every window in the neighborhood, took 
refuge under a shelter at the corner of the 
main street and a much frequented alley. 
Laying aside his staff, he opened his pack- 
age, and drew out an old violin. His ner- 



* VixdXo^w^ '' Cur Deus Homo:' What St. An- 
selm here expresses had always, from its founda- 
tion, been the belief of the Church. 



vous fingers pinched the strings, and, having 
reduced them to harmonize, he placed the 
instrument on his left shoulder and began 
to play. 

Half a dozen street Arabs arrested their 
steps to watch the performance; but the 
old man's trembling fingers fell confusedly 
upon the strings, producing such discordant 
sounds that his little audience ran off, with 
their hands to their ears. A dog in the 
neighborhood began to howl most dismally,, 
and the passers-by quickened their paces. 
Discouraged and sad, the man sat down on 
the sidewalk, laid his instrument across his 
knees, and groaned out: "O God! I can no 
longer play ! " 

Just at this moment three young men 
were coming up the alley, humming a pop- 
ular air, to which they had improvised the 
following absurd words: 

' ' When two students of the Conservatory 
Meet a student of the Conservatory, 
There are then three of the Conservatory; 
And all are charmed, ravished, well content to see 
Themselves away from the Conservatory." 

In their glee they did not at first notice 
the violinist. One struck against him ; the 
second fell over him, knocking off his hat; 
while the third stood back in surprise on 
seeing a tall figure rise and step out into the 
light. 

"Beg your pardon, sir! I fear we have 
hurt you." 

"No," answered the old man, stooping 
down with difficulty to pick up his hat; but 
one of the young men anticipated him, and' 
reached him the hat; while another, per- 
ceiving the violin, inquired: "Are you a. 
musician, sir?" 

' ' Formerly I was, ' ' sighed the poor man, 
and two big tears slowly coursed down his 
furrowed cheeks. 

' ' What is the matter, pray ? — are you suf- 
fering? — can we aid you?" 

The old man looked at them a moment, 
and then, holding out his hat, said: "Give 
me an alms, please. I can no longer earti 
my bread by playing; my fingers have be- 
come anchylotic. . . . My daughter is dying" 
of consumption and want." 



The Ave Maria. 



i8i 



The tone of grief with which this was 
^aid went to the hearts of the young men; 
:hey plunged their hands into their pockets, 
ind drew out — alas! the first, ten cents;, the 
jecond, twenty-five; and the third, a piece 
3f— resin! Grand total, thirty-five cents! It 

Ivvas very little. They looked at one another 
kdly. 
I *' Friends,' ' said Charles (the one who had 
||Hdressed the old man), "he is a confrere; 
an attempt must be made to relieve him ; 
brace up. Adolphe, take the violin and ac- 
campanyGustave, while I make the collec- 
tion." 

No sooner said than done. Up went the 
coat-collars, and down came the hats over 
forehead and eyes. 

"Now do your best, boys," continued 
Charles. ' ' Begin, Adolphe ; first play a pop- 
ular piece, to attract the people." 

Under the magnetic touch of the -young 
virtuoso's fingers the old violin sighed, 
wept, laughed, whispered, sang, prayed; it 
poured forth streams of enchanting notes, 
which gradually died away in the well- 
known ' ' Carnival of Venice. ' ' Every win- 
dow in the neighborhood was open and filled 
with heads; pedestrians forgot 'their er- 
rands; cars a:nd vehicles were impeded by 
the crowd; shouts of enthusiastic applause 
were heard on all sides, and many a coin 
fell into the old man's hat, which had been 
conspicuously placed in order to receive 
them. 

After a brief cessation the young violinist 
excuted a Poiitt d^ Orgue on the dominant, 
as a prelude. 

' ' Now, Gustave ! ' ' said Charles. 

The young man addressed sang ' ' Come, 
Gentle Lady!" His fine tenor voice rang 
out with unwonted warmth, tone, and brill- 
iancy. ^''Encore/ encore f^ cried the mul- 
titude, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm. And 
the collection increased as the crowd grew 
larger. 

Elated with the success of his undertak- 
ing, Charles exclaimed: " Now, boys, the trio 
of 'William Tell,' to conclude. Adolphe, 
old fellow, while accompanying us, don't be 
surprised if my barytone stumbles; help it 



on the best you can; you know it is only 
' cheek ' that ma'kes me attempt it at all. 
And you, Gustave, a few more such bursts 
of melody and the goal is won." 

The trio began. The old man, who up ta 
this time had been motionless, as if the 
whole performance were only a dream ta 
him, now arose, gazed around with flashing 
eyes, seized his staff, and beat the measure 
with the air of a master. The young men, 
fired with his enthusiasm, surpassed them- 
selves. The people were electrified, and 
spared neither money nor praise. Silver fell 
in showers from the windows, leaped from 
every pocket, and Charles had all he could 
do to gather up what fell around the hat. 

The concert being finished, the crowd 
dispersed, commenting on the very unusual 
event. 

The youths now approached the old man^ 
who was almost speechless with emotion. 

' ' Your names, ' ' he murmured, ' ' in order 
that my daughter may mingle them with. 
her prayers. ' ' 

"My name," said the first, "is Faith." 

"And mine," added the second, "is 
Hope." 

"Mine," said the third, at the same time 
laying the hat filled to the brim with money 
before the old man, "is Charity." 

" Ah ! gentlemen ! gentlemen ! permit 
rhe, at least, to tell you who it is that you 
have so generously assisted. My name is 
Chappner. I am an Alsacian. For ten years 
I was leader of the orchestra at Strasburg. 
There I had the honor of first presenting 
' William Tell. ' Alas ! since I left my coun- 
try misfortune and sickness have overtaken 
me. You have saved my life. With this 
money I can now return to Strasburg, where 
I am known, and where my daughter will 
be cared for. Her native air will restore 
her to health. Your rare talents, which 
you have so nobly employed in relieving a 
stranger's distress, shall be blessed. You 
shall be great among the great. ' ' 

"Amen!" responded the three young- 
men, and then, taking one another's arm^ 
they continued their walk. 

Reader, if you are curious to know 



I«2 



The Ave Maria. 



whether the prediction of the old man was 
verified, I can (at the cost of committing 
a grave indiscretion, however) reveal the 
world-renowned names of those three stu- 
dents of the Conservatory, The lenor was 
Gustave Roger; the violinist, Adolphe Her- 
mann; the collector, Charles Gounod. 



O Dulcis Virgo Maria! 



iplUT in the dark and mist and cold, 
^ I heard a voice in the city street, 
Chanting low, as from flute of gold, 
Notes so strangely sad and sweet; 
Sobbing and vsinging, singing and sobbing: 
''Maria, Mother, hear thy child; 
Shield and keep her undefiled; 
Look, oh! look from heaven, I pray; 
Ivight and guide her on her way — 
O dulcis Virgo Maria ! ' ' 

Into the darkness the singer goes. 

And, like a bird in its airy flight, 
The music trembles, then swells and flows. 

Until it echoes upon the night; 
Sobbing and singing, singing and sobbing: 
''Maria, Mother, hear thy child; 
Shield and keep her undefiled; 
Ivook, oh! look from heaven, I pray; 
Ivight and guide her on her way — 
O dulcis Virg^ Maria ! ' ' 

Afar in the distance the music floats, 

Till it dies away in the mist and rain. 
I have but a dream of the solemn notes. 

And I watch and w^ait for the voice in vain; 
Sobbing and singing, singing and sobbing: 
^' Maria, Mother, hear thy child; 
Shield and keep her undefiled; 
lyook, oh! look from heaven, I pray; 
lyight and guide her on her way. 
O dulcis Virgo Maria ! ' ' 

—Albert H. Hardy. 



An actor among puppets cares not for 
them, but for the applause of the spectators. 
So we amongst our fellow-men. God is 
looking on. Is He pleased with us? 

Those who aspire to eminence in God's 
service must begin from the ranks. 



St. Catherine's Well. 



BY J. J. M G. 



THE town of Killybegs, in the County of 
Donegal, is one of the most charming 
places that grace the sea-coast of Ireland. 
It has attained no little prominence in the 
eyes of the commercial world from the fact 
that its harbor is the safest and most capa- 
cious in that part of the country, and is the 
haven to which one of her Majesty's cutters 
clings closely for the greater part of the year. 
Not a vessel sailing into this bay but 
passes, before it anchors, the little headland, 
where, canopied by green shrubbery, and 
encompassed by a few tall trees, sparkles 
the water of the Holy Well of St. Catherine 
— one of those many blessed fountains 
whose hallowed memories inspired one of 
Erin's children to sing: 

"The holy wells — the living wells — the cool, the 

fresh, the pure — 
A thousand ages roll'd away, and still those 

founts endure, 
As full and sparkling as they flow'd ere slave or 

tyrant trod 
The emeraid garden set apart for Irishmen by 

God!" 
But this well is endeared particularly to 
the writer, for the reason that he first knelt 
by it at his mother's side, and by her was 
instructed in the prayers to be said while 
"travelling the station." Turning back 
now, and musing over the history of that 
well, he finds one chapter of it forcing itself 
to the front, and asking to be recorded, so 
that in after years it may be looked upon as 
an historical truth, and not a matter of fic- 
tion, than which, as we know, truth is often 
more strange. 

To reach this holy well one must walk 
a quarter of a mile to the east of the town, 
then for a short distance along the pebbly 
shore, past the ruins of an old Catholic 
church and its long-unused graveyard, and 
into the lands of the Rev. Mr. Ball, the 
Protestant rector, where in the centre of a 
trodden circle can be seen the spring of 
which I write. 



The Ave Maria. 



183 



Friday is the market-day of Killybegs, 
and after business has been transacted, and 
often before, the faithful wend their way to 
this holy fountain. Some go to pray for 
sick neighbors, and bring them a little of 
the healing waters; others, to ask the Saint 
to intercede for them in their difficulties; 
and not a few to offer a prayer for a son or 
a daughter far away. 

"The grass that grows between the stones, 
And o'er the water's rim — 
A cure for ills and aching bones — 

The hands of peasants trim. 
The skeptic may their faith deride, 

While now false pride rebels, 
But changed his mind would be beside 
Old Ireland's holy wells." 

Of course the lands of Mr. Ball, which 
had been confiscated for his especial benefit 
by the Government, were trespassed on 
continually by the pioas suppliants. On 
the feast of the Saint numerous were the 
crowds that gathered and prayed at the well 
from midnight even to midnight. The peas- 
antry residing near by were careful to keep 
the road in good condition, and in truth 
their right of way to the well was a pre- 
rogative never but once disputed. 

Some years ago Mr. Ball, who is still liv- 
ing, I believe^ grew impitient at the devo- 
tion manifested by the country-people, and 
undertook to put a stop to it. So he ordered 
the following notice to be posted conspicu- 
ously at every entrance to the well, "No 
trespassing allowed." But he had not calcu- 
lated the will of the people. They crossed 
his grounds as before, and on the following 
Friday the first sight that' greeted his eyes 
was a couple of peasants bent in prayerful 
attitude beside the holy spring. 

The good rector, as the story goes, vowed 
to " stop this superstition and idolatry," and 
next morning the neighbors discovered that 
the well had been filled with stones and cov- 
ered with sods, no trace of it being left. 
But ere the good people could communicate 
the sad news to the surrounding villages 
workmen were seen busily engaged in 
clearing the well. Why was this? What is 
the mystery? 

W^ell, it is related on good authority that 



the spring broke out in the parlor of Mr. 
Ball, on the ground-floor of his little palace, 
which is situated fully twenty feet higher 
above the sea level than the holy well. The 
signs of warning to trespassers were taken 
down. And ever since there has been no 
hindrance to enter the grounds; and mother 
— God bless her! — says in every letter: "I 
travelled St. Catherine's Station for you last 
Friday." 

On a certain day of the year — I forget 
which — the waters of St. Catherine's be- 
come muddy and disturbed. This is due, 
tradition has it, to the washing of a sick 
child by its mother on that day many years 
ago, and it is not deemed "right" to take 
any water from the well that day. 

Now you have the history, at least all 
that I know of it, of one of Ireland's holy 
wells. 



Dedicating Children. 

IN Catholic countries parents often dedicate 
or make an offering of their children when 
infants to the Blessed Mother of God. They 
are brought to the church for this purpose. 
The parents and friends of the family are 
present. It is a feast-day for them. The child 
is taken to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin; 
the parents kneel before the altar and ask 
Our lyady to accept the gift they are present- 
ing to her, and to obtain for the child from 
her Divine Son the grace to be a true Chris- 
tian. 

Mary presented the Infant Jesus in the 
Temple to His Eternal Father. Parents in thus 
consecrating their children to God, through 
Mary, imitate the Blessed Virgin. They tell 
these children what Mary did, and all about 
the Infant Jesus. He was called the Son of 
Joseph and Mary; He obeyed their every wish 
by anticipating it. He is God, yet He was 
subject to them in all things. He filled the 
hearts of Mary and Joseph with love when He 
was offered to His Father. He came to do the 
will of His Father. How grateful, then, was 
He not to Mary and Joseph for the offering 
they made of Him! It was the will of God, 
and Mary fulfilled it. Holy Simeon, inspired 
by the Holy Ghost, breaks forth in the Tem- 



184 



The Ave Maria. 



pie with the words of sorrow that penetrate 
the heart of Mary, and tell of the reception of 
the offering in Heaven. The first sword of 
sorrow was plunged into her heart, but she 
kept those things to herself. 

When mothers present their children to 
Mary they remind her of the presentation that 
she made of the only offering worthy of the 
Eternal Father. The Blessed Mother is pleased 
with the resemblance, and when asking her Di- 
vine Son for the favors besought for the child 
presented to her, she reminds her Son of the 
joy He experienced when she dedicated Him 
to His Eternal Father. The an}j:iety of heart 
she then felt makes her lend her all-powerful 
intercession to obtain the grace of a holy life 
for those children dedicated to her. The 
young and the old may give themselves to the 
service of Mary. Age places neither limit nor 
barrier to her services. 

But what greater crown, parents, can you 
place on the head of Mary than the consecra- 
tion of your children to her service ? In Mary 
you have a mother for yourselves and your 
children. Where Mary is, there also is Jesus. 
Have Mary in the hearts of your children, so 
that Jesus may dwell with them. Your house- 
hold will be blessed; your children, being 
under the special protection of Mary, will be 
obedient and dutiful; they will obtain the 
graces that are asked for them in their con- 
secration, and increase in age, wisdom, and 
grace before God and men. Parents, is not 
this the dearest wish of your hearts ? — Catho- 
lic Times. 



Catholic Notes. 



A decree of the Sacred Tribunal of the Holy 
Roman and Universal Inquisition, under date 
May 19, 1886, but only recently made public, 
declares it illicit for Catholics to become mem- 
bers of societies having as their scope the cre- 
mation of human bodies; and where the said 
societies, as is generally the case, are affiliated 
to the sect of Freemasonry, they fall under 
the excommunication reserved to the Pope. 
The decree further inhibits the faithful from in 
any wise participating in or promoting the act 
of cremation, whether in case of the deceased 
having left directions to that effect, or in that 
of the desire of surviving relatives or friends. 
The Holy Father, in confirming and sanction- 



ing this decision of the Holy Office, charac- 
terizes the cremation of human remains as an 
"abominable abuse." 



During the Franco- German war the late 
Cardinal Guibert gave hospitality to the Papal 
Nuncio and the delegates of the Government 
of National Defence, who left Paris in bal- 
loons, and took up their quarters at Tours. 
But the Archbishop made a stand against re- 
ceiving Garibaldi. ' ' This palace is the Pope's 
house, and I will not receive under its roof 
an enemy of the Holy See. ' ' 

Monseigneur Guibert was able during those 
troubled times to render good service to his 
country; for when the German authorities 
laid on the city a war indemnity of $1,000,000, 
he wrote to the Prince Imperial saying the 
money could not be paid, as there were only 
a few thousand francs in the treasury. The 
Prince immediately reduced the sum to $]oo,- 
000! When relating this fact some years later^ 
his Grace said, smiling: "In those days the 
bishops were sometimes of use ! ' ' 



The following account of the Sanctuary of 
the Mater Dolorosa at Jerusalem, which is 
being erected by Armenian Catholics in the 
Via Dolorosa, is abridged from La Terra 
Sa?ita. A church under the title of Our Lady 
of the Swoon, the ruins of which still remain, 
once stood on the same site, and it was doubt- 
less a hallowed one from the very first ages of 
Christianity. This ancient church occupied 
the space extending from the Third to the 
Fourth Station: 

"Doubtless at a very early date Christian piety 
raised a sanctuary on the spot where a most an- 
cient tradition assures us our divine Lord met 
His Virgin Mother as He bore His heavy Cross 
to Calvary. This sanctuary was mentioned by the 
early pilgrims to the Holy Land, by Marius Santo 
in 1306, and by the Seigneur d' Anglure. who saw it 
near the Praetorium. Father Fabri, a Dominican 
of Ulm, tells us he and his companions saw in the 
Via Dolorosa, on the right coming from the Holy 
Sepulchre, a small knoll on which the Blessed 
Virgin had stood on the morning of the Passion, 
to watch for her Divine Son ; and where, on perceiv- 
ing Him, she fell down in a swoon. It was on this 
spot, continues the friar, that we gained the in- 
dulgences; for there stood a church under thetitle- 
of Our Blessed Lady of the Swoon. The Saracens 
destroj-ed it, leaving only its walls of huge square 
blocks standing, and these were mere ruins. 

"The remains of this small church were still 



The Ave Maria. 



1 8s 



visible in 1586, and were described b}' Zulluart, a 
Belgian from Ath, who says this sanctuary was 
■erected by St. Helen. Zulluart adds that the stone 
upon which Mary fainted, in the midst of the holy 
women who accompanied her, had been placed in 
front of the altar of the church ; but that Father 
Bonaventure Curseli, Guardian of Zion, having 
perceived it among the ruins, and desecrated by 
the infidels, had bought it for a large sum, and 
carried it to the mon'astery on Mount Zion. On 
the site where the swoon took place the Turks had 
erected baths. The church is again mentioned in 
1615 by Quaresimius, who refers to the testimony 
"of the Father Guardian of the Zion Monastery 
from 1552 to 1560, saying the stone had been placed 
'over the main entrance. He also tells us that on 
his visit to the Holy City, in 1610, the upper por- 
tion of the Church of the Swoon still existed, but 
it disappeared in 1630. We could quote other au- 
thorities who are all unanimous about the loca- 
tion of this sanctuary, and afRrming to have seen 
its ruins. 

"These ruins were still a heap of desecrated 
stones when, in 1859, the Armenian Catholics 
-succeeded in obtaining possession of them. For 
a long time they were unable to realize their wish 
to build a church ; sad events occurred to disturb 
the peace of the Armenian Catholics, followed by 
the death of Mgr. Michael Alexander, Armenian 
Archbishop of Jerusalem, who had devoted him- 
self to the undertaking, to which his death put a 
stop. At last, in 1881, the Very Rev. Joachim 
Toumayan, pastor of the Armenian Catholics and 
Patriarchal Vicar of the Armenian Rite in Jeru- 
salem, took up the work with zeal and courage. 
Excavations brought to light the crypt and huge 
blocks of the foundations. Some decorations were 
still entire, as the armorial bearings of several 
noble families, fragments of broken pillars, steps 
and iron- work, mixed with charred wood. In 1882 
the tanks of the baths were unearthed ; and on 
clearing away the rubbish that covered the pave- 
ment of the church, there appeared two footprints 
worked in mosaic, and pointing towards the Via 
Dolorosa. Doubtless these were intended to in- 
dicate where Our Blessed Lady stood, or the di- 
rection she took in following her Divine Son 
<:arrying His Cross. 

' ' The Armenian Catholics are poor, very poor, 
and the work of clearing away the ruins and of 
excavating has exhausted their funds, and they 
find themselves obliged to appeal to the devo- 
tion and charity of all Christians desirous of 
honoring the tender grief of Jesus on meeting 
His beloved Mother, — whose hearts compassion- 
ate and generously long to glorify the bitter 
agony of Mary when suddenly she found herself 
face to face wnth her thorn- crowned Son, and who 
on that spot fainted in the traces of His Precious 
Blood." 



The Abbe Liszt, one of the greatest musi- 
cians the world, has ever seen, died at Bay- 
reuth on the night of the 31st ult. He was 
born in 1 8 1 1 , and from a very early age gave 
evidence of the remarkable powers with which 
hie was gifted. In 1825 he inaugurated that 
brilliant public career, which up to the end of 
his life continued an unbroken success. He 
"was a man of fine personal appearance and 
charming manners, and had hosts of warm 
friends in every rank of life. At one time he 
greatly desired to enter the priesthood, and 
stated his wish to his friend and admirer, the 
late Pope Pius IX. His Holiness, however, 
represented to him the difficulty of reconciling 
the duties of the priesthood with the profes- 
sional and social demands inseparable from 
the life of a world-renowned musician. He 
advised him to continue in the career for which 
his genius marked him out; but, to content 
his good desires, admitted him to tonsure, 
with the title of abbe. May he rest in peace! 



In accepting the dedication of the oratorio, 
Mors et Vita, by Gounod, his Holiness Leo 
XIII. expressed a desire that the work should 
be brought out in the Eternal City, during 
the year of his sacerdotal Jubilee, under the 
gifted composer's own direction. M. Gounod 
wrote a devout and filial reply, saying that it 
would be a great happiness to him to comply 
with the wish that the Holy Father had done 
him the honor to express. 



A gentleman residing in Middletown, who 
was visiting in Sullivan Co. last week, was 
attracted by eight headstones in a little grass- 
grown cemetery, near Fallsburg, all of which 
stood in a row and were exactly alike. He 
got out of his wagon to look at them, and 
found that they were all children of a well- 
known physician, and that all were grown 
when stricken down, and that the dates on 
the headstones showed that the first one died 
Nov. 23, 1 86 1, and the other seven between 
that date and Dec. 15 following. 

The story as told is that in 1861 there was 
a scourge of diphtheria in that neighborhood, 
and the physician was kept busy treating pa- 
tients suffering from that disease. He was 
very successful, and gained such confidence in 
his skill that he began to boast that he could 
cure any case, and went so far that he ' ' defied 
God Almighty to produce a case of diphtheria 



1 86 



The Ave Maria, 



he could not cure." In less than a week his 
youngest child was seized with the disease, 
and although he exercised his skill to the ut- 
most, having not only professional pride but 
a father's love to urge him to do his best, his 
boy grew worse and died. One after another 
his children sickened and died, until all were 
gone, and laid side by side in the little grave- 
yard near Fallsburg. Only one child was left, 
a married daughter, but in a few weeks she, 
too, was stricken down, and became a victim 
to the dread disease. — Middletown Argus. 



Two noted tributes were paid recently to 
the zeal and devotion of the Sisters of Charity 
in France The first is that of Gen.iBoulanger, 
Minister of War. While on a visit to the Val- 
de-Grace, he called at the military School of 
Medicine; and, having walked through the 
wards of the hospital, he was about to retire, 
when medical Inspector Baudoin, one of the 
Directors of the War Office, who accompanied 
him, reminded him that he had not seen the 
Superioress of the Sisters of Charity at Val- 
de- Grace (the Baroness de Moissac) for over 
thirty-five years. Gen . Boulanger at once asked 
him to go up-stairs to the venerable Sister, 
and beg her to descend and exchange a few 
words with him. In a few minutes the sSupe- 
rioress nimbly descended the stairs, in spite of 
her eighty-five years; and, in presence of the 
assembled staff of officers and students, the 
General said: "Allow me, Madame, to thank 
you here, on behalf of the Army, for the devo- 
tion and disinterestedness of which your Sis- 
ers give daily proof in nursing our soldiers." 
Then he added: "Yes: it would be a disaster 
if we were deprived of you. ' ' 

The other tribute was paid by M. Ferdinand 
de Lesseps,the distinguished French engineer, 
who, in the course of a speech made on the 
occasion of a public demonstration in Paris, 
said they had the highest ideas of womanhood 
in the brave Sister of Charity: that much of 
the success of the Suez Canal had been due 
to the nuns who nursed the sick. They would 
do the same in Panama. He was no politician, 
but it seemed to him that he was entitled to 
praise women who had been his trusty and 
courageous auxiliaries, without any hope ex- 
cept that inspired by religion. It made him 
angry when he remembered that the Daugh- 
ters of St. Vincent de Paul were now being 
turned out of French hospitals, and replaced 



by hirelings, who were always worthless and 
often dangerous to the patient. 

A writer in a recent number of The Con- 
temporary Review says of the world-wide au- 
thority of Leo XIII.: 

"On May 28, 1878, he creates the Diocese 
of Chicoutimi in Canada; on June 21, the 
Apostolic- Vicariate of Kansuh in China; on 
July 31 he converts the Apostolic- Vicariate of 
Montevideo into a bishopric; on September 
13 he cuts off a tract of territory from the See 
of Canstantineli and annexes it to that of Al- 
giers; on December 20 he divides the Diocese 
of Beverley to make a new Diocese of I^eeds, 
and in September of the next year makes the 
Church of St. Anne its Cathedral. On Janu- 
ary 20, 1880, he raises the Vicariate of Cracow 
into an episcopate, and gives it a new territo- 
rial definition ; on May 25 he halves the Diocese 
of Yucatan, in Mexico, and forms that of Sa- ! 
basco; on July 29 he divides, in the same way, 
the Archiepiscopal See of Santa Fe de Bogota, 
in New Granada, and forms the Diocese of 
Sunza; on July 5, 1881, he constitutes an epis- 
copal hierarchy in Bosnia and Herzigovina; 
on September 30th he reduces the number of 
the Portuguese bishoprics, and remodels their 
territorial distribution," and so on. 

"Every thought of the pontifical heart," 
observes the same writer, farther on, "dilates 
and broadens to embrace the world. He is 
the only power in existence whose inherent 
and essential obligation it is to go on inces- 
santly acquiring and extending, over all civil- 
ized and even all barbarous nations, an intel- 
lectual and moral ascendency." 



New Publications. 



Short Papers for the People. [Ale- 
THAURiON.] By the Rev. Thomas C. Moore, 
D.D. New York, Cincinnati, and St. Louis: 
Benziger Brothers. 

The preface to this work fully explains its 
origin, and refers to the only objection that 
could be made to its bright and sensible sub- 
ject matter. The author lived for some time 
in a non-Catholic community, and was, of 
course, forced by circumstances to discuss 
his belief. Out of these discussions grew 
this volume of essays, once offered to the pub- 
lic in the columns of The Catholic Advocate. 




The Ave Maria. 



187 



The essays are exactly what he promises — 
' ' lighter and sharper weapons ' ' than the pon- 
derous tomes and weighty arguments em- 
ployed against learned theologians. They 
interest but are no strain upon the mind; the 
narrative and argument are strong, "but not 
stilted; trenchant, but not murderous; witty, 
but not uncharitable." The "objection" 
might be made, as the writer feared, to the 
ixtreme lightness and airiness of some of the 
Comparisons and some of the trenchant ridi- 
cule. 

The book is one well calculated to do good 
among other than Catholics, but it carries with 
it certain ' ' faults ' ' on its face that are too often 
imputed to Catholics, and of which they are 
really less guilty than other people. No Cath- 
olic would think of irreverence in the many 
clever things the author says as naturally as 
he draws his breath; but the Protestants for 
whom it was mainly written in the first place — 
those who all innocently ' ' strain at a gnat and 
swallow a camel" — would be too apt to lose 
the pith of the argument because of its dress. 
The best Protestants — those who think, and 
pray, and desire to learn the truth — are seldom 
found among the admirers of the Talmage 
""Style of sermon, and are far enough from the 
frothy pulpit orators who make a jest of sol- 
emn things. They might object to the clear 
and incisive wit of Dr. Moore, and it is a pity 
that those'whom he would be glad to reach, 
as he otherwise would, should be frightened 
oiF. For all others, "Short Papers" are a 
welcome outpouring. They are learned, but' 
delightfully so; explanatory, but not prosy; 
argumentative, but not imperative. One likes 
to learn and be convinced under a kindly 
teacher, and such would seem the author of 
"Short Papers," 

lyiFE OF Margaret Clithbrow. By Lae- 
tetia Selwyn Oliver. With a Preface by Father 
John Morris, S.J. London: Burns & Gates. 
New York: Catholic Publication Society Co. 

Mrs. Margaret Clitherow was an English 
martyr, who suffered at York, March 25, 1586, 
in the reign of ' ' the tyrant Elizabeth, ' ' as this 
little book justly calls that sovereign. It is 
most difficult to bring ourselves to the spirit 
of the age in which this good and holy woman 
was put to the torture and to such a death for 
her Faith. The pain, the fear, the rebellion of 
the flesh are often more present to the reader 



than the fervent love, the sweet patience, and 
the Christian forgiveness of the gentle and 
holy sufferer. It is only after the book has 
been read and laid away for some days that 
the lessons it was meant to teach are possible 
to a person of vivid imagination and sensitive 
nerves; but it is just such training, perhaps, 
that the Catholics of this day and this land 
stand in need of. The lives and deaths of 
such as Dame Margaret, their heroic and un- 
shaken courage, their blessed martyrdom, in 
fact, purchased for us, who came after, the 
time of peace we now enjoy. Well, indeed, is 
it for us to keep in lively remembrance their 
past, and dwell reverently and gratefully on 
their triumphant present, even at the cost of 
harrowing our softened and sensitive natures 
with the story of all they endured. 

lyBAVES FROM St. Augustine. By Mary 
H. Allies. Edited by T, W. Allies, K. C. S. G. 
Same Publishers. 

These beautiful extracts from the writings 
of St. Augustine are like draughts of clear, 
living water to the thirsty soul, at once a 
spiritual and an intellectual feast If Catho- 
lics could be persuaded that the writings of 
the Fathers and the Lives of the Saints, lat- 
terly made so attractive by the elimination of 
much that is dry and uninteresting, as well as 
above the comprehension of the ordinary in- 
tellect, were enjoyable as well as instructive 
reading, they would not depend for literary 
food on the vapid and worthless trash which 
forms a large part of our so-called modern lit- 
erature. 

It is well that such laborers as Miss Allies, 
whose hope of reward is based on a higher 
than earthly basis, have the courage and per- 
severance to accomplish works to which are 
presented so many serious obstacles. .We 
would like to see the book before us in every 
Catholic library, and feel confident that its 
perusal would be a delight as well as a 
profitable work for all who read. It is well 
bound, and printed in large, clear, attractive 
type. 

Pax Vobis: Being a Popular Exposition of 
the Seven Sacraments, Furnishing Ready Mat- 
ter for Public Instruction, and Suitable, at the 
same time, for Private or Family Reading. By 
the Author of "Programmes of Sermons and 
Instructions," etc. Dublin: Browne & Nolan, 
Nassau Street. 1886. 



88 



The Ave Maria. 



A book of instruction on the Sacraments 
can hardly be'a new book, at this date, in the 
things it says, but it may still be new in its 
manner of saying them. "Pax Vobis" is an 
addition, not a repetition. It treats of its inex- 
haustible subject with an interest and ear- 
nestness that awaken new desires and new in- 
tentions in the pursuance of familiar duties. 
It is an excellent book for converts or for in- 
quirers, since its explanations are very full 
and very clear. The portion devoted to the 
Blessed Eucharist occupies about one- third of 
the volume. The reader is prepared to receive 
with intelligence, and is greatly aided to devo- 
tion towards the Sacraments, if the book has 
been carefully studied as it deserves. 

OoiyDKN Sands. Fourth Series. Little Coun- 
sels for the Sanctification and Happiness of 
Daily Life. Translated from the French by Miss 
Ella McMahon. New York, Cincinnati, and St. 
Louis: Benziger Brothers, Printers to the Holy 
Apostolic See. 

The Series of which this little volume is the 
fourth is well known to the reading Catho- 
lics of the United States. It is several years 
since the first * ' Golden Sands ' ' were scattered 
among us, and we have found them pure gold, 
indeed. This volume is not in the least inferior 
to those which have preceded it. It is a book 
to take from your table at any moment — in 
weariness, in sadness, in an idle pause of the 
day's task— and find on the first page which 
meets your eye something to remember, and 
act upon. All such books— little light-bearers 
for dark places — are worthy of warm welcome. 

A Catechism of Christian Doctrine;. 
Prepared and Enjoined by Order of the Third 
Plenary Council of Baltimore, Published by 
Ecclesiastical Authority. Same PublivShers. 

However valuable,.however indispensable, 
a Catechism may be, it is not often an invit- 
ing or a beautiful work. In this case it is 
both. The subject matter needs no words of 
commendation, of course, since it bears the 
imprint of the authority of the Church; but it 
is a pleasure to speak of its fair dress. The 
paper is smooth and white, the print is clear 
and delightfully easy to read, and the work is 
profusely illustrated, not with coarse wood- 
cuts, but with delicate and expressive copies 
of celebrated works of art. Even "grown- 
ups ' ' will find pleasure as well as profit in this 
Catechism. 



The F01.1.OWING OF Christ. By John Tau- 
ler. Done into English by J. Morell. London: 
Burns & Gates. New York: The Catholic Pub- 
lication Society Co. 

To the lovers of Thomas a Kempis — and 
their number is legion — no other * ' Following 
of Christ ' ' can take the place of the simple 
and beautiful work which has had, perhaps, 
(excepting the Bible) more readers than any 
book in the world. However, the above trans- 
lation of the work of the great Dominican of 
Strasburg will no doubt find many admirers, 
especially among those advanced in the in- 
terior life. It is filled with many sublime and 
mystical thoughts, too mystical, we think, for 
the general reader. Like all books of its class, 
it will prove a help to greater spiritual per- 
fection to those who consult its pages. 



Obituary. 



"It is a holy and wholesome thaifrht to pray for the dead.'" 

— 2 Mach., xii., 46. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

The Rev. Francis Van Emstede, a well-known 
priest of the Congregation of the Most Holy Re- 
deemer, who passed away on the evening of the 
4th inst. Father Van Emstede was rector of St. 
Michael's Church, Baltimore, Md., since 1883. 

The Rev. Michael A. Mullen, for many years 
the beloved assistant rector of St. Malachy's 
Church., Philadelphia. 

The Rev. John Ansbro, a worthy priest of the 
Diocese of St. Paul, who rendered his soul to God 
on the 4th inst. 

Madame Mary Josephine, who breathed her last 
at the Ursuline school of Nazareth, Columbia, 
S. C, on the 5th inst. This holy religious was in 
the fifty-fifth year of her age, and the twenty-fifth 
of her religious life. 

Mr. Philip O'Neil, who departed this life on the 
30th ult. , at Richmond, Va. 

Ida J. Youtz, a devout Child of Mary, whose 
happy death took place at Brickerville, Pa., on 
the Feast of St. Anne. 

Miss M. McCarthy, who died a precious death, 
at Rochester, N. Y., on the loth inst. 

Mrs. Mary C. Sharkey, of Taunton, Mass., de- 
ceased on the 30th ult. She bore a long and pain- 
ful illness with edifying resignation. 

Mrs. Ellen Coughlin, of Hartfort, Conn. ; Nicho- 
las Jordan, Cincinnati; Miss Lillie C. Keating, 
San Francisco; Mr. George Baugh, Marysland, 
Minn. 

May their souls, and the souls of all the faithful 
departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. 




3AHTMENt 



(CONCIyUSION.) 

V. 

Bodger was awakened out of her sleep 
by hearing voices very close to her, and 
this is what they said: 

''The fool has played into our hands. 
He's sent his crew ashore, and nobody's 
aboard except him and the cabin-boy. The 
men ain't coming back till midnight, and 
Bill Gryce won't be worth much when he 
does come; for I gave it to him hot and I 
gave it to him strong." And he made a 
motion of putting a glass to his lips. 

The chill night air, the surprise of her 
surroundings, the sudden waking, and the 
fright might well have excused an older 
person for making an outcry; but after the 
first start the brave child crossed herself, 
and sent up a prayer to her I^ady, listening 
eagerly to what followed. And how awful 
it was! , 

"So you meet me here in an hour's time, 
and we'll get off. It'll be an easy matter 
to kill him, chiick him overboard, ransack 
the Lively^ and get off before the lubbers 
find out anything' s wrong." And then a 
laugh followed. 

The poor little maid could scarcely draw 
ler breath, and trembled so she was afraid 
hey would hear her teeth chatter. But 
^he held on tight to her knees, and prayed 
IS she had never prayed before in her 
|ife. 

As the two men moved away one of them 
'aid: "Where's the boat?" 

"Tied to the pile, just here" — rapping 
iv^ith his heel the very board on which the 
hild crouched. 



^^^ 



Then they were gone, and Bodger wrung 
her small hands. 

' ' Oh ! I know they mean my daddy ! 
What shall I do, what shall I do? O my 
Lady! tell me what I must do to help him. 
He saved my life, you know, my Dear, and 
I ought to save his!" 

lyike an inspiration came the thought of 
the boat: 

' ' Thank ye, my I^ady ! ' ' she said ; " I can 
row. ' ' 

And she could fairly well — what child 
brought up on the river- front can not? — 
but hpw was she to get at it? 

She crawled cautiously along the edge of 
the wharf, feeling every inch of space, and 
at last she touched a small line, slip- knotted 
over the plank. She pulled on it slowly 
and carefully, and soon a lap-streak's nose 
bobbed against the pile. She could hardly 
see it, for the moon was gone, the sky was 
thickening to seaward, and the stars were 
wide apart and dim. Added to this was the 
shifting, uncertain light of the water. 

Then came the question how was she to 
get into the boat; for it lay a full six feet 
below the level of the wharf. But she had 
unlimited faith, and her need was urgent. 
She turned her white, resolute little face 
up skyward: 

"Dear God, look out for me now; and, 
my lyady, please help me; for I'm goin' to 
jump, and I think I'm goin' to fall into the 
water. If I do, I'll have some work gettin' 
into the boat; but I'm goin' to hold tight to 
the painter, and I know you'll do the rest 
for me. ' ' 

And the plucky little creature did jump, 
but, as God and Our lyady willed, she fell 
inside the boat, on a pile of sacking, which 
was doubtless meant for the plunder. She 
felt about for the oars, and was soon drifting 
slowly down on the Lively; for, although 



190 



The Ave Maria, 



the boat was heavy, she had the tide with 
her. 

Captain Ephraim had spent the evening 
*'up an' down," as he expressed it, con- 
scious of uneasiness, but not knowing what 
made him so. This time it was one of his 
"down spells," and he sat in his cabin, 
surveying a doll, a bright red sash, a pea- 
green silk handkerchief, and a pair of shoes 
he had brought his maid. 

A slow smile was lingering on his face, 
when suddenly thump, thump! — on the 
water-line came a succession of blows. 

"Land!" said the startled sailor. "I 
ain*t give e'er a job o' caulkin' to the mer- 
maids, as I kin remember; but ef them 
ain't a caulker's hammers, or somethin' 
else" (Yankee caution), "why, I don't 
know!" 

And he ran up the companion ladder, 
and to the side where the sound was; for 
a sailor can locate a sound as quick as a 
cat. 

' ' O daddy ! " he heard a thin, piping wail ; 
"drop over a rope or somethin'; it's me, 
your maid." And then the thumping re- 
commenced. 

"Daddy" lifted his cap (his rising hair 
had nearly done it for him). ' ' Good Lord ! ' ' 
he said, "Ye ain't gone an' took my maid, 
hev Ye?" 

But the voice called again : 

' ' Hurry, daddy ! I' m so cold and " — here 
it broke — "so skee-e-e-ered!" 

"Never heern o' ghosts bein'skeered," 
he said. "They mos'ly spend their time 
lettin' other people tend to that. ' ' 

And he dropped the small rope-ladder 
over the side, and scrambled down in time 
to pick up a bunch that was a very limp 
maid indeed. 

When, amid sobs and gasps, she told her 
story he could not believe it, but, as she 
insisted so upon its truth, he began to feel 
she was right. Besides, there was the boat, 
and, what was more important, a red cap, 
such as Lascars wear; and the Captain rec- 
ognized it as belonging to a man who had 
helped ship some of his cargo at New York, 
and whom he had rated soundly for cutting 



into a bale of silk, dismissing him on the 
spot, with a threat of the police. 

But he paid more attention to his maid 
than anything else, and his keen eyes were 
very wet when he saw her poor bruised, 
blistered hands, and listened to the details 
of her adventure. 

As she told him of her innocent and fer- 
vent prayers, of her reliance on the Holy 
Ones, his head dropped lower, and he folded 
his hands unconsciously, while through his 
mind ran, like a refrain: "And a little child 
shall lead them." 

. Again and again it came, and he passed 
in review the whole train of events. How 
eight years ago he had picked up the de- 
serted child; how she had led him to love, 
and given him a home- feeling; how she had 
taken him to church that Christmas morn- 
ing — a church where a nameless awe had 
overcome him, as the bells rang, and the 
priest held aloft what to the eyes seemed a 
simple wafer of bread, but before which the 
Heavens themselves were bowed ; how the 
priest told of the Child that came to lead 
captive death and sin and woe; and how 
earnestly Baptism had been urged upon 
him. 

Then he said: "My maid, we'll go to- 
morrow to that there church, and ef God 
A' mighty an' His Lady Mother will take 
me, I'm theirn till the end o'my life — an' 
arterward too, I hope." 
• And the maid answered: "Yes, daddy," 
and fell asleep on his shoulder. 

At daybreak great was Mollie's relief to 
see the skipper and Bodger coming in. The 
poor woman had cried her pretty, grey eyes 
almost out; and O'Neil was still in the 
streets, hunting at every police station for 
the lost child. 

But Mollie's joyful outcries were subdued 
by the look of solemn dignity on the skip- 
per's weather-beaten face, and the strange . 
light that shone in his eyes; and when, ! 
after early Mass, he rose and went forward 
to the font to receive Baptism, with the 
maid's hand locked in his, and his grey hair 
stirring in the wind of Our Lady's May 
morning, she leaned back, and, like th^i 




The Ave Maria, 



191 






farm -hearted little woman she was, cried 
igain heartily. 

He tQok the name of Thomas, "fur he 
vas a doubter, same ez me," he said; "an' 
he Lord showed him special mercy, same 
VL me agin; an' them's the on'y two pints 
()f resemblance there'll ever be'twixt me 
an' a saint, I'm afeared." 

God, who marks a sparrow's fall, marked 
Captain Ephraim's deed of charity, and in 
the fulness of His own time gave him the 

eat rew^ard of faith. 

And that's how it happened. 



And the would-be murderers and rob- 
bers? Punishment fell swiftly upon them. 
When they returned and found the boat 
gone, each accused the others of careless- 
ness ; a quarrel sprang up, knives were 
drawn, and in a few minutes the Lascar was 
drifting seaward, to fatten the gulls and 
fishes, with two ghastly holes in his breast 
and throat. Of the two that struck the 
blows, one was killed in a drunken brawl 
that same year, after a melancholy career 
of crime; and the other is still serving a 
life-term in the penitentiary. 



Little Margaret. 



In one of the back streets of Iviverpool lived 
a poor widow woman and her little girl. She 
had had a hard struggle to keep the wolf from 
the door since her husband's death, and now 
ill health had been the result of numberless 
privations; and she watched with ever-increas- 
ing anxiety the faults of her child, who was 
bright and intelligent, it is true, but easily led 
away and tempted. 

One day, feeling worse than usual, she sent 
the little girl to a shop to buy some needles 
and thread. The child did not come back, 
and the broken-hearted mother, after making 
inquiries in vain of all her neighbors, was 
roughly informed by a policeman that she was 
in the lock-up, having been caught stealing, 
and that she would be brought before the mag- 
istrates the next day. In an agony of mind, 
the poor mother flew to Father Nugent, who 
at once went to the prison, and found that the 
accusation was true. 



On being questioned, the child, who was 
crying bitterly, said she had gone to the shop 
for her mother's commission, and there had 
been tempted by a roll of bright-colored pink 
ribbon, which was lying on the counter, and 
had taken it and hid it in her pocket; but, 
being seen by one of the men of the shop, had 
been at once seized, the ribbon produced, and 
vShe herself taken by a policeman to the jail. 

The shopkeeper, as an excuse for his harsh- 
ness, said that he had been so constantly 
robbed of late by children, that he had told 
his men to be on the look-out, and little Mar- 
garet, whose first offence it certainly was, be- 
came the victim. 

Father Nugent comforted the poor mother 
as much as he could, by pointing out to her 
that this fright might be most useful to the 
child as a check to her vanity, and expressed 
the hope that the magistrates would treat the 
case leniently, and probably give her a nom- 
inal punishment. But the magistrates, like 
the tradesman, had become alarmed at the 
enormous increase of thefts among children, 
and so, as a warning to others, in spite of the 
good character given her in court, condemned 
poor little Margaret to five years' imprison- 
ment in a reformatory. 

This hard sentence completely broke the 
poor mother's heart, although she was con- 
soled at finding that her child was to be sent 
to the Sisters of Charity at Sheffield, of whose 
kindness she had often heard. Father Nugent 
wrote also to the superior, giving her all the 
details of the child's history, so that, in conse- 
quence, the Sisters were most careful that she 
should not be brought in contact with their 
bad or hardened cases, and by placing her with 
their nicest children, she should have every 
chance of growing up a good and virtuous 
girl. Their care was rewarded. Margaret, 
who was always quick and intelligent, repaid 
the good Sisters by a devotion, a progress in 
her studies, and a good conduct, which made 
her an example to the whole school. 

But her poor mother never recovered the 
shock of her child's disgrace, and died soon 
after Margaret's arrival at Sheffield, leaving 
her to Father Nugent' s care, who faithfully 
promised to look after her when the time of 
her detention was at an end. 

The five years passed quickly. Margaret 
had grown up a nice, strong, modest-looking 
girl, a favorite with the Sisters and with all 



ig2 



The Ave Maria, 



lier companions, when one day Father Nu- 
gent knocked at the door of the reformatory, 
and asked to speak to the Sister Superior. 
Margaret's time of detention was over, and he 
wished to consult the superior as to her fu- 
ture. The Sister strongly urged him to take 
her to America, as he was just starting for 
New York, adding that she felt sure he might 
recommend her anyv^here, as she had given 
them nothing but satisfaction ever since she 
came into the house. 

Margaret herself was delighted at the idea. 
She had no happy recollections of lyiverpool, 
and, being an orphan, with no brothers or sis- 
ters, had no ties or friends to leave there. So, 
joyfully making up the little trousseau which 
the Sisters had provided for her, and feeling 
no sorrow, save in the parting with those who 
had been so kind to her, she embarked with 
Father Nugent and several other emigrants, 
and arrived safely in New York. There she 
was placed in a convent till a nice situation 
was found for her as assistant teacher in a 
large school. Here she remained for two or 
three years, giving every satisfaction to her 
employers, and especially to the good priest 
under whose care Father Nugent had placed 
her, and who wrote to him from time to time 
to give him tidings of her. After this she 
married a man of good fortune, and a practical 
Catholic, and with him went to the West, and 
settled at St. I^ouis. Then Father Nugent lost 
sight of her, and, having so many other chil- 
dren on his hands, Margaret and her history 
faded from his mind. 

In 1879 he again started for America on a 
like charitable errand. After having settled 
his business, and gone to visit several of what 
he called his ' ' old children ' ' in their happy 
homes, he was returning to England, and 
stopping with a friend of his at New York for 
a day or two on the way, when he was told by 
the waiter of the hotel that a lady wished to 
see him. He asked the name, but it gave him 
no clue as to who it could be; so he simply 
told the waiter to show her into the drawing- 
room, and he would come and see her. He 
went accordingly, and found an elegantly 
dressed young lady, who threw herself at his 
feet, and, seizing his hand, exclaimed: 

* ' Father, do you not know me ? I am your 
little Margaret, your Sheffield Reformatory 
child, whom you brought to America ten years 
ago." 



Delighted at the meeting, the good Father 
made her sit down and tell him her history. 
It seemed that after she and her husband had 
been some little time in St.I^ouis, a fire broke 
out in the hotel where they were staying. 
Her husband had thrown himself from the 
window in his fright, and though he had es- 
caped burning, he broke both his legs, and was 
so seriously injured that he died shortly after. 
Margaret, returning to New York, took a situ- 
ation in a large dry-store warehouse, where 
she got on admirably, and earned a large sal- 
ary; but, finding that the close confinement in 
a store began to affect her health, she gave it 
up, and determined to try some other employ- 
ment. She attended a course of lectures, and, 
having greatly improved herself, she opened 
classes for young ladies, which prospered so 
well that she was now quite comfortable and 
independent. 

Father Nugent' s pleasure at her success 
may be easily imagined. She insisted on his 
taking some money for his other poor chil- 
dren; and, as he was sailing the next day, she 
went on board before him, and filled his cabin 
with fruit and flowers, and everything she 
could think of to add to his comfort during 
the voyage Father Nugent found that she 
had always continued a fervent Catholic, and 
was most active in all works of charity in her 
parish. But her gratitude to him knew no 
bounds. 

"Where should I have been. Father, but 
for you ? ' ' she went on saying, and begged 
him to remember her specially to the kind 
Sisters at Sheffield, who had given her the 
training to which she owed so much of her 
success. 

"I could only thank God," said the good 
Father, humbly, when telling me the story, 
' ' who had so blessed the means He put in my 
way." 

But will not the little Margaret's soul be 
hereafter one of the brightest gems in his 

crown ? 

♦ ♦ » 

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 

Our hearts, in glad surprise, 

To higher levels rise; 
The tidal waves of deeper souls 
Into our inmost being rolls. 

And lifts us unawares 

Out of all meaner cares. 

— Longfellow. 




~-->^^^po^^<^^^-^^ 



\0L. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, AUGUST 28, 1886. No. 



[Copyright :— R«v. D. 

An Ancient Miraculous Picture of the 
Blessed Virgin. 




CCORDING to a most reliable tra- 
dition, the first Christians were so 
ravished with the virginal beauty 
of Mary's countenance, and the reflection 
of the divinity which beamed from it, that 
they felt a strong desire to procure as perfect 
representations as possible of this master- 
piece of creation. Hence the veneration felt 
for certain paintings of the Blessed Virgin, 
which are supposed to have been handed 
down from the days of the Apostles. Among 
the number is a representation of Our I^ady 
of Mt. Carmel. 

On procuring this admirable portrait of 
heir Heavenly Patroness, the hermits of 
!^armel placed it in a sanctuary which they 
lad built in her honor after her glorious 
issumption into heaven. The sanctuary, or 
:hapel, stands on the very spot where the 
loly Prophet Elias, nine hundred years 
)efore, had seen arising from the sea a mys- 
^^rious cloud, which prefigured the Immac- 
ate Conception, and the future glory of 
,iie Mother of God. 

I Whatever may have been the origin of 
ns picture, one thing is certain; namely, 
lat from the time it was first exposed to the 
ueration of the people it was the instru- 
ont of many notable miracles. The numer- 
s pilgrims who came to invoke the assist- 
jice of Mary at this shrine never departed 
lithout experiencing the efiects of her in- 



E. HOKOK, C. 8. C] 

effable goodness. Who can count the tears 
that good Mother has dried, the sick she has 
healed, the imfortunate she has succored? 

But, alas-! while the fervent religious of 
Carmel applied themselves with the great- 
est zeal to increase devotion towards their 
august Patroness, they incurred the hatred 
of the Mohammedans, and were subjected 
to all sorts of persecution. Not a few of 
them generously sacrificed their lives for 
the glory of Mary. History has preserved a 
touching episode of their martyrdom. On 
the approach of the enemy they took ref- 
uge in the sanctuary, chanting the Salve 
Regina. The Mohammedans burst open 
the doors, fell upon their helpless victims, 
and slaughtered them without mercy. The 
pious religious, crowned with the palm of 
martyrdom, concluded in heaven the hymn 
begun upon earth. 

But what became of the miraculous pict- 
ure amid so many disasters? It was saved 
by some of the religious who had escaped 
the general massacre, and carried to Naples, 
where it became an object of great venera- 
tion. The exiled monks founded at their 
new home another Carmel, which in a short 
time bore a striking resemblance to the 
beautiful one of the Holy Land. Their first 
care was to place the miraculous picture 
over the main altar of the church. Here the 
Madonna was not slow to manifest her ma- 
ternal power and goodness; she performed 
several miracles, and her sanctuary was 
soon thronged by pilgrims, whose number 
seemed to increase daily. 



194 



The Ave Maria, 



The devout King of Naples, not wishing 
to be surpassed in piety by his subjects, as- 
sembled together those of his kingdom who 
were suffering from malignant diseases, had 
the nature of their infirmities carefully 
attested by skilful physicians, and then 
ranged them around the miraculous picture. 
In company with the Queen, the nobility, 
and the people, he went to the Church of the 
Carmelites at an appointed hour, to invoke 
publicly the intercession of Our Blessed 
Lady in behalf of the sufferers. In presence 
of all, he first caused ih^proces verbal of the 
physicians to be read, after which, in union 
with the multitude, he offered up a prayer, 
fervent and humble, to the throne of Mary. 
Suddenly a ray of celestial brilliancy burst 
through the roof and rested on the head of 
the Madonna, thence radiating in softened 
beams over the awe- stricken invalids. At 
the same instant all their infirmities van- 
ished like mist before the sun — all without 
exception were perfectly cured. 

To this prodigy was added another no 
less marvellous. At the moment of the 
strange occurrence the bells of the church 
rang out of their own accord, as though to 
proclaim the incomparable goodness of the 
Queen of Heaven. The assembly, trans- 
ported with joy, went about the city singing 
hymns of thanksgiving; the happiness of 
the King was inexpressible ; those who had 
been cured loudly extolled the greatness of 
Mary, and the whole city was filled with 
rejoicing. Thenceforward the concourse of 
pilgrims to the holy shrine became much 
larger; at every hour of the day, and fre- 
quently of the night, persons of all condi- 
tions — cardinals, bishops, priests, rich and 
poor-— could be seen journeying towards 
the miraculous sanctuary. The numerous 
ex-votos of gold and silver surrounding the 
picture formed a magnificent crown, and 
incessantly proclaimed the mercy of the 
Queen of Carmel. 

But another and a greater manifestation 
of Our Lady's goodness was in store for the 
devout Neapolitans. As is well known, in 
the Ages of Faith a Jubilee was an event of 
a life-time. Pilgrims flocked to the Eternal 



City from all parts of Christendom, to ex- 
piate their faults and strengthen their faith. 
The Mother of God chose one of these fa- 
vorable epochs (the year 1500) to dazzle the 
world and gladden the hearts of the faith- 
ful with an exhibition of her maternal 
tenderness. 

The pious inhabitants of Naples rightly 
believed that they could not better secure to 
themselves the benefits of this time of grace 
than by making a pilgrimage to Rome, 
under the auspices of the Madonna of Car- 
mel. Decorating the picture with gold and 
precious stones, and placing it under a mag- 
nificent canopy, the pilgrims set out on the 
5th of April, preceded by the miraculous 
Virgin, in whom all had unbounded con- 
fidence. During the journey the fervor of 
the people found expression in liturgical 
chants and hymns of praise in honor of | 
their Heavenly Patroness. I 

On leaving the city the procession en- 
countered a cripple lying on the side of the 
road. Hardly had he seen the Madonna of 
Carmel than he was seized with an irresist- 
ible desire to join the pious multitude. ''0 
Mary ! " he cried, ' ' heal me, that I also may 
go and perform the Jubilee! " In the same 
instant he arose, full of new life, and proved 
a living testimony of the goodness of Our 
Immaculate Mother. News of this miracle 
spread in every direction, and the afflicted 
were brought from all quarters and laid at 
the feet of the Madonna, who graciously 
bestowed health and vigor on all. In the 
different cities and towns through which 
the procession passed, the bells rang out 
from every steeple, saluting the Holy Vir- 
gin on her journey with their gladsome 
chimes. 

The rumor of these wonderful events, 
reached the ears of the Sovereign Pontiff,! 
and as the procession entered the gates oi 
the city (April 13) his Holiness, followed 
by the cardinals, the clergy, and the people 
came to receive the holy picture, and coni 
vey it to St. Peter's. It was immediatel) 
surrounded by an immense concourse of thf; 
faithful, all of whom sought to pay homag'i 
to the Virgin of Carmel. Mary responde(! 



I 



The Ave Maria. 



19s 



1 ) this demonstration of piety and confi- 
( ence by showering blessings on all who 

uelt at her feet. The other churches 
^ ;hich had been assigned for the gaining of 
t lie Jubilee, also had the honor of receiving 
c' visit from the miraculous Madonna, and 
i 1 each, it is said, was witnessed a repetition 
cf what had occurred at St. Peter's. 

The Neapolitans, having finished their 
devotions, left Rome April 18, and with joy- 
fil hearts returned as they had come, pre- 
ceded by their beloved Patroness, and chant- 
ing hymns of praise. On the 25th of the 
same month they arrived at Naples, where 
the Madonna of Carmel was received amid 
enthusiastic shouts of gladness. The news 
of the many miracles performed during the 
pilgrimage spread rapidly, and made a lively 
impression on all minds. The miraculous 
picture, having been replaced on its throne, 
became the object of renewed love and ven- 
eration. 

After these extraordinary events copies 
of this painting were exposed in all the 
churches of the Order of Carmel, and, need- 
less to remark, they were soon encircled 
by a multitude of eager supplicants. The 
faithful having earnestly petitioned for 
j copies of the picture for private devotion, 
I they were soon spread far and wide. And 
Our Lady of Mt. Carmel was pleased to listen 
as graciously to the prayers addressed to her 
before them as she had to those offered be- 
fore the miraculous painting itself. 

In this favorite representation of the 
Mother of God, she is seen holding the In- 
fant Jesus in her arms. An expression of 
lieavenly benignity is spread over her coun- 
tenance, and she seems to be meditating on 
md revolving in her heart the great mys- 

eries that God had revealed to her. The 
ittitude of the Divine Child is singularly 

ouching; His right hand lovingly rests on 
^is Mother's face, while the fingers of the 

eft gently hold up the folds of her mantle. 

ie seems to say to all that approach Him: 

' See how I love My Immaculate Mother! ' ' 
The other details of the picture are in 

dmirable harmony with the perfection of 

h^ countenance. The Madonna is envel- 



oped in a long mantle, her head surmounted 
by a crown; on tlie right shoulder can be 
seen the star, whose mysterious signification 
is so well applied to Mary. Later on, the 
Scapular was placed in her hands, — a wor- 
thy expression of her maternal goodness 
towards all mankind. 



The Master's Lesson. 



BY ANGELIQUE DE lyANDE. 



TpHEY brought to Jesus in the market-place, 

^ As He the people taught, 

A fallen woman, on whose once fair face 

Sin had its image wrought. 
Proud Pharisees were they, and thus spoke one 

Of stern and lowering brow: 
"By Moses^law this woman must be stoned; 

Master, what sayest Thou ? ' ' 

The Saviour stooped, and wrote upon the 
ground, 

As though He had not heard; 
Close and still closer pressed the accusers 
round. 

Yet answered He no word; 
At last He rose, and calmly looked at them 

(The woman bowed her head) ; 
"If there be one among you void of sin, 

Cast the first stone, ' ' He said. 

Again He stooped and with His finger wrote. 

As He before had done; 
Abashed they stood, and from His presence 
strode 
Silently one by one. 
Then to the trembling sinner at His feet 

He spoke, in accents mild: 
' ' Do none condemn thee ? " " No one, Lord, ' ' 
she said. 
"Neither do I, My child. 

"Go, sin no more, and I will make thee white 

As in thy life's first dawn." 
Weeping vShe kissed His feet, then turned 
aside, — 

That hour a saint was born. 
Such is the lesson from the Gospel page; 

Blessed are they that heed, 
And learn of Him, whose boundless love for- 
bade 

To break the bruised reed. 



196 



The Ave Maria. 



With Staff and Scrip. 



BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 



V. — Damascus/ 'Pearl of the East." 

OVER THE Lebanon. — Beirut, that had 
at first disappointed me, grew more and 
more lovely as our diligence slowly as- 
cended the green hills to the east of the 
town. The cafes were crowded with loung- 
ers, and the suburbs were crowded with 
cafes. Very gay was the long road winding 
over the lycbanon, where groups of pleasure- 
seekers continually nodded to one another 
in the rich glow of the sunset. 

M , my comrade, in whom I put all 

my trust, sat up in the coupk close to the 
driver, with very wide-open eyes, and the 
keenest possible ears. I stowed myself away 
in the cosiest corner of the cabin, sharing 
the well-worn cushions with a proud-lipped 
Mohammedaft, who was returning to his 
beloved and blessed Damascus. 

The darkness of the night deepened rap- 
idly; long before we had gained the sum- 
mit of the Lebanon pass the lights of many 
a village glowed softly in the thick shad- 
ows of the valleys far below us. We climbed 
two thousand feet into the air, all the while 
casting our eyes back upon the lurid sea in 
the west, where the young moon trembled 
for a moment and sank into the waves. The 
lamps were hung out upon our high box; 
the horses, three abreast, were changed 
every hour. We bowled on at a lively pace 
over one of the finest of turnpikes — the 
product of French enterprise — and for most 
of the way we had it all to ourselves. We 
dozed between times, but woke at the fre- 
quent stables, where there was over-much 
chattering, smoking, coffee-drinking, and 
unnecessary delay. 

On the crest of the mountain a bitter cold 
wind blew right into our faces; I wonder 
that the outside passengers did not freeze. 

M was on guard all night, and kept 

rousing the driver, who would have slept 
like a child but for his passenger's impa- 
tience. After a season, through which we 



seemed to have been dragged by the eye- 
lashes, the tardy dawn began to tint the 
hill-tops. We counted the stations on our 
fingers, hoping that each ridge we climbed 
might be our last — as, of course, one of them 
ultimately proved to be, and just at sun- 
rise we plunged into a glorious green grove. 
This famous wood reaches to the foot of the 
desolate, sun-parched mountains, and pene- 
trates the ravines to the depth of a mile or 
more. 

Down one of the leafy gorges we hastened. 
There was a sound of gushing waters on 
every side; they flowed beneath us in swift, 
dancing currents; they were heard above 
our heads, rushing through aqueducts built 
into the steep walls of the ravine; again 
and again the brimming tide overleaped the 
airy channels and fell headlong, a cataract 
of golden dust. Every leaf was glossy in 
the sunlight; arrows of flame shot through 
the dense boughs over us; and out of the 
shimmering haze that floated beyond the 
mouth of the ravine sprang clusters of 
jewelled minarets, like fairy lances tipped 
with diamonds. The exquisite odor of blos- 
soming citron perfumed the air; the call of 
the mite 2 sin rose like a triumphant song, 
clear, high, and full of confidence. As far 
as the eye could reach there were billows 
of foliage tossing and sparkling in the re- 
splendent light of the new day. 

This is the vision the Prophet saw after 
the weariness of the desert. Foot-sore and 
faint with travel, Mohammed stood upon the 
heights above Damascus, and was ravished 
by the beauty he behehl. Then he said: 
"But one paradise is allowed to man; I 
will not enter mine in this world,-' and so 
saying he turned back into the wilderness, 
and pitched his tent there. I am inclined 
to think that the Prophet was right, for he 
doubtless delighted his soul ever after with 
*the memory of that vision ; had he entered 
the city, much of its seeming loveliness 
would have vanished like the mirage. 

Within the Gates. — No sooner had 
we come to the city walls, and been wel- 
comed by an indolent company of Damas- 
cenes, than one of these laid hands upou 






The Ave Maria. 



197 



1 s, and bore us straight away to Dimitri's 
J [ospice. Dimitri, a portly Greek, and like- 
^ rise a monopolist in the landlord line, re- 
<.2ived us at the needless-eye of his ancient 
gad stately house. It was as yet too early 
for the great gates to be swung open, giv- 
iig free access to the fountained and col- 
umned court, so a hinged panel in one of 
tie gates was unlocked for us; we stepped 
high and bowed low, and thus passed 
tlirough the eye of the needle — than which 
it were easier for a camel to follow our lead 
than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom 
of Heaven. 

The kingdom of Dimitri's paradise is 
four-sided and two-storied. The quadrangle 
is all a glare of white marble, often enough 
glistening with the spray of overflowing 
fountains. The citron, the orange, and the 
lemon seek to veil somewhat the dazzling 
court, but the golden globes that cluster 
thickly in the fine dark shadows of the 
leaves are themselves but so many balls of 
fire. Dimitri's was originally the palace of 
a wealthy Damascene, and it is not a bad" 
specimen of native architecture. 

The reception-room, with a single door, 

is divided in three — that is, to right and 

eft are floors raised a couple of feet above 

he central third portion, and these are ap- 

)roached by steps; the middle third is level 

vith the court from which it is entered, 

,ud is richly tiled, and ornamented with a 

parkling fountain; splendid and very lofty 

eilings give dignity to an apartment that 

s but scantily furnished. Persian rugs are 

trewn about carelessly and profusely; a few 

hairs, ottomans, and a low divan on two 

ides of the room invite the weary to re- 

ose. Here the guest unwinds his nargileh^ 

ad mocks the murmurs of the fountain 

ith long draughts at his bubbling pipe; 

'hile at a clap of the hands swarthy, tur- 

aued servants appear noiselessly at the 

3orway, and are eager to proffer, on the 

ightest provocation, delicious sherbet, or 

mouthful of the unrivalled coffee of the 

ast in the most diminutive of cups. 

The finer houses of Damascus are inhab- 

-d by Jews, and they are too often ex- 



amples of shocking taste ; the lavish decora- 
tion reminds one of the ornamental pastry 
of which the saloon cabin of an American 
river-steamer is constructed; but while in 
the one case it is plaster and paint, in the 
other it is rare marble and fine gold. 

One day, exploring the Jewish quarter, 
under the guidance of a young Hebrew of 
distinction, we were shown through stately 
courts, musical with fountains, and dusky 
with the shade of vines and shrubs. Nearly 
always on one side of the court there is a 
three- walled chamber — the fourth side is 
open to the court — where deep divans, 
heaped high with cushions, beguile the 
languid in the heat of the day. From this 
alcove you enter the stately hall of the 
house. It is shown by the host and hostess 
with ingenuous eagerness; one might al- 
most imagine that the elaborately carved 
and magnificently upholstered furniture 
were on sale, and the hosts, perhaps, look- 
ing toward a bargain. Various members of 
the family gather, and regard you curiously 
as you taste of the always-proffered coffee 
and sweetmeats. A little conversation is 
attempted in Italian, but, as Arabic is the 
language of the people, they seldom speak 
any other. 

In nearly every Jewish house of any 
magnitude there is a private synagogue, and 
in one of these synagogues we were shown 
a splendidly illuminated manuscript copy 
of the Old Testament, done in Bagdad five 
hundred years ago — an almost intermina- 
ble parchment coiled upon a massive silver 
cylinder, and enclosed in a precious casket 
studded with gems. 

As we wandered about these marvellous 
old palaces we were followed by troops of 
women and girls, mounted on wooden pat- 
tens twelve or fourteen inches in height. 
Some of these pattens were beautifully in- 
laid with pearl and gold, and they are worn 
continually to protect the feet from the cold 
marble pavements and the dampness in the 
courts of the fountains. The faces of the 
women were painted so gaudily that one 
could hardly believe they imagined they 
had heightened their beauty; their dresses 



198 



The Ave Maria. 



were showy and tasteless, and their manners 
so simple that they seemed to us little short 
of silly. 

The young men were, for the most part, 
strikingly intelligent, handsome and agree- 
able. The Jewish lads are expected to 
marry in their eighteenth year, and conse- 
quently the thrice venerable city is filled 
with absurdly youthful couples, who are 
lodged in conspicuous palaces, in the midst 
of Oriental gardens, where their lives are 
suflfered to pass like a dream, in voluptuous 
indolence. 

Abd-kl-Kader. — It was in one of these 
delectable mansions of Damascus, some- 
what fallen to decay, that I met the defeated 
lion of his tribe, Abd-el-Kader. As we en- 
tered the outer court — a very dismal one 
— two servants greeted us formally, and led 
the way to the court of the fountains. Here 
we were received by a slender, solemn- 
visaged dignitary, who extended to us the 
right hand of fellowship — a welcome un- 
looked for in the Bast, where a mere touch 
of the finger-tips is considered sufiicient 
evidence of cordiality, even among friends. 

This was El- Hadji- Abd-el-Kader- Ulid- 
Mahiddin, descendant of a Marabout fam- 
ily of the race of Hashem, who trace their 
pedigree to the caliphs of the lineage of 
Fatima. It was he who in his eighth year 
made a pilgrimage to Mecca; who, with a 
highly-cultivated mind, was free from sav- 
age cruelty, as well as the sensuality of the 
Arab ; who was gentle and pure ; a religious 
enthusiast, prone to melancholy ; who won 
the affection, the admiration, the devotion 
of the fanatical tribes of the desert, and for 
some years was the life and the light of the 
Arabs; who was greater in his time than 
El Madi of yesterday, but who was at- last 
taken captive by the French, held a prisoner 
in France, yet ultimately permitted to retire 
to Damascus, where his career was brought 
to a quiet close among the wise men of the 
East, who paid him homage so long as he 
dwelt in their midst. 

It was a deposed Emir who gave us wel- 
come; a devout student of the Persian 
poets; the author of a religious work, a 



translation of which was published in Paris 
(1858) under the title, ''Rappel a V httelli^ 
gent: Avis a V Indifferent ^ He waved us 
forward; crossing the court; littered with 
leaves and having a forlorn and unkept 
look, we passed into the reception-room. 
It showed traces of former splendor; a foun- 
tain, the basin inlaid with marble and 
mother-of-pearl, played in the centre of the 
room; the floor was a rich mosaic; the walls 
of marble, with panels of mother-of-pearl; 
the ceiling set thick with mirrors of various 
sizes and shapes ; niches in the wall were all 
gilded, and all empty save one, where stood 
a slender vase, holding a large damask rose 
in full bloom. The furniture, placed in a 
row against the wall, was modern, conven- 
tional in pattern, and covered with blue 
chintz. 

Here we seated ourselves with the inter- 
preter. The Emir looked curiously at us. 
His was a very serious face ; his beard, dyed 
raven-black, was worn in the prevailing 
mode — pointed and rather long; his hands 
were well formed, his finger-nails neatly 
trimmed, and stained with henna; his bare 
feet were thrust into the loose, yellow over- 
shoes, such as are put off at the mosque door. 
He was clad in a lemon-colored sack, with 
the customary narrow brown stripe, which 
fell to his ankles ; over this was a loose blue 
outer robe, lined with light blue silk, and 
having an inner sleeve of purple. A large, 
white turban, embroidered with threads of 
pale gold, encircled his scarlet tarboosh. 

The visit was evidently a bore to him — 
how could it have been otherwise? Yet he 
endured it with Oriental resignation. He 
played with a soft white handkerchief em- 
broidered in colors, drawing it through his 
fingers over and over again; he made a ! 
round fluffy ball of it; spread it out care- 
fully upon his knees, and then caught it up, 
blew his nose loudly, and spat into it; he 
cracked his knuckles, inquired what part 
of the world we were from, and seemed in- 
formed upon the affairs of the several Gov- 
ernments. But his reign was over; like 
the caged eagle, he affected an indifference 
which, perhaps, he was far from feeling, i 



b 



The Ave Maria, 



199 



Orange water thickened with snow was 
s rved soon after our arrival, and a tiny cup 
c' coffee on our departure; but the host 
a )ologized for the non-appearance of the 
c istomary pipe. It was a day of abstinence ; 
f( r thirty days of the Mohammedan fast 
h ^ remained in a small chamber, in utter 
sditude, drinking little, eating less, and 
SMoking not at all. It was by the greatest 
favor that we saw him at all, and I was 
more th^n delighted when, at my request, 
he sent a dumb attendant for his ink-horn, 
and, while he held a slip of paper upon the 
palm of his left hand, he took a delicate 
brush, and, with the freedom and grace of 
an artist, wrote an autograph in arabesque, 
the very sight of which is a joy to the eye. 
He shook hands thrice at parting, follow- 
ing us to the outer gates, where six servants 
I bowed us a formal farewell, and proceeded 
ito conduct their venerable and venerated 
'master, tottering beyond his threescore- and- 
;ten, back into the privacy of his prophet- 
jchamber. 

The Book of the East. — As we rode 
me afternoon through the gardens of the 
nty, in a lovely path that picked its way 
mong the rushing streams, a solemn horse- 
nan approached us. The apparition was at 
irst startling; for the rider, clad in a long 
|loak of white merino that veiled him from 
ead to foot, seemed an image of death, 
Ibeit his steed was superbly caparisoned, 
nd his face — as much of it as was visible — 
'as the type of Oriental youth: proud, 
lacid, sensuous. He was followed at a 
ttle distance by a train of venerable men, 
ich one mounted like a prince in a fairy 
le, and all grave and grizzled. The singu- 
r procession passed slowly onward, under 
e trees, at sunset, toward the city gates ; 
id we learned, as the caravan silently dis- 
peared in the greenwood, like a ghostly 
•jmpany in a story of enchantment, that he 
led the band was the son of Abd-el- 
i^der, and that his followers were the 
?es and philosophers of Damascus, who 
been passing the day with him at his 
sjumer palace in the wood. 
3nly such picturesque riders as these 



Id 



were worthy to possess those romantic bri- 
dle-paths; and, somehow, as I rode down the 
narrow and winding ways that are forever 
losing themselves among the meadows 
that -girdle the city, listening always to the 
gurgle of gushing waters, pausing some- 
times beside full-throated fountains, or un- 
der boughs where the sun spins his web of 
gold; standing knee-deep in wild, rich 
grass, or buried up to my eyes in fragrant 
and flowering jungles, I had always in 
mind, as the most fitting thought in this 
garden of glories — indeed the garden be- 
came a kind of illuminated edition of the 
text — some perfect page of "Eothen." 

After more than thirty years of active 
service, during which time Messrs. Tom, 
Dick, and Harry, the reverent and the irrev- 
erent, male^nd female, wise and otherwise, 
have had their say in print or out of it — 
and I among the number, — "Eothen'' is 
still the one royal and unrivalled volume 
of the East. Poet and prophet, the author of 
' ' Eothen ' ' is to-day as fresh, as fair, as fault- 
less as at the hour when, radiant with the 
classic glow of the University, young King- 
lake astonished and delighted the world 
with. his revelation; for he seemed to have 
plucked out the heart of the mysterious 
East, and for the first time to have laid it 
bare to the eye of the unbeliever. 

I know not what magic lay in his pen, 
or if the necromancy of the East conferred 
upon his work a life immortal; but I do 
know from personal experience that, with 
my pocket copy of "Eothen" {Tauchnitz 
edition, to be had at any shop in Islamdom), 
with my unbound book — a mere bundle of 
loose leaves — in my hand, and my finger 
upon the very line, I have again and again 
tested its marvellous truthfulness to nature 
and to art; and you who know the volume 
need not be reminded of its perennial 
beauty. 

(TO be; continued.) 



Judge of nations by their peasantry; the 
nobles are everywhere nearly alike. — Fa- 
ther Tracey Clarke^ S.J. 

Nothing is so positive as ignorance. 



200 



The Ave Maria, 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



IX. 



"MY 



Y dear,^^ said Mr. Thornton one day 
his wife, ' ' you know more than I 
do about such matters, but I can not say I 
like the way things are going on between 
Constance and Philip. ' ' 

Mrs. Thornton looked at her husband 
with rather a curious glance. She did not 
herself think that things were ''going on" 
at all between Constance and Philip, but 
she did not care to say as much. 'After an' 
instant she asked, evasively : ' ' What do you 
mean ? " 

' ' I should think you would see what I 
mean! " replied Mr. Thornton, a little im- 
patiently. "Do they have anything to do 
with each other — have they advanced one 
step toward arranging the matter for which 
we are both anxious ? As far as my obser- 
vation extends, Constance has that fellow 
Bellamy constantly dangling about her; 
and Philip — I don't know what Philip does 
with himself, but he certainly does not de- 
vote his time or his attention to her. ' ' 

"No, he certainly does not," said Mrs. 
Thornton, coldly. "And therefore you can 
not blame Constance for letting Jack Bel- 
lamy or any one else enjoy her society. You 
surely do not expect her to devote her at- 
tention to Philip when he gives no sign of 
desiring it?" 

Pride of sex and pride of family both 
lifted the lady's head as she asked this 
question, and lit a spark in her eyes, which 
her husband understood. 

"Well — no," he answered, after a slight 
hesitation; "of course one could not ex- 
pect that. But we shall have her wanting 
to marry Bellamy or some other fellow if 
affairs go on as they are at present. Some- 
thing must be done. I must speak to 
Philip." 

He looked at his wife as he uttered the 
last words, as if half-expecting her to dis- 
suade him, as she had done some months be- 



fore. But Mrs. Thornton, who really wished 
for the match, realized now that "speaking 
to Philip" was a necessity. As time went 
on it had become more and more apparent 
to her that, so far as Philip was concerned, 
Constance might marry Bellamy or any one 
else. She had looked for him to come for- 
ward of himself, but he had not come for- 
ward. He was either the most confident or 
the most indifferent of suitors — if that term 
could possibly be applied to a man who had 
never even begun to offer suit. 

Sometimes Mrs. Thornton's pride rose in* 
arms when she looked at Constance, in all 
her delicate beauty, and thought how dif- 
ferently she should be wooed; and when 
she saw other men burning incense at her 
shrine, and contrasted their devotion with 
Philip's indiflference, her heart grew wroth 
against the latter. But this feeling did not 
generally last very long. She reminded 
herself that his intercourse with Constance 
was so much more that of a brother than 
of a lover, that he could not be expected to 
display the ardor of devotion which other 
men exhibited. Nevertheless, the fact that 
he had formidable rivals must, she thought, 
force itself upon his apprehension; yet it 
seemed to lend no energy to his proceed- 
ings. Did he think that Constance was se- 
curely his whenever he chose to throw the 
handkerchief? Mrs. Thornton hardly dared 
ask herself what Constance thought, but 
she knew well that if matters remained 
unchanged much longer, Constance might 
give her heart to some other man, and all 
hope would be over of the match which her 
husband and herself so much desired. 

It was plainly necessary, therefore, that 
Philip should be spoken to, and she was 
glad that Mr. Thornton announced his in- 
tention of doing so. She had perceived the 
necessity for some time, but it was not for 
her to take the initiative. When he looked 
at her, consequently, as if asking her opin- 
ion, she said: 

"Yes, it really seems necessary. He 
either does not share your wishes, or he 
is strangely ignorant of the fact that no 
woman, especially a woman so much ad- 






The Ave Maria, 



2or 



mired as Constance, will tolerate indif- 
ference. I could not blame her if she an- 
nounced any day that she had accepted 
another man." 

"But / should 151ame her!" cried Mr. 
Thornton, growing red at the bare sugges- 
tion. ' ' She ought to know — she ought to 
understand. As for Philip, he shall hear 
some very plain words from me." 

' ' Take care ! ' ' said his wife, warningly. 
"Remember that you have never distinctly 
expressed your desire to him, therefore you 
have no right to call him to account. Speak 
to him kindly, put the matter in an amiable 
light, and I am sure he will at once consent 
to gratify you. ' ' 

"I have no doubt of that," said Mr. 
Thornton, significantly. "A pretty case it 
would be if he did not consent. A beautiful 
wife and a fortune are not things that are 
offered to a man every day. ' ' 

It was on the next day that these two 
very desirable things were offered to Philip. 
It chanced to be Sunday again, and when 
Mr. Thornton, following his usual custom, 
retired to the library after luncheon, he 
summoned his nephew to accompany him. 
Philip, a little surprised, but nowise loath, 
complied. As he entered the room, how- 
ever, some malign influence brought to his 
mind the other occasion when he had been 
there with his uncle — when he had rashly 
introduced the subject of the Percivals, and 
made an appeal which proved fruitless. The 
recollection of his disappointment came 
back to him with force, although he knew 
now that no other result of such an appeal 
had been possible. He stood by the hearth, 
looking down as he had done before, and 
thinking of Alice Percival, when Mr. Thorn- 
ton's voice suddenly roused him. 

"I have something of importance to say 
to you, Philip, ' ' he observed ; ' ' but I do not 
think it is likely to be a surprise to you." 

Philip looked up. His head was so full 
of the Percivals that he absolutely fancied 
jhis uncle might be about to speak of them. 

"I can not assure you on that point until 
[ know what it is," he answered, with a 
luick gleam of intere:^t in his eyes. 



Mr. Thornton, who had seated himself in 
a large chair by 'the library table, regarded 
him for a moment without speaking further. 
He was proud of the young man ; his looks 
and bearing, his social success and fine 
manners, all pleased him, and he felt a keen 
sense of gratification in thinking what a 
bright destiny he was about to unfold to 
him. It did not occur to him to regard 
Philip as in any respect an independent 
human being. He was so connected in his 
mind with his own prosperity, as the per- 
son who would exhibit and adorn it, that 
he was unable to conceive him in any other 
relation or position. When he went on 
speaking, it was in a tone that seemed to 
take everything for granted. 

"You must be aware," he said, "that I 
wish you-to marry Constance. Your aunt 
and myself long ago set our hearts on the 
match ; and if I have not spoken to you on 
the subject before, it was because she was 
quite certain it would arrange itself. But, 
in my opinion, there is nothing like mak- 
ing things sure, and therefore I want you 
to understand that it is time the thing was 
settled. Constance has too many men in 
her train for delay to be safe, and you— 
why should you wait?" 

"Why should I wait?" repeated Philip, 
blankly. He was so much surprised that 
for a minute he could hardly collect his 
thoughts. Of course he had known his 
uncle's wishes — that was true enough — but 
of late they had passed out of his recollec- 
tion altogether. Brought thus abruptly face 
to face with them now, he was unable to 
grasp a single consideration bearing upon 
them. 

' ' Yes, ' ' said Mr. Thornton, ' ' why should 
you wait? You are old enough to marry. 
You do not mean" — frowning quickly — 
' ' that you have any objection to the plan ? ' ^ 

"I hardly know what I mean," Philip 
replied, truthfully. "I have never thought 
seriously of the matter, and I am very sure 
that Constance has not either." 

"Then it is time for you both to begin 
to think seriously of it, ' ' said Mr. Thornton ; 
"that is why I have. spoken. A thing so 



202 



The Ave Maria. 



important can not be dealt witli in this 
haphazard fashion. Of course, the first step 
must come from you. You must offer your- 
self to Constance. A woman expects so 
much, you know." 

*' Well — yes,'- said Philip, who thought it 
a reasonable expectation. Then he paused 
and looked down again. To accept a mar- 
riage with Constance as a distant possibility 
in his thoughts, and to have it thus immedi- 
ately pressed upon him, were, he found, two 
very different things. He was astonished 
by the reluctance which suddenly seemed 
to take possession of him. He felt like a 
man who is dragged to the brink of a prec- 
ipice, and whose impulse is to draw back 
with all his strength. Mr. Thornton, watch- 
ing him, divined his reluctance, and felt 
his anger rising. 

''Will you kindly tell me what is the 
meaning of this?" he asked, in a tone of 
ominous coldness. "Why are you so slow 
to give me the assurance that you will 
fulfil my wishes and offer yourself to Con- 
stance ? ' ' 

"Because," said Philip, lifting his head, 
"it strikes me that it is a matter which 
concerns me so much more than any one else 
— except Constance — that I am bound to 
give a little time to reflection before taking 
such a step. ' ' 

Mr. Thornton's face grew dark. Opposi- 
tion always angered him, but opposition 
from Philip, and on this point, was some- 
thing he had so little counted on that it 
seemed to him intolerable. However, he 
remembered his wife's counsel, and with an 
effort controlled himself — or at least he 
controlled the outward expression of his 
inward irritation. 

' 'And pray, ' ' he said, sarcastically, ' ' what 
do you want to reflect upon? Is not Con- 
stance the most admired girl in Riverport, 
— a girl whom any man might be proud to 
win, — a girl to do you credit to the end of 
her life? And do you not understand that 
I wish this marriage in order that I may 
leave my fortune undivided, and so secure 
to you a future as prosperous as a man 
could desire?" 



"Yes," said Philip, "I understand, and 
thank you deeply. It is like the rest of 
your kindness to me. As for Constance, 
she is all that you have said. But^ my dear 
uncle, marriage is a very serioUs affair, and 
if one enters into it in haste, one may, you 
know, repent at leisure. ' ' 

' ' What point has that stale saying in this 
connection?" demanded Mr. Thornton, 
with stern impatience. "What haste has 
there been? Am I not speaking to you now 
on account of your delay ? You have known 
Constance for years, you have been closely 
associated with her for months : what more 
can you desire?" 

Philip felt that there might be much 
more to desire, but he was rather at a loss 
how to say so. He lifted his eyes, and by 
chance they fell on one of the few religious 
pictures in the house — a fine engraving of 
the Mado7ina di San Sisio. He looked at it 
for a moment, while a multitude of thoughts 
came into his mind; then he turned and 
looked at his uncle. 

' ' You forget one thin^r, ' ' he said. ' ' Con- 
stance and I are not of the same religion." 

Mr. Thornton stared. He knew that his 
nephew had retained his faith, but he had 
supposed that it sat very lightly on him, j 
and such an objection as this was the last j 
that he could have anticipated. 

"And what has that to do with it?" he 
asked after a moment. 

"A great deal, in my opinion," Philip 
answered. ' ' I am not a very good Catholic, 
but I hold the truths of faith, and I should 
like my wife to hold them also. It seems 
to me that there could be small assurance 
of harmony in a household where there was 
not sympathy on the most important sub- 
ject connected with human life." 

"Has there not been harmony in this 
household?" asked the elder man, rather 
hotly. ' ' Yet your aunt is a Protestant, and 
I—" 

He paused, and, despite himself, changed 
countenance with the consciousness that 
he had gone too far. What, indeed, was he? 

' ' Do you, ' ' said Philip, quietly, ' ' consider 
yourself a Catholic ? ' ' 



The Ave Mar 



?.a. 



203 



''I was a Catholic when I married," he 
eplied; "and if I have since given up the 
Church, it has been for no reason connected 
vith my marriage. When two people are 
sensible, their disagreeing in opinion on 
;;uch a subject does not matter in the least." 
■'That depends very much on the way 
le looks at it," said the young man. 
think it would matter exceedingly to 

Then you are a fool ! ' ' said Mr. Thorn- 
n, losing control of himself in the inten- 
.sity of his irritation. "If you persist in 
vshackling yourself with a faith which is a 
bar lo your worldly success in every way, 
you should be glad to conciliate public opin- 
ion by marrying a Protestant — a girl whose 
family connections are irreproachable and 
calculated to do you great service in the 
future. Let me hear no more of such folly. 
If this is your only objection, it is not wor- 
thy of a moment's consideration. Under- 
stand that my mind is made up on the 
subject of this marriage. Either it must 
take place, or my intentions toward you will 
be greatly changed. ' ' 

"I should have preferred that you had 
left that unsaid," replied Philip, Avho now 
looked a little pale, as if the strain of the 
interview was telling on him. "What I 
would not do for the sake of gratifying you, 
who have done so much for me, I should cer- 
tainly not do through the fear of any change 
in your intentions toward me. With re- 
gard to the proposed marriage, I divined 
your wishes long before this, and accepted 
them without consideration, thinking th^t 
in time Constance and myself might make 
a match. But to think of a thing as vaguely 
possible in the future is very different from 
having it held before one as an immediate 
necessity. You must forgive me if I can 
not give you at once the assurance that you 
ask. In that which is so important — that 
j which concerns my whole life — I must take 
a little time for reflection." 

How much time?" asked Mr. Thorn- 
ton, bruskly. 

"A few days would answer, I suppose," 
aid Philip, reluctantly. 



"Very well, then," returned the other; 
"in a few days — in. a week at farthest — I 
shall expect to hear your decision. The 
delay seems to me absolutely useless. A 
girl might be guilty of such absurdity as 
not to know her mind at the last moment, 
but a man — However, I will consent to 
this delay on the ground that it is the last. ' * 
(to be continued.) 



Ctcbt un^ aBdrmc. 



^er beff're OJlenfd) tritt in bie 2BeIt 

"^ 3[Rit fro^Iid)em ^^ertrauert; 

6r glaubt, tt)Q§ il)m bie (5ee(e fct)we(It, 

3luct) auBer [ic^ 311 fcl^auert. 
Unb it)eit)'t, noit ebiem @ifer warm, 
^er 2Bft^rl)eit feinen treuen %xm. 

II. 
^o{^ SllleS ift fo Mein, fo eng, 

^at er e§ erft erfnt)ren, 
Ta fud)t er in bem SBeltgebrdug' 

©id) felbft mir 311 beraabren; 
2)a§ ^er,^, in falter, ftoljer jHul), 
S(i)Uefet enblid) fid) \>n Siebe p. 

III. 
©ie gebe'n, o.&)\ nid)t immer @(nt(), 

Xer 2BaI)r^eit t)eUe ©tra^Ien. 
3So^l benen, bie be§ 9Siffen§ @nt 

5Rid)tniit bem ^erjen ^allien. 
3^rnm i(iaaxi ju eu'rem fd)onften ©liicf 
ajiit Sd^rodrmer? (Srnft be§ 2Beltmann'§ 531id. 

— Schiller. 



[translation, by j. p. r.] 
Light and Heat. 



The upright man steps into life • 

With confidence elated, 
Trusts that with which his soul is rife 

By all's participated; 
And then, with noble ardor warm, 
To Truth he consecrates his arm. 

II. 
That everything is narrow, slight, 

By him is soon detected; 
Then seeks he, that in worldly fight 

Himself is well protected; 
In colder, haughtier pulse, his heart 
Bids lyove forever thence depart. 



204 



The Ave Maria. 



III. 
Alas! no heat always give forth 

Truth's brightest radiations. 
'Tis well for those whose wisdom's worth 

Heeds not the heart's pulsations! 
Complete success, combined attain 
Th' Enthusiast's zeal, the Statesman's brain. 



Palms. 



BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 



CHAPTER XVI.— (Continued.) 

THE Pontiff granted Nemesius' prayer, 
and without delay administered the 
holy rite, whose regenerating waters are of 
that "River of Life" that St. John* saw 
proceeding from the throne of God and the 
Lamb. From that mystical moment the 
Holy Ghost entered into the cleansed tab- 
ernacle of the man's soul, kindling therein 
the fire of charity, which consumed the dross 
of his nature, and by a miracle of grace 
made him indeed a new creature in Jesus 
Christ. 

As the days passed by, the neophyte, be- 
ing in frequent intercourse with the Pontiff, 
quickly learned the needs of the persecuted 
Church, and how to relieve her. suffering 
members, and console where he could not 
save. Self was forgotten ; daily among the 
dwellers in the Catacombs, visiting in se- 
cret the poor abodes of the miserable in the 
byways and corners of the proud city of the 
Caesars, and out in the dilapidated huts on 
the beautiful Agro Romano, he distributed 
his substance to the hungry, the naked, the 
sick, and did not fail to visit the prisons, as 
directed by the Emperor, but in a far dif- 
ferent spirit from the command. 

As his name was, still a power, Nemesius 
had an opportunity to check, in a degree, 
much of the brutality to which the Chris- 
tian captives were subjected, to comfort 
them by charging himself with the support 
of their helpless families, among whom 
were little children and those whose age 
made them dependent, — all left destitute by 
the imprisonment of their natural protec- 



tors; and, by means of gold, he succeeded,, 
through a trusted agent, to secure the mu- 
tilated remains of the martyrs for secret 
burial, or, when possible, had them con- 
veyed into the Catacombs for interment. 
His zeal was tireless, and such was his 
fervor that he was soon admitted to assist 
at the Divine Sacrifice of the Altar; then, 
shortly after, followed the heavenly ban- 
quet of the Most Holy Eucharist, which 
filled his soul with divine sweetness, re- 
newed his strength, and fanned his charity 
to a brighter flame. 

Nemesius was ready to avow his faith: 
his old instincts as a soldier made him wish 
to do so; but the suffering Church needed 
his services; for, not yet suspected, and hav- 
ing free access to the prison^, he had, as 
already shown, countless opportunities to 
comfort and aid those condemned to suffer 
for the faith. When admission was denied 
to all else, it was he who, with adoring love, 
bore upon his breast, wrapped in richest 
cloth of gold, the consecrated Hosts, to 
the condemned criminals, — the Heavenly 
Bread that would ' ' refresh them by the tor- 
rent, " — their Holy Viaticum * in the sharp, 
bitter conflict they were to pass through to 
the embrace of Him for whose glory they 
were to suffer, and from whose nail- pierced 
hands they would receive eternal crowns 
and palms of rejoicing. 

The gloom of the prisons was of great 
assistance to Nemesius in his ministrations 
of mercy, even had the guards kept close 
watch on his movements, which they did 
not; for what was there to fear from the 
great commander of the Imperial Legion, 
who bore the Emperor's seal, and was doubt- 
less come on some secret errand? 

The Pontiff Stephen wished to ordain 
him priest, but from this high honor his 
humility shrunk, and he was made deacon. 
Can we tealize that this is, indeed, Neme- 
sius, the proud commander, the laurel- 
crowned soldier, no longer in glittering ar- 

* Nemesius was not alone in the practice of the 
good works described ; there were others besides 
himself and the wife of Tertullns, who were not 
suspected of being Christians, likewise engaged. 






The Ave Maria. 



205 



nor, no more leading his legionaries under 
:he Roman eagles to fresh conquests, no 
onger listening to an applauding Senate, 
md standing on the right of the curule 
:hair, the honored favorite of an Emperor, 
—this Christian in the garments of peace, 
vhose chosen haunts are the Catacombs and 
e prisons, and whose sole occupation is 
t of a servant of the needy and afflicted? 
Yes! this is the noble patrician, the he- 
'oic military leader, the reserved, haughty 
pagan gentleman, whom we knew as Neme- 
sius; but how changed! For in those days 
of tribulation when one embraced Chris- 
tianity he came out in deed and in truth 
from among the wicked and the ungodly; 
the lines were drawn in blood, and they were 
as much divided and apart as they will be 
on that dread day \(^hen Christ comes to 
judge the world. 

In the two weeks since his conversion 
how much had been crowded into the life 
of Nemesius can be imagined from the 
brief outline given, — so much and so real 
in its essence, that his past seemed like a 
dream, and it was only now that he truly 
began to live. Every day or two he went 
to his vill$i on the Aventine to embrace his 
child, and, when having ascertained that 
all was well with her, to confer with Sym- 
phronius,who was faithfully executing the 
tasks assigned him,. 

All the idolatrous images had been re- 
moved from their niches, shrines, and ped- 
estals, to the vaults under the villa, where 
they were destroyed, and afterwards cast 
into the limekiln. Some of them were of 
ancient Greek workmanship, and, as ideals 
of art, were unsurpassed and of priceless 
worth ; but Nemesius knew that they were 
the conceptions and symbols of a false relig- 
ion, and that their perfection was inspired 
by the belief that the deity represented by 
1 master-hand in marble would inhabit the 
5tatue, if it were found worthy of the honor, 
md be worshipped through the ages. * 

Thus we see that the greatest and most 
leathless works of pagan as well as those of 

^ St. Augustine speakvS of this in his ' • City of 
od." 



Christian art were inspired supernaturally 
— the first by an Idolatrous, the latter by a 
holy and divine faith. 

Admetus proved himself a doughty icon- 
oclast in the work of destruction. To lop 
off a nose, shave off an ear, strike off one 
at a time the arms and legs of these gods 
of stone, who had received divine honors, 
and still smelt of the spices and Eastern 
gums that had smoked before them, and 
then, with a swinging blow of his axe and 
a hearty "Bravo!" knock the exquisite 
torso to splinters, afforded him the most 
intense satisfaction. ' ' So perish, ' ' he would 
say, as each one was demolished — "so per- 
ish the demons, and all other enemies of 
the dear Chrishisf'' 

Frequent and sweet had been the con- 
ferences between the noble Matron Camilla 
and the fair young daughter of Nemesius, 
whose mind, illumined by the love of Him 
whose Holy Name her bosom enshrined, 
received the instructions with docile, un- 
questioning faith. To her simplicity and 
innocence, her swift progress in the super- 
natural life was incomprehensible, even 
had she dwelt upon the mystery; for the 
restful joy it brought her, and the love it 
deepened, sufficed without knowledge con- 
cerning the operations of grace, which ma- 
turer minds seek to understand. Was it 
not of such as she that Christ spake in these 
words: "Unless you be converted, and be- 
come as little children, you shall not enter 
into the Kingdom of Heaven" ? 

Whenever Camilla paid her accustomed 
visit, Zilla did not wait to witness the loving 
welcome she received from Claudia; it was- 
more than her sensitive, jealous affection 
could bear; but, leaving them together, she 
stole away silently, to brood over the evil 
days that had fallen upon her, and the fate- 
ful hour which she knew boded danger and 
death to the child of her heart. 

Presently strange visitors presented them- 
selves at the villa gates, such as had never 
found admission beyond the stately en- 
trance before, — visitors without "sandal or 
shoon, ' ' who^e vestments were soiled and 
tattered, — men and women broken down. 



2o6 



The Ave Maria, 



with toil and poverty; some of them de- 
crepit, and almost as helpless as the little 
children beside them; all wearing a look 
of patient sorrow on their wan, hungry 
faces. They were not turned away, as would 
have been the case a short while before, 
but brought in, refreshed and fed. Who 
were they? They were the gleanings of 
Nemesius in the bloody harvest- fields of 
the Lord; the destitute ones, left, by the 
martyrdom and persecution of their natural 
protectors, to the compassionate care of the 
faithful. 

Old Symphronius was in the secret, also 
Admetus, who guided them to the villa, 
and, to a certain extent, Claudia, who was 
told that they were the suffering children 
of the Chilis tus^who loved them, and would 
receive all that was done for their relief as 
done unto Himself This was enough to 
send her like an angel among them, with 
sweet, pitying words, and such little min- 
istrations of kindness as their sorrrowful 
plight suggested. She bathed the faces and 
bleeding feet of the little children, and fed 
them out of her own hands, winning them 
to smiles by her pretty ways; then made 
Zilla turn things upside-down in her own 
chests and closets in search of raiment to 
cover them, and what was lacking in fitness 
she at once ordered to be purchased. 

Zilla was nearly frantic with disgust and 
anger; she was sure that Claudia would get 
some deadly fever or other disease by con- 
tact with such a miserable set, and besought 
lier to forbid their coming, or at least not 
let them come near the villa to contaminate 
the air, but be fed at a distance by the 
slaves. That was the pagan way; but the 
child, even when she held a cup of cold 
water to the pale, trembling, parched lips 
of an aged person, who was too far spent to 
lift it himself, did it for the love and sake 
of the dear Chris tus^ and found therein too 
much happiness to answer Zilla' s stern in- 
sistence more seriously than to throw her 
arms around her neck, and, with her own 
sweet laugh, say: "Do not scold, madre 
bellal Do I not feed my doves, and some- 
times Grillo, just for fun? Why, then, 



should I not feed these hungry ones, who 
have none, to care for them? They are the 
children of One I love; how, then, can I 
turn them away empty ? ' ' 

Finding remonstrance useless, Zilla went 
to Symphronius, and gave him a very em- 
phatic piece of her mind for his laxity of 
discipline, as guardian of the estate, in per- 
mitting beggars, who doubtless brought 
infection with them, to enter the gates, 
especially when he saw how Claudia was 
bewitched by them, so that she could not 
keep away while they remained. ' ' Truly, ' ' 
she added, ''have we fallen upon strange 
and evil days! To be blind was happiness 
compared with what has followed sight." 

"I have orders to let the car a donsellina 
have her will," answered the old steward, 
looking up a moment' from some long rows 
of figures he was working out. 

' ' I will speak to Nemesius himself Men 
do not consider the harm that comes of 
over-indulgence to the immature. It is 
something new, indeed, for a patrician child 
to be allowed to mix with such a rabble," 
she said, with flashing eyes. 

' ' He will be here this evening, ' ' was all 
that Symphronius said, and she withdrew. 

True to her word, Zilla sought an oppor- 
tunity to explain her grievance to Neme- 
sius. He heard her patiently, knowing what 
good reason she had, from her standpoint, 
for all she urged, and understanding well 
that love for his child inspired it; so, with 
a great pity in his heart, and a silent prayer 
for her conversion, he answered, briefly but 
kindly : 

"It is my wish and her happiness that 
these unfortunates should continue com- 
ing." 

The poor woman made no response — un- 
less the sigh that forced itself from her heart 
might be called one, — and, folding her pale 
hands on her bosom, her old gesture of sub- 
mission, she left his presence. 

On every side her love for the child, who 
from its birth had been to her as of her own 
flesh and blood, was cast back upon her; a 
wall of separation, as transparent as air, but 
as impassable as adamant, had risen be- 



The Ave Mi 



ana. 



207 



tween them; she felt that in all the strange 
things that had so lately happened, and the 
many changes they had brought about, she 
was no longer necessary to the one only 
human being that she loved, and her proud, 
faithful heart was breaking. But she re- 
laxed no tender service she could render; 
her vigilance was almost sleepless, lest the 
danger she dreaded might come without 
word or warning. And,^ because she loved to 
hold Claudia near her, and see her bright, 
beautiful face dimpled with smiles, she cut 
out and helped to make garments for her 
*' beggars ' ' ; and because — perhaps this was 
the primary reason — the child would be ex- 
posed to less danger of infection if the mis- 
erable wretches were clad in fresh, clean 
raiment, the good nurse grew zealous to get 
off and repbce their soiled tatters with good 



clothing. 



(to be continued.) 



A Prayer of St. Bernard to the Blessed 
Virgin. 



THE necessities of the Church in these 
troubled times seem to become more 
and more urgent. With grave reason has the 
Holy Father prescribed special prayers to 
be said to the patrons of the Church, and es- 
pecially to the Immaculate Mother of God. 
It seems a favorable moment to bring to 
light a hitherto unpublished prayer to Our 
lyady, uttered by the orreat Doctor, St. Ber- 
nard. It was, in fact, an outpouring of his 
heart at the close of one of his sermons on 
the Assumption. May these fervent words, 
uttered by thousands of lips full of faith 
and zeal for the interests of the Church, 
obtain its eventual triumph, and a lasting 
peace ! 

ORATIO S. BERNARDI AD B. VIRGINEM MARIAM 

PRESENTIBUS ECCLESI.E NECESSITATIBUS 

ACCOMMODATA. 

Ave, Virgo Immaculata, sine labe original! 
concepta. Te gratia plenatn confitemur. Te- 
cum Dominum semper fuisse gaudemus. Te 
Matrem divinae^gratise factam Isetamur. Sit 
igitur pietatis tuae, Virgo benedicta, ipsam 
quam apud Deum gratiam invenisti, notam 
facere mundo, reis veniam, medelam aegris, 



pusillis corde robur, afflictis consolationem, 
periclitantibus adjntorium et libera tionem, 
Ecclesiae pacem et tranquillitateni, Sedi Apos- 
tolicse de haeresi, schismate atque impietate 
triumphum Sanctis tuis precibus obtinendo. 
Ac nobis quotidie dulcissimum Marise nomen 
cum laude invocantibus servulis et filiis tuis 
atque ad thronuni tuum cum fiducia acceden- 
tibus, per te, Regina clemens, gratis suae' 
munera largiatur Jesus Christus Filius tuus 
Dominus Noster, qui est super omnia Deus 
benedictus in saecula. Amen. Ave Maria! 
Ave Maria! Ave Maria! 

[Translation.] 

Hail, Immaculate Virgin! conceived with- 
out sin, we salute thee full of grace. We re- 
joice that Our Lord has ever been with thee, 
and that thou hast been made Mother of Di- 
vine Grace. Let us, then, feel the effects of thy 
charity, O-Blessed Virgin! and manifest to the 
world the grace thou hast found before God by 
obtaining, through thy holy prayers, pardon 
for the guilty, health for the sick, courage for 
the weak, consolation for the afflicted, help 
for those who are in danger, peace and tran- 
quillity to the Church, and to the Apostolic 
See triumph over heresy, schism, and impiety. 
We declare ourselves thy humble servants 
and children, and every day invoke with 
praises thy sweet Name, O Mary! having re- 
course with confidence to thy throne. Deign, 
we beseech thee, O merciful Queen! to fill us 
with thy grace, and to intercede for us with 
thy Son, Our Saviour Jesus Christ, the Su- 
preme God, blessed forever and ever. Amen. 
Hail Mary! Hail Mary! Hail Mary! 



The "Ave Bell.' 



The Universe {London}). 



\ PROPOSAL made some time ago to dis- 
i\ continue ringing "the eight - o'clock 
bell "at Minster, in Thanet, elicited a strong 
protest from a Protestant antiquarian, Mr. 
Robert Bubb, of Minster, which was followed 
up by some historical remarks from a Catholic 
writer, who sends us the following: 

It is quite refreshing in this dull, iron age 
of ours to hear a voice of protest against the 
material influences which would have us 
break with the poetical associations of the 
past; and Mr. Bubb should be thanked for his 



208 



The Ave Maria, 



emphatic protest against the discontinuance 
(on the ground of petty economy) of a time- 
honored custom — that of ringing the church 
bells at eventide. This custom, he points out, 
dates from immemorial time, and is a token of 
Minster's claim to historical prestige. 

The curfew, or Vesper-bell, was a useful civic 
institution, so universally adopted in mediae- 
val Europe that Pope John XXII. determined 
to convert it into an ordinance of the Church. 
We accordingly find him, in the year 1327, 
granting an indulgence to all who should say 
at the ringing of the curfew three "Hail 
Marys" in honor of , the Incarnation of Our 
Divine Saviour. In England it was usual to 
say once the "Our Father" and five times 
the " Hail'Mary," as we learn from the con- 
stitutions of Archbishop Arundel, in the year 
1 399- '^he Archbishop enjoined this com- 
memoration of the Incarnation to be made 
night and morning, and the church bells to 
be accordingly rung twice each day. He in- 
forms us that he does this at the request of his 
newly-crowned sovereign, Henry IV.; and he 
grants an indulgence of forty days to all mem- 
bers of the Church of England performing 
this devotion. (" Wilkins," tom. iii., p. 246.) 

Now, at Sandwich and at Ash, in the im- 
mediate neighborhood of Minster, this bell 
was rung daily at five in the morning and at 
eight in the evening; and it is quite clear that 
the five a. m. bell could have nothing to do 
with the curfew, or couvre feu. Archbishop 
Arundel's enactment supplies us with the ex- 
planation of it; and we have further evidence 
of the Incarnation or Angelus bell being rung 
thrice a day, and of the Archbishops of Can- 
terbury and York, with nine other English 
bishops, on the 26th of March, 1492, granting 
forty days' indulgence for the aforesaid Ave 
prayers. (See "Our Lady's Dowry," pp. 216- 
218.) 

It was no less a ruffian than Thomas Crom- 
well, the lay Vicar- General of Henry VIII., 
who- forbade the peal of the Angelus, or Incar- 
nation chime, so that "the knolling of the 
^27^5, which has been brought in and begun by 
the pretence of the Bishop of Rome's pardon, 
henceforth be omitted." (See "Our Lady's 
Dowry," ut supra.) 

At Minster, however, there yet exists a 

splendid bell, bearing this inscription, in late 

Gothic characters : ' ' Hol}^ Mare, pray for us. ' ' 

"This is now the fourth and evidently the old- 



est bell in the tower, and its inscription would 
lead us to infer that it was the old Angelus: 
bell, otherwise called the Gabriel bell, from 
the holy Archangel who appeared unto the 
lowly Virgin Mother at her home in Nazareth, 
and greeted her with ' ' Hail , full of grace ! The 
Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst 
women! " 

The Church took up and perpetuated this 
strain of the Angel Gabriel; for she has ever 
been impressed with the essential co-opera- 
tion of the Blessed Virgin in the Mystery of 
the Incarnation; and in Merrie England of 
bygone days the joyous "Ave Bell" chimed 
forth a simple and constant reminder to the 
faithful of the mystery of divine love, which 
brought down from heaven Emmanuel. 

It has been urged in argument by Angli- 
cans that they have possession of the Old 
English churches, and that therefore they are 
the faithful of the Old English Church. Faith- 
ful, indeed ! Why, the very bells ring out their 
condemnation with ' ' Holy Mary , pray for us ' ' ; 
while empty niches of discarded saints, rood- 
lofts stripped of their crucifix. Lady Chapels 
dishonored, consecrated altar-slabs (as in St. 
^Clement's, Sandwich,) turned into church 
paving-stones, all these seem to answer with 
one accord: Yes, the material fabric of the 
Old Church of England is yours; but the faith 
of Old England, you have it not. Nescimus 
vos! — "We know you not." 



Catholic Notes. 



Mgr. Billere, Bishop of Tarbes (France), 
has issued an admirable Pastoral Letter rela- 
tive to the apparitions and miracles of Our 
Lady of Lourdes. In words full of unction 
and piety, the Bishop recounts the facts of the 
apparitions, the strict canonical investigation 
to which they were subjected, the wonderful : 
spread of the devotion throughout the Catho- | 
lie world, and the many notable marks of en- I 
couragement shown by the Sovereign Pontiffs \ 
Pius IX., of glorious memory, and Leo XHI., | 
now happily reigning. Referring to the hold | 
which the devotion to Our Lady of Lourdes 
has taken upon every heart within a little 
more than a decade of years, tjhe Bishop says: 

" The number of pilgrims and visitors during" 
the last eighteen years amounts to at least ten 
millions. Whilst processions are too often inter- 



I 



The Ave Maria. 



209 



< icted elsewhere, at Lourdes they succeed one 
fc lother with great pomp, They come from every 
1 art of the world, traversing seas, hastening 
1 ither on the wings of steam; the day beholds 
"t leir immense and harmonious lines advancing 
T. oder the shadow of the Cross, gay with banners, 
•a id bearing the images of the saints ; night looks 
d Dwn on the torches of the multitudes, like endless 
b mds of fire eclipsing the stars of the firmament, 
Thousands of believers chant sacred canticles, 
pray, communicate, and transform the Grotto into 
J&. vestibule of paradise. During these eighteen 
years, 1,784 processions, or great organized pil- 
grimages, have brought to the bajiks of the Gave 
•o:ie and a half million souls from France, and 
30,000 from Spain, Portugal, Belgium, Holland, 
England, Switzerland, Germany, Italy, Hungary, 
the United States, and Canada. Among them 
were princes and kings, even of Protestant coun- 
tries, attracted by the renowm of Our Lady of 
Lourdes, many of whom paid repeated visits to 
this holy spot. Some pilgrims came on foot, not 
onl}^ from the distant provinces of France, but 
from Alsace, Switzerland, Italy, and even Hun- 
gary. These were poor women and humble re- 
ligietises,vAi.o lived on alms during their long and 
painful journey. We contemplate with especial 
admiration the great processions of men exclu- 
sivelj' — an army of 70,000 soldiers of Christ. They 
proudly bore their banners; their breasts were 
covered with crosses and medals; they recited 
their chaplet or sung the Credo. The world, be- 
holding these new Crusaders, exclaims : ' The age 
of Voltaire has passed away ; Our Lady of Lourdes 
has destroyed human respect!' 

' ' Our epoch introduces a practice hitherto un- 
known in the Church — processions of the sick. 
Poor, for the most part, and dependent on charity, 
often incurable, sometimes at the point of death, 
they are conveyed by hundreds from every prov- 
ince of France and Belgium. Railway cars become 
ambulances, and the Grotto an immense infirm- 
ary. Tears must flow at this spectacle worthy of 
mgels. While the Hospitallers exert themselves 
;o relieve all these infirmities, all these miseries, 
housands of pilgrims kiss the earth, and pray, 
jvith their arms outstretched in the shape of a 
ross, during entire days and a great part of the 
light. These fervent aspirations are often inter- 
upted by the Magnificat, announcing a miraou- 
OTis cure." 

The Letter concludes as follows: 
' The will of the Holy Father, which he has 
)een pleased in a personal interview to repeat to 
IS with his own lips — this sovereign will has 
>een accomplished, as far as circumstances and 
'arious obstacles have permitted. By the care of 
ur venerable predecessor and by our own, in- 
uiries have been made, testimonies heard, all the 
etails of the apparitions have been religiously 



collected; the cures already'examined are to be 
still more rigorously investigated by learned 
physicians. We have instituted a commission, 
presided over by us, and composed of priests best 
calculated to ascertain and appreciate the facts. 
Physicians and other competent persons will as- 
sist us to confirm and, if need be, to complete all 
inquiries, and to examine all writings relating to 
Our Lady of Lourdes. 

* ' With our whole heart, in the name of the Holy 
Father, in the name of the Immaculate Virgin,' 
we appeal to ever3^one who can furnish a new 
document, who can co-operate in any manner to 
Mary's glory. We appeal to historians and poets, 
scientists and orators, to recount, sing, study, 
analyze; that the miracles and benefits of Our 
Lady of Lourdes may be exalted. Let her, with 
Jesus, be glorified in the multiplicity and variety 
of her evangelists, her apostles, and her doctors. 
Let all hands and all hearts concur in building up 
this great monument in a manner worthy of her, 
so that it may manifest her glory to all nations 
and to future ages. Glorified by her children, 
our all-powerful Mother will introduce them into 
the palace of her eternal glory; and for earth she 
will obtain the peace promised to men of good 
will." 

•A pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of 
Martyrs, Auriesville, N. Y., took place on the 
Feast of Assumption. The pilgrims num- 
bered several thousands, and were under the 
leadership of the Rev. Fathers Loyzance and 
Dewe}^, S.J. The shrine is the scene of the 
martyrdom of the saintly Father Isaac Jogues, 
S. J. , Rene Goupil, and Indian converts in the 
seventeenth century. 

• The room at the Gesu in Rome inhabited by 
St. Ignatius, the founder of the Society of 
Jesus, was crowded with devout visitors on 
the occasion of his feast. The convent is now 
used as a barrack for Italian carbineers, but 
the hallowed chamber itself, converted into a 
chapel, has thus far escaped profanation. Here 
St. Ignatius lived and died, and here St. Fran- 
cis Borgia expired. At this altar St. Charles 
Borromeo celebrated his first Mass, and St. 
Francis of Sales also offered up the Holy Sac- 
rifice in this spot. It was here that St. Philip 
Neri came to converse with St. Ignatius. The 
walls of the chamber are covered with auto- 
graphs, including those of St. Ignatius, St. 
Francis Xavier, and other servants of God. 

In an excellent article on the temperance 
question contributed b}- the Rev. F. M. Ryan, 
of Dublin, to The Irish Ecclesiastical Record^ 



2IO 



The Ave Alarm. 



the writer urges the practice of inducing chil- 
dren to take the pledge, at least till they are 
twenty-one years of age; and the establishing 
of societies in every parish, where young men 
may meet for lawful recreation, amusement, 
and instruction. In closing the atticle, Car- 
dinal Manning is quoted as stating that " in 
England the vice of intemperance slays each 
year sixty thousand persons, and is the source, 
directl}^ or indirectly, of seventy- five per cent, 
of the crimes committed. ' ' Father Ryan , very 
justly commenting on this appalling fact, says: 
' ' We grow pale at the mention of a visitation 
of cholera; the world applauds the man who 
is said to have found the cure for hydropho- 
bia. But hydrophobia, terrible as it is, is a 
comparatively rare disease; and no visitation 
of cholera anywhere ever swept to the grave 
60,000 people. But this moral and physical 
plague, intemperance, stalks the land, not un- 
known to us, but almost unheeded; and its 
track is marked by ruined homes, by the cries 
of little ones left destitute, by broken hearts, 
by young lives of fairest promise blighted, by 
deaths that appall, and by thoughts of ac- 
counts for sins to be rendered to the Great' 
Judge, so vast and so unrepented of, that all 
hope is crushed. I have striven thus to raise 
a very feeble voice in face of the calamity, but 
many men and stronger must swell the cry, 
and put hand and heart in the work, if the 
evil is to be abated." — The Catholic Standard 
{Hobart, Tasmania). 



other vision; the glorified soul came to an- 
nounce his release, and to thank the nun for 
her share in his deliverance. From that hour 
her health was completely restored. 



The Sisters of Holy Cross, whose Mother 
House is at St. Mary's, Notre Dame, Ind., have 
just opened an academy for young ladies at 
Woodland, California. It is called the "Acad- 
emy of Our Lady of the Holy Rosary, ' ' and, 
with its large, commodious building, and all 
the comforts and conveniences necessary to 
the well-being — mental, moral, and physical 
— of its inmates, it begins its career under the 
brightest and happiest auspices. The high rep- 
utation which the Sisters of Holy Cross have 
earned for themselves as educators in their 
numerous academies and schools throughout 
the country is a sufficient guarantee for the 
successful issue of this new undertaking, in 
which they have the best wishes of all true 
friends of education. 



The Duke of Orleans, eldest son of I^ouis 
Philippe, was killed, as may be remembered, 
by jumping from his carriage while the horses 
were running away. The fact was supernat- 
urally revealed to a nun of the Carmelite Con- 
vent at Tours, of which frequent mention is 
made in the lyife of the ' ' Holy Man of Tours. ' ' 
She was told that the Prince was in purgatory, 
and asked for prayers. The superiors directed 
her to offer all her prayers, fasts, etc., for the 
unhappy soul. The broken-hearted Queen, 
who had almost dreaded that her son was lost 
for eternity, was greatly comforted on hearing 
of the revelation, and from that moment she 
redoubled her prayers and alms. Immediately 
after the vision, the holy Carmelite's health 
broke down, and her sufferings became acute; 
but she never relaxed in fervor, and continued 
to macerate her body to appease the anger of 
God. At the end of sixteen years she had an- 



All the papers in the country. Catholic as 
well as secular, which have alluded to the 
arri\5al of the Rev. Augustus Tolton in this 
country, have erred in stating that he is the 
first colored priest ordained for the American 
missions. When the saintly Bishop Kngland 
ruled the Church in Charleston, S. C, he or- 
dained a colored man for that diocese; but 
race prejudice was then so strong that he (the 
first colored priest of the United States) went 
to France, where he labored in the ministry 
to the end of his life. Mention of this fact is 
made in the works of Bishop England. — Cath- 
olic Knight. 

Obituary. 

"It is a holy and wholesome thoti^ht to pray for the dead." 

— 2 Mach., xii., ifi. 

We commend to the charitable prayers of our 
readers the following persons lately deceased: 

The Rev. Father Bergin, S. J., of St. Louis Uni- 
versity, deceased at the Jesuit Novitiate, Floris- 
sant, Mo., on the nth inst. 

Sister M. Stanislaus, O. S. B., whose happy 
death occurred at the Convent of the Annuncia- 
tion, Nebraska City, Neb., on the 7th of August. 

Miss Agnes Hartt, a devout Child of Mary, 
who calmly breathed her last at Waterford, N. Y., 
on the 17th of June. 

James Rhatigan and Rudolph Hertel, of New- 
ark, N.J. 

May they rest in peace! 




Many years ago — so many that 
the fathers and mothers of the 
little boys and girls who read 
this were, perhaps, children themselves — 
France was a very unhappy country. After 
many glorious victories, her brave soldiers 
were all slain or enfeebled by age and in- 
firmities, and the hostile armies, strong and 
numerous, took possession of the French 
territories. 

It was a time of sorrow and humiliation. 

Perhaps some of my young readers have 

heard tell of the sad events of those days, 

I and of the grief that filled the hearts of the 

people at seeing the oft-defeated enemy at 

jlast victorious. But this was not the only 

jaffiiction that fell upon the French. At the 

time of which I speak the harvest of wheat 

and other kinds of grain was meagre, and 

consequently bread was very scarce and 

dear. 

In the village of Vineuil, near Chantilly, 
there lived an industrious old soldier, with 
his wife and several children. The ordi- 
nary sources of employment being closed, 
the poor man found himself reduced to the 
inecessity of trying to earn a livelihood by 
i eking up dead wood in the for^t of Chan- 
iUy. All he could gather during the day 
le carried home on his shoulders at night, 
md sold to a good lady, who always paid 
lini cash. But, still, the little that he could 
|hus earn was not enough to feed and clothe 
limself and family, and so they all suffered 
rem hunger and cold. 
I Sometimes the mayor of the village gave 
he people orders on the baker. On a cer- 
lin evening, after receiving one of these 
rders, the soldier called his little boy An- 



drew, about eight years old, and told him 
to be ready next morning to go to Senlis, 
some three miles distant. The order was 
on a baker in that city, for the bakers at 
home had more than they could attend to. 
Andrew's bill entitled him to a pound of 
bread. It was very little for such a numer- 
ous family; but, then, it was worth nine 
cents, and was the most that could be given 
at one time, there were so many persons to 
be supplied. 

Early next morning Andrew set out on 
his journey, fasting; for the last morsel of 
bread had been consumed the evening be- 
fore. For some time he proceeded at a 
quick pace, but soon began to grow tired 
and weak. However, he renewed his cour- 
age by the thought of the distress of his 
parents and brothers, who would certainly 
die if relief did not come soon. Finally 
he arrived at his journey's end, exhausted 
from hunger and fatigue. 

When the boy had given his order to the 
baker's wife, who attended shop in her hus- 
band's absence, he sat down on the door- 
step, till those who had come before him 
were served. The woman then cut his por- 
tion of bread, and brought it to him ; but 
when she saw his sad, pale face, her heart 
was moved, and tears stole into her eyes. 
She was of a kindly disposition, and, having 
children of her own, knew how to feel for 
those of others. Taking the little fellow 
by the hand, she asked him where he came 
from. 

"From Vineuil," was the answer. 
"So far! Did you take any breakfast be- 
fore leaving home?" 
"No, ma'am." 

' ' Poor child ! And why not ? ' ' 
"Because, ma'am, we ate all we had last 
night. That is why I am here so early.'* 
And so saying he stood up to go. 



212 



The Ave Maria. 



"Won't you'stay a little longer, and rest 
yourself?" 

"Oh! no, ma'am; I can't delay, for my 
little brothers are all very hungry. " 

"And yourself?" 

"I'm hungry too, ma'am; but I'm older 
and stronger than they." 

"Well, wait a moment, dear." 

Andrew sat down on the step, thinking 
she had a message for him. 

In a short time the kind-hearted woman 
returned, with a large slice of bread, which 
she gave the little fellow, saying: " This is 
for your breakfast. ' ' But he hesitated, and 
lield down his head in silence. 

"Why don't you take it, my child?" 
asked the woman. 

"Because, ma'am, I have no money to 
pay for it." 

' ' But I don' t want payment, dear. I give 
it to you to eat, just as I would wish to have 
done to my own boy if he were as you are. 
Take it, my child; you'll please me very 
much." 

Andrew obeyed, saying: "Thank you, 
ma' am . May God reward you ! ' ' 

She expected to see him devour the bread 
immediately, but was surprised to observe 
that he put it away carefully with the loaf, 
and prepared to depart. 

"Why, what are you doing?" asked the 
woman. ' ' Eat it here, and I will bring you 
some water. It will strengthen you for the 
journey." 

Andrew blushed, became confused for a 
moment, and then said: 

"If you please, ma'am, I would rather 
carry it home, and share it with my poor 
mother and little brothers ; for I am sure it 
is more than their portion of the loaf will 
be." 

' ' Well, do as you like, my child. If Our 
Blessed Mother inspires you with such gen- 
erous sentiments, I will not oppose you 
further. But won't you take anything at 
all before going?" 

"I'll take the water, ma'am, please, be- 
cause I am very thirsty." 

She brought him some water, and, after 
thanking his kind benefactress, the little 



fellow began his journey homeward, full of 
courage. 

He did not, however, proceed very fast 
this time, but was obliged to rest now and 
then on the way. His hunger was becoming 
unbearable, and the delicious odor of the 
bread which he carried was a great tempta- 
tion. Of course he might have eaten his 
own piece if he liked, but to do so would 
destroy the pleasure which he anticipated 
from sharing it with his mother and broth- 
ers. Then, again, he remembered that the 
joy one derives from a good act is always 
great in proportion to what the act costs, 
and so he trudged onward much more 
bravely than many a strong man would 
have done in his place. 

On reaching home, he gave the loaf to 
his mother, who was awaiting him with 
great anxiety; but his own piece he hid 
under his jacket The pleasure of being able 
to give it had cost him so great a sacrifice 
that he surely had the right of increasing 
that pleasure by one of those innocent sur- 
prises which children so much enjoy. 

While the mother was cutting the loaf, 
which the half-famished little fellows had 
already devoured with their eyes, and of 
which there was only enough to make a 
scant meal for each, Andrew, without say- 
ing^a word, proudly drew out his own piece 
from under his jacket, and looked at it, as 
if he would say: "Oh! it's a trifle to me, 
but maybe some other poor fellow would 
be glad to have it." 

The sight of the extra slice was an oc- 
casion of great delight to his little brothers. 
Their eyes lit up, they clapped their hands, 
and shouted : ' ' Look, mamma ! look 1 Andy 
has more!" The mother turned around, 
gazed at her boy for a moment, and then, 
with a countenance denoting half fear, half 
gladness, she asked: 

' ' My child, what have you there? — where 
did you get if?" 

^ ' The woman at the bakery gave it to 
me, ' ' answered the boy, with some dignity. 
"She wanted me to eat it, but I told her I 
would rather carry it home, and she said I 
might do as I pleased. I wanted to bring it 



I 



I- 



The Ave Maria. 



213 



I ^ Hin 



o you, mamma; because I remembered that 
he loaf was very little for us all, and that 
he last time you divided one among us, 
/our own piece was so small that I had to 
}ry. Now we can each have a good slice, 
md leave enough for poor papa. • Please cut 
ny piece, mamma; for I am very hungry. ' ' 
The glad mother forgot the little fellow's 
nger for an instant, and clasped him to 
!r bosom in the fulness of her joy. She 
Hincerely thanked God for having given her 
so devoted and courageous a child. She 
thought herself no longer poor; and, in 
tTuth,what greater riches can a mother pos- 
sess than a self-sacrificing, generous-hearted 
son? 

What became of little Andy after this I 
have never heard. Whether he remained 
poor and illiterate like his honest parents, or 
found means to educate himself and grow 
rich — whether his path through life was 
strewn with flowers or thorns, I am unable 
to say. But of this I am certain: that he 
became a brave and virtuous man; that, no 
1 matter what his condition of life, he fotmd 
means of doing good by his self-sacrifice; 
that he was always blessed and loved as 
his mother had blessed and loved him ; and 
that, consequently, he knew what it was to 
be truly happy. 



Our Lady's Orphan. 



Little Messenger of the Sacred Heart. 

"Oh! mother, don't say you are going to 
die, and leave your little Charley all alone! 
Oh! mother, mother, don't say that! " 

It was a pitiful wail to come from the heart 
of a child, — a cry of desolation, which, after 
God, only a mother could understand in all 
the intensity of its anguish. 

Charley's mother was dying. Close beside 
her, on the poor bed on which she lay, the 
little boy had thrown himself, his curly head 
pressed fondly against his mother's cheek. 
With a feeble effort she drew the child to her 
bosom, to rest there, alas! for the last time. 

Xisten, my darling," she said. "God is 
indeed going to take me from you, but He is 
^ood, and loves us too well to leave my^boy 



desolate. His own Mother will take care of 
you; for remembef, dear, she is the orphan's 
Mother too. Do not cry so, Charley, my poor, 
poor child! " 

She kissed him tenderly. After a pause, 
broken only by the mother's labored breath- 
ing and the boy's sobs, the dying woman 
whispered: " You remember the story I told 
you about Our Blessed Lady appearing to a 
shepherd girl at Lourdes ? " 

Charley looked up, the answer shining on 
the earnest little face. 

' ' Well, my child, you know we are without 
friends or relatives, and have no money. 
When I am gone you must ask that good 
Lady to take care of you. Tell her your own 
poor mother left you to her. Kneel now, and 
repeat the words with me. ' ' 

"But where shall I find her, mother?" 
asked the little fellow, his eyes big with won- 
der, when he had risen from his knees. "Does 
she live in the Grotto at Lourdes ? ' ' 

"No, my child: Our Lady went back to 
heaven; but she hears us wherever we may be. 
When God takes your mother, Charley, you 
must go to Lyons; there are places in that city 
where kind people receive little orphans, and 
teach them to earn an honest living. Though 
you are but eight years old, you have a brave 
heart. Go without fear, and Our Lady will 
take care of you." 

The poor mother sank back exhausted. 
Soon the breathing became slower and more 
difficult. Once more she opened her eyes, and, 
resting them on her boy with a look of unut- 
terable love, she murmured: "Holy Mother 
of God, I am going! — my child, my child! — 
be a Mother to my child; he is thine now." 

A long, long pause. 

' ' How still she lies! ' ' thought Charley, and 
he checked his sobs. "Surely she has gone 
to sleep." Then, with the tears still stealing 
softly down his face, he nestled close beside 
her, and he too slept. But the child awoke 
again in a world of sorrow, while his mother 
had gone home to God. 

Alone and almost unnoticed, the orphan 
boy followed his mother to the grave, in which 
she was laid by stranger hands. To those 
who took the trouble to ask him what he 
was going to do, Charley replied that he was 
going to Lyons; so, doubtless thinking he 
had friends there, they went their way. But 
I when the poor child found himself all alone, 



214 



The Ave Maria, 



the full sense of his desolation burst upon 
hira, and, with a broken-hearted cry, he flung 
himself on the new-made grave. 

"Oh! mother, mother, come back!" he 
sobbed. "There is no one here to love me. 
Oh! what shall I do without you? " 

Then came the memory of his mother's 
dying words, and the last prayer he had said 
by her side. Raising his tear-stained face from 
the grave, he looked up to the smiling blue 
sky above him. "O dear I^ady of I^ourdes! " 
he cried, clasping his hands, "you are my 
Mother now; my poor dead mother gave me 
to you. Oh! take care of Charley! " 

Then, drying his eyes, full of trust in his 
newtMother, the brave little fellow kissed the 
grave where lay his one earthly friend, and 
took his lonely way to lyyons. 

Not far from the poor cottage in which 
Charley's mother died was a princely man- 
sion, all but hidden by the stately trees which 
surrounded it. Without and within every- 
thing' told of wealth and comfort. But here, 
too, the Angel of Death had spread his wings, 
casting a dark shadow over all. Servants, 
with awe-struck looks, tripped softly up the 
lofty staircase, whose velvet carpets would 
have hushed the heaviest tread; for in an 
upper chamber a child lay dying— an only 
child, and the last heir of an ancient house. 
A lady knelt by the bed in all the desolation 
of sorrow. The widow's robes clinging to the 
bent figure told their own sad story. Only a 
few months before Madame de Vignon had 
lost her loved husband, who died of consump- 
tion; now her son, her beautiful little Henry, 
was about to be snatched from her arms by 
the same dread disease. 

Costly toys lay scattered unheeded on the 
snowy coverlet; the burning hands sought 
only the mother's touch; the moans of pain 
which escaped the parted lips wrung the very 
soul of her who could not save him one single 
pang. 

"Mother, I can not breathe! Oh! mother, 
lift me up." 

"Spare him, my God! spare him!" she 
pleaded again and again, in her agony. * ' He 
is all I have left on earth; or if he must go — 
oh! take me too!" 

Suddenly a thought struck her. Everybody 
was talking of the apparition of Our I^ady at 
JyOUrd^s, and of the miracles wrought by her 



intercession. She would ask Our'^^I^ady of 
Ivourdes to restore her child. Raising the 
wasted Torm of her little son in her arms, she 
turned 'to; a statue or Our I^ady which adorned 
the room. " O sweet Lady of gourdes! " she 
cried, with aU the passionate pleading of a 
mother's love, "give health to my child — my 
only 'one — and'I promise to do for thee what- 
ever' thou wilt — anything — only save my 
boy!" 

But, alas! already the clammy dew of death 
moistened the sunny curls. The last flush had 
faded fromjthe little face, and the hands she 
fondly^clasped had grown icy cold. Henrj^'s 
pain was^over, once for all; her child was in 
the embrace of his Heavenly Father. 

The mother was frantic with grief, and re- 
fused all comfort. Her child was gone: what 
had she now to live for? She spent hours 
weeping in her desolate room, or wandering 
in lonely sorrow in the garden where he used 
to play. 

At last her faithful old attendant Kitty 
persuaded her to leave the house, where every- 
thing reminded her of her lost darling, and 
go to her early home, some miles away. That, 
too, was desolate ; but the change, Kitty 
thought, would at least rouse her from the 
stupor of grief into which .she was falling. 

Listlessly she consented. Every place was 
alike to her, who had no hope in life, she said. 

A day or two later, on a fair, sunny evening, 
the well-appointed carriage of Madame de 
Vignon might be seen winding its way amid 
the green hills that surrounded her ancestral 
home. The rays of the setting sun lit up the 
old muUioned windows, and tinged with a 
rosy glow a scene of surpassing loveliness. 
The sight of her native hills, and the vSoft calm 
of that peaceful evening, fell like a soothing 
balm on the heart of the grief-stricken woman. 
Desiring the coachman to follow slowly with i 
the carriage, she went on foot up a well- ' 
known path, which led to a pretty little shrine j 
dedicated to Our Lady of Lourdes. Suddenly, 
like the voice of an angel, the silvery tones of 
the Afigelus broke the stillness. As the last 
sweet notes trembled in the air, the lady 
fell on her knees, and, lifting up her hands, 
sobbed out: "O Lady of Lourdes! I prom- 
ised to do anything for thee if thou wouldst 
save my boy. God took him, but I will not 
take back my promise. Here I am! O Lady! I 
ask what thou wilt; behold thy handmaid! \ 






The Ave Maria, 



21^ 



ag 

i 



But, oh! have pity on the childless widow, 
and send her comfort. ' ' 

Then, reaching the shrine, she sank ex- 
hausted' on the step. Soon she perceived she 
was not alone. On the farther end of the step 
sat crouched a beggar-boy. Instinctively she 
drew back from the wretched, half-starved 
creature. As she did so the boy looked up 
timidly into her face. He seemed about the 
age of her own little son, and a feeling of pity 
;ole into her heart. 

"What are you doing here, child?" she 

iked. 

"Please, lady, I am only resting," was the 
ow answer. "I am so tired! I have been 
walking since morning, and have had nothing 
to eat. ' ' And the poor, forlorn child covered 
his face with his hands, and burst into tears. 

"Where are you going?" inquired Ma- 
dame de Vignon, interested in spite of her- 
self. 

* * I am going to Lyons, ' ' he replied, ' ' where 
they have homes for orphans. My own dear 
mother told me before she went to heaven to 
go there when she was gone." 

Again the thought of Henry made her 
glance at the child compassionately; but she 
could not bear the sight of the pale little face, 
and, throwing him a silver coin, she turned 
quickly away. 

"lyCt us go," she said to Kitty, who had 
now joined her. 

Poor little Charley looked at the money, 
but he did not touch it — it was not bread. ' ' I 
am hungry," he said through his tears. 

Kitty paused a moment, her heart full of 
pity for the child. She would have liked to 
take him with them as far as the village, but 
dared not suggest it. 

Meanwhile Madame de Vignon had met 
the carriage and entered, so the maid followed 
reluctantly. The carriage drove on, the lady 
leaning back wearily on the seat. Suddenly 
she looked up, and addressed the maid: 

What was it that the boy was saying as 
we left the shrine ? Did he not say that he was 
hungry ? ' ' 

"Yes, Madame," replied Kitty, bluntly, de- 
termined to rouse her mistress at any cost. 
'And well-nigh famished, I should say, judg- 
ing from the look on his face. I doubt if he'll 
be alive to-morrow, if nobody takes pity on 
liim." 

Madame de Vignon started, "Oh! surely, 



Kitty, it is not so bad as that! What would 
my child in heaven think of me, if I were to 
let another die of starvation ? Go, see to him 
at once. Do what you think is best. ' ' 

Gladly the good woman left the carriage 
on her charitable errand, and, taking some 
refreshments from the little basket she had 
provided for their journey, she went back to 
the chapel. 

"Thank God, something has roused my 
lady at last! " she said to herself. "She had 
ever a kind heart, but sometimes when Grief 
enters even the best of hearts, he shuts the 
door behind him. But Lord help the child, 
where has he gone ? ' ' she exclaimed, on com- 
ing in sight of the shrine. 

Charley had watched the carriage drive 
away, with a feeling of bitter desolation. 
Finding himself once more alone, he crept into 
the grotto> and twined his little arms round 
the feet of the fair image that smiled so sweetly 
above him. "Holy Mother in heaven!" he 
sobbed, "please hear me now. My mother 
said you would take care of me; and, oh! I 
shall surely die if you don't send me some- 
thing to eat. It is growing dark too, dear 
Mother, and I am so frightened here all 
alone!" 

Soon the clinging arms relaxed their hold, 
and Kitty entered only in time to save the 
child from falling to the ground. Kindly sup- 
porting him, she made him swallow a little 
wine. Charley looked up into the pitying face. 
"Who are you?" he asked, softly. "Has my 
Mother in heaven sent you to me ? ' ' 

' ' Of course she has, ' ' answered the woman. 
"Surely that good Mother never turned a 
deaf ear to anybody, let alone a starving child. 
There, now, try to eat a bit." 

Then, taking the boy in her strong arms, 
she carried him to the carriage, giving the 
coachman strict injunctions to take care of 
him. Peter was a kind-hearted man, and he 
made the child snug and comfortable beside 
him. 

"You have saved his life, Madame," said 
Kitty to her mistress; ' ' what with hunger and 
fright, he would have been dead by morning. ' ' 

"I am glad I sent you," was the answer, 
the mother's thoughts still dwelling on her 
own dear child. "Somehow, I feel it will 
please Henry. Alas! how few are my conso- 
lations now! For his sake, this child shall 
have food and shelter to-night. ' ' 



2l5 



The Ave Maria. 



Though hasty preparations had been made 
for the coming of its mistress, the gloom and 
silence of that once gay house struck a chill 
to the heart of the lonely woman. The loved 
faces that had made it home had vanished; 
the happy voices were hushed; father, mother, 
husband, and child, all gone forever. 

She retired to her room, and shut herself in 
with her sorrow. 

Karly next morning she sought the chapel. 
"O God! give me strength to say. Thy will 
be done!" she prayed. "O Mother of the 
sorrowful! again I renew my promise. Only 
obtain for me the grace of resignation." 

Meanwhile Kitty had made Charley as tidy 
as she could. Such a pretty, gentle little fel- 
low he looked, despite his rags, that her heart 
quite warmed towards him. * * I will take him 
to the chapel," thought the good woman. 
"The child has already been the means of 
rousing my lady a little: who knows what 
may come of it ? " 

"Charley," she said aloud, "can you say 



any prayers 



"Oh! yes," he replied. "When my dear 
mother was alive, she taught me to say my 
prayers every morning and night. ' ' 

Kitty took him by the hand, and led him to 
the chapel, where her mistress still knelt in 
prayer. The boy looked at the pale, uplifted 
face with a feeling of childish pity; but the 
lady, as she caught his gaze, turned away al- 
most with a gesture of terror. ' ' That child 
again! Why does he haunt me so, with his 
innocent face and bright head, so like my 
darling's? I will not look again. What are 
other people's children to me? " 

' ' Pray aloud, Charley, ' ' whispered Kitty, as 
they knelt down. The child glanced timidly 
at Madame de Vignon. 

"The lady won't mind you," whispered 
the woman; "say aloud the last prayer your 
mother taught you. ' ' 

Of course, Kitty did not know what that 
last prayer was; she only wished to give him 
fervor. She, as well as her mistress, was un- 
prepared for the words which the child now 
uttered in all the simplicity of his heart. 

"O Blessed I^ady of gourdes, my mother 
left me to you; you are my own Mother now: 
please take care of little Charley! " 

The lady shook with a sudden emotion. 
What was it in that simple prayer that touched 
her lonely heart, and filled her eyes with tears ? 



She covered her face witli her trembling 
hands. 

' ' My God ! ' ' she murmured, ' ' has Our t<ady 
taken me at my word ? Is this, this the work 
she would have me do? Has she sent this 
child to mef' 

She fancied she saw her own Henry point- 
ing with a smile of love to the orphan boy. 
Had he come as a messenger from the Queen 
of Heaven ? 

' ' Yes, ' ' she cried at last, ' * I dare not refuse 
thy bidding. Mother of God, I accept thy 
charge. This, I feel, is the work thou hast set 
me to do." 

Again Charley's voice reached her ear. He 
was whispering in a lower tone: "O my God! 
bless these good ladies, who saved me last 
night from dying of hunger. ' ' 

With a look of earnest resolve, Madame de 
Vignon rose, and took the little fellow by the 
hand. 

"My child," she cried, leading him to Our 
Lady's altar, ' ' kneel with me, and thank your 
Heavenly Mother for bringing you to a sor- 
rowing mother on earth. This is the house 
her loving care has opened to you. In her 
name, I will be your mother now. You have 
reached the end of your journey. ' ' 

"My mistress is saved! — thank God, thank 
God! " cried Kitty, with a grateful heart, as 
she led away her new charge. ' * I will teach 
the child to be so dutiful and good that she will 
take great interest in him. Then the work of 
charity which she has undertaken will make 
her forget her sorrow, and give her great 
comfort, ' ' 

No mother could have taken better care of 
her own child than Kitty took of the orphan. 
He grew into a charming boy, and Madame 
de Vignon soon loved him dearly. 

Charley has well repaid the kindness be- 
stowed upon him. He is now a noble, earnest 
man, the joy of his adopted mother, whose 
name he bears. He is first in every work of 
charity in the country in which he lives, but 
most of all is he noted for a tender devotion 
to her who so truly proved a Mother to him 
when he had lost his own. 



You must try to be good and amiable to 
everybody, and do not think that Christianity 
consists in a melancholy and morose life. 
Lacordaire. 




Yoh. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, SEPTEMBER 4, 1886. No. 10. 



(Copyright :— R«v. D. E. Hudsoh, C. 8. C] 

Ad Beatam Virginem Mariam. 



[An appendix to the poetical works of the Holy 
Father, just issued by the Vatican Press, contains 
the following petitions addressed to the Blessed 
Mother of God.] 

I. 

ARDKT pugna ferox; I^ucifer ipse, videns, 
Horrida nionstra furens ex Acheronte 
vomit. 
Ocius, alma Parens, ocius affer opem. 
Tu mihi virtutem, robur et adde novum. 
Contere virgineo monstra inimica pede. 
Te duce, Virgo, libens aspera bella geram: 
DifFugient hostes; te duce, victor ero. 

II. 
Auri dulce melos, dicere Mater Ave. 
Dicere dulce melos, O pia Mater Ave! 
Tu mihi deliciae, spes bona, castus amor; 
Rebus in adversis tu mihi prsesidium. 
Si mens soUicitis icta cupidinibus, 
Tristitise et luctus anxia sentit onus; 
Si natum serumnis videris usque premi, 
Materno refove Virgo benigna sinu. 
Et cum instante aderit morte suprema dies, 
Lumina fessa manu molliter ipsa tege. 
Hi fugientem animam tu bona redde Deo. 



Thoughts on Our Lady's Birthday. 



BY THE REV. FATPIER EDMUND, PASSIONIST. 



T is a well-known device with un- 
belief to point out in heathenism 
resemblances to Christianity, and 
specially to Catholic Christianity; as if the 
let of such resemblances proved conclu- 




sively that Christianity in general and Ca- 
tholicism in particular are but forms of 
pagan superstition. The infidel strikes, as 
he thinks, at the very root of our faith, and 
thereby lays low the whole tree, by learn- 
edly telling us that our ingenious system 
centres in one of many legends of a virgin 
giving birth to a god. "Why," he says, 
"your virgin -story is one of the oldest 
myths in China. Persia and India boast of it. 
Egypt had her Isis and Osiris, zjery like your 
Madonna and Child. Mortals brought forth 
deities in romantic Greece. And Rome's 
fabled founder was the son of a god and a 
virgin. ' ' 

Certainly, O sage profound! And did you 
everhearof the Druidical grotto atChartres, 
and its statue of a woman with a child on 
her knee, and the inscription, Virgiiti Pari- 
turcB^ — "To the Virgin who shall one day 
bring forth"? Moreover, in your list of 
heathen nations pray include those valiant 
ancestors of ours whom "the populous 
North poured from her frozen loins to pap 
Rhene or the Danaw.' ' While, again, if you 
will look to the Far West, we can show you 
the same legend among Indian tribes, as 
Longfellow's "Hiawatha" bears witness; 
and even on the wilds of Alaska. * Nor is 
it wanting among South American legends. 

And now it is our turn. We ask you to 
account for \}i\^fact of this widespread tra- 
dition — this universal fable, as you call it — 
of a virgin giving birth to a god. Will you 



^' See Mr. Ball's interesting book on Alaska. 



2l8 



The Ave Maria. 



say you are not bound to account for it? 
But indeed you are^ as a philosopher, if you 
urge it against our faith, and reject the ex- 
planation we give. 

For, so far from being embarrassed by it 
at all, we find in this tradition a confirma- 
tion of our faith. It may well be a difficulty 
to certain Christians, in whose theology 
there is no place for any particular venera- 
tion or love to the Virgin Mother of God. 
But for us Catholics it is little more than 
our faith might have led us t© expect. 

The first of our sacred books records a 
promise made by God Himself to our newly 
fallen parents. We read there of "the 
Woman" who, together with "her Seed," 
shall crush the serpent's head. (Gen., iii., 
15.) The words, indeed, are addressed to the 
serpent; but, evidently, for the comfort of 
his victims, no less than for his own confu- 
sion; so that they have always been re- 
garded as a promise of the Redemption. 

Now, this prediction is obscure — inten- 
tionally, perhaps, because addressed to the 
serpent. And, surely, it would be passing 
strange could it be shown that no more 
explicit revelation was vouchsafed to the 
world about the Woman and her Seed, until, 
long ages after, the Hebrew Prophet was 
inspired to exclaim: "Behold, the Virgin^'' 
(for the is the true rendering, as the Septua- 
gint proves by its ^ -apf^hoi) "shall con- 
ceive, and bear a Son ; and His name shall 
be called Emmanuel. ' ' (Is. , vii. , 14. ) * 

We contend, then, that the everywhere- 
found legends aforesaid go to establish the 
contrary supposition: to wit, that a fuller 
communication concerning the birth of the 
promised Redeemer was made to primitive 
mankind; though not mentioned in a nar- 



* A Jewish convert, who had been a rabbi, once 
pointed out to me that the Prophet in this passage 
is not making a new and startling announcement, 
but reminding Achaz of a well-known tradition. 
The King was fearing the destruction of the Jew- 
ish monarchy, my informant said ; and Isaias 
gave him, as a " sign " that this could not happen 
M^/z, the fact that tho: predicted Virgin of the house 
of David had yet to conceive and bring forth Em- 
manuel. But, probably, this is clearer from the 
Hebrew text than from ours. 



rative little designed to take the place of 
the Unwritten Word, which, of course, stood 
first in the Old Dispensation, as afterwards 
in the New. For these singular myths, be- 
ing identical in substance, have manifestly 
sprung from a common source : that source 
a tradition which must have begun before 
the human family was broken up into na- 
tions ; that is, before the confusion of tongues 
at Babel. 

That God renewed His covenant with 
Noe is expressly stated ; and equally certain 
is it that, along with the covenant of sacri- 
fice, was consigned to him afresh the de- 
posit of revealed truth, before given to 
Adam, to be handed down from generation 
to generation. But can we suppose that Noe 
was the first to hear of the Virgin- Mother, 
when for our first parent had been spoken 
those words in Eden about the Woman and 
the serpent? Was not Adam, during his 
long life, high-priest and oracle to the 
growing generations ? Must they not have 
looked to him for all the particulars he was 
permitted to divulge of the promise of re- 
demption ? Indeed, may we not well believe 
that, in those communings with Heaven 
which solaced the life-long penance of him- 
self and the partner of his fall, it was given 
him to contemplate the Second Adam, in 
whom all things should be made new? Can 
we doubt that weeping Eve often dwelt on 
that daughter, fairer even than her unfaller 
self, who was destined to enjoy a solitary I 
exemption from the punishment of " bring- 1 
ing forth in sorrow," and would be at onct 
a mother and a virgin? 

Surely, then, it was from the beginning 
that Our Lady's story got out into th( 
world. And so she became, what we cal' 
her in the lyitany, the "Queen of Patn^ 
archs": whose tenderest musings were 
her, and who taught their children to lool 
forward to her birth as to a beacon of im 
perishable hope. And her story made th< 
strongest link in the great tradition tha: 
went down the ages. So sweet, so unforget 
able it was, that when, in after times, amonj 
the scattered peoples, the very knowledge 
of the true God was lost, the idea of a Oo^ 




The Ave Maria. 



219 



ing Virgin, though beconle but a legend 
the past, and overlaid with myths and 
fi bles, still haunted the darkened mind. * 

It is thus, then, that we account for the 
St veral ' ' virgin - stories ' ' that are found 
fr)m East to West, and which, I repeat, 
iE stead of embarrassing us, are, rather, a 
btautiful confirmation of our faith. It 
makes Our Blessed Lady all the dearer to 
us to know that the infant world thought 
of her and longed for her — sighing and 
praying for the happy event of her birth. 
And that event took place ' ' in the midst 
of the years," in accordance with the pro- 
phetic prayer of Habacuc (iii., 2, 3): "O 
'Lord! Thy work, in the midst of the years 
ibring it to life. In the midst of the years 
Thou shalt make it known: when Thou art 
angry. Thou wilt remember mercy. ' ' For 
iwhat was this ' ' work ' ' ? The regeneration 
l)f mankind by the Second Adam and Eve: 
:he beginning of that "end to which the 
whole creation had been groaning and trav- 
liiling in pain together." And how "in 
he midst of the years " ? In what may be 
ustly called the middle age of the world; 
lot mathematically speaking, but because 
t was the most momentous epoch the 
7orld has ever seen or will see. 

When Thou art angry," says the 
*rophet. God seemed to have abandoned 
tie world to its fate. His own chosen peo- 
le had grown so degenerate as to appear 
icorrigible; while the sin-blinded, heathen 
mltitudes had drifted so far from the light 
f primitive revelation, and the observance 
f the moral law, that life had become de- 
)air, with sensuality for its only solace. 
Almighty" Rome (as she was "hailed") 
id subdued to her sway the territories of 
1 former empires; and the very civiliza- 
3n, so brilliant and so corrupt, of which 
e had made herself mistress, taking the 

In justice to myself let me here observe that 
len this was first written, some years ago, I had 
t read the "Life of the Blessed Virgin " by the 
be Orsini. My information about these vari- 
s legends had come from other sources. It was, 
irefore, a joyous surprise to me, on opening the 
w's volume, to find my view of a primitive 
dition confirmed by so learned an authority. 



lead in its worst features, was already begin- 
ning to react upon her by sapping her vigor 
with luxurious refinement. Hence the Ro- 
man Empire, in its turn, was on the eve of 
that crisis which ended, as we know, in its 
ruin ; and which would have ended, but for 
Christianity, in the total extinction of civ- 
ilization. 

"When Thou art angry. Thou wilt re- 
member mercy." Yes, in such a "midst of 
the years," when God's indignation seemed 
implacable, He did ' ' remember mercy. ' ' It 
is said that night is darkest towards dawn. 
So it was now. When the night of crime 
and error sat thickest on the nations, went 
forth the Fiat lux^ the ' ' Let there be light, ' ' 
of the new creation ; and sweetly in the faint, 
chill daybreak shone out the Morning Star. 

But how modestly it shone, how unper- * 
ceived! The infant Mary's own parents 
little dreamt of her destiny, though aware 
that she was no ordinary child. On the 
other hand, the heart of universal human- 
ity may have beaten with a strange pulse 
just then — a startled throb, which instinc- 
tively betrayed a sense of approaching de- 
liverance. For it is matter of historic fact 
that about the time of Our Lord's advent 
there was a general expectation of the birth 
of some extraordinary person. This the poet 
Virgil attests in the most beautiful of his 
' ' Eclogues, ' ' where, alluding to a prophecy 
of the Cumsean Sibyl, he thus sings: 
"Jam redit et Virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna; 
Jam nova progenies coelo demittitur alto." * 

So, again, with the "princes of this 
world, ' ' and the ' ' rulers of its darkness, ' ' as 
St. Paul calls the demons. We can not doubt 
that they were perplexed at the birth of the 
Blessed Virgin, and sought eagerly to as- 
certain who she really was. They remem- 
bered only too well the promised Woman 
to come. And might not this be she ? What 
most alarmed them was that the child was 
not born under their dominion at all. They 
must have found this out by reason of her 
Immaculate Conception. Yet, God con- 



* "Now, too, the Virgi?i returns; now the Golden 

Age; 
Now is the new offspring sent down from heaven/ ' 



220 



The Ave Maria, 



cealed from them the mystery of her origin, 
as He afterwards prevented them from dis- 
covering the divine conception and birth of 
her Son. Blessed Mary of Agreda tells us 
(I believe) that there was around Our Lady, 
from her infancy, an atmosphere which 
burnt the demons whenever they tried to 
approach her; and, besides, she had a body- 
guard of a thousand angels. 

Ah! the angels! They were the favored 
ones — the only creatures who knew God's 
secret. The Nativity of Mary was therefore, 
peculiarly an angelic festival. How must 
God's ''ear" have "listened delighted" to 
the hymn of the celestial choirs as they wel- 
comed their infant Queen! Yet, again, what 
was their ]oy in her to His own? He had 
built Himself a house, had found Himself a 
fiome, wherein He might rest amid a world 
estranged. And does not our joy partake 
of God's even more than of the angels'? 
For Mary is not only our Queen, as she is 
theirs, but our Mother, as she is His, Her 
bosom, her Heart, is otir home. We have 
all a right, which He Himself has given us, 
and which none can take away, to dwell 
in His mystical Sion. And soothly can 
they who choose this home say with the 
Psalmist: "Blessed are they who dwell in 
Thy Ho ise, O Lord! they shall praise Thee 
forever and ever, ' ' And again to Our Heav- 
enly Mother herself: Sicui hctantiMm om- 
nmm habitatiocst i7i te! — "A dwelling of 
joy have all who abide in thee: " 



The Singing Rose of Erin. 



BY ELEANOR C. DONNIU^LY. 



THE "Arabian Nights' Entertainments" 
(ill at golden tissue of Oriental marvels, 
which long ago bewitched and enriched our 
childish fancy) used to tell us the legend of 
a Singing Tree of Persia, whose quest was 
attended with untold dangers, and whose 
harmonious exploits were wont to thrill our 
young hearts with delight and awe; but it 
has been reserved for Erin — blessed, beauti- 
ful Erin, the emerald shrine of purest, rarest 



folk-lore and song — to present to us in these 
prosaic days another magical singer, a mu- 
sical flower, whose enchanting strains have 
not only made melody for years throughout 
the length and breadth of her own native 
Isle, but have at last drifted across the 
wide seas, and found their echo in many an 
American heart. 

When the Princess Perie-zadeh com- 
plained to the Speaking Bird, in the Ara- 
bian story: "Bird, I have found the Sing- 
ing Tree, but I can neither pull it up by 
the roots nor carry it," the Bird replied: 
" It is not necessary that you should take it 
up by the roots: it will be sufiicient to break 
off a branch, and carry it to plant in your 
garden. ' ' 

. In like manner, gentle readers of The 
"Ave Maria," if we may not be permitted 
to transplant the Singing Rose of Erin, 
root and branch, to the appreciative soil of 
the New World, the writer of this sketch 
may venture, at least, to break off a few bio- 
graphical shoots from that lovely tree, and 
suffer you to give them an honored place in 
the garden or conservatory of your memory. 

Miss Rosa Mulholland was born at Bel- 
fast, Ireland, nearly twice ' ' twenty golden 
years ago. ' ' Her father, Dr. Joseph Mulhol- 
land, was long established as a practising 
physician in that busy northern city of 
Ulster, and there the little Rosa's earlier 
years were spent. Beginning to go to school 
in due time — and a bright little scholar she 
must have been, God bless her! — her first 
steps in the thorny paths of learning were 
smoothed and guided by rather a remark- 
able hand. Her (then) preceptress was a 
clever old lady — Miss Knowles; no less a 
personage than the sister of James Sheridan 
Knowles, whose fame as a dramatist still 
survives in his plays, "The Hunchback," 
"Virginius," "William Tell," etc. We 
can fancy what a charming task it must 
have been to one of that gifted family to 
direct the primary studies of our imagina 
tive little heroine; and when the dear old 
dame, "disguised with looks profound," 
like Shenstone's "Schoolmistress," "eyed 
her fairy throng^" we are free to wonder i 






The Ave Marti 



221 



1 er keen perceptions singled out the future 
1 Dvelist and poet from among the merry 
1 ttle maidens at her knee, or noted around 
t lat innocent baby-brow the faint nimbus 
cf the future's glorious aureola. Certain it 

ithat 

". . . . the school-house rude 
Is as the chrysalis to the butterfly; 
To the rich flower, the seed. The dusky walls 
Hold the fair germ of knowledge; and the tree, 
Glorious in beauty, golden with its fruits, 
To that low school house traces back its life." 

Presuming, not without some show of 
reason, that Miss Knowles must have had 
a sympathy with, if not a share in, the dra- 
matic proclivities of her talented brother, 
it is easy to understand the influence such 
a woman would exert over the plastic im- 
agination and aspirations of the little Rosa. 
Poetry makes poets; "the words which his 
mother taught him, the songs which his 
mother sang to him," as was remarked of 
King Alfred of Britain, "were the germs of 
his future thought, genius, enterprise, and 
action. ' ' And Montgomery says of poetry, 
as contrasted with prose literature at large, 
that it "takes root in the memory as well 
as in the understanding, — not in essence 
only, but in the very sounds and syllables 
that incorporate it. . . . " ; whilst all the 
narratives, speculations, and arguments of 
prose writers, no matter how fascinating in 
style, can only be recalled in the abstract, 
md, being blended with our stock of gen- 
ral knowledge, general principles, general 
notives, can only remotely influence our 
onduct and lives. Noble fiction is, indeed, 
is the same author declares it to be, noth- 
ng more nor less than "the fine ideal of 
eality." 

Our Singing Rose must have been early 
tnbued with a love for that "fine ideal" ; 
nd somewhat later on, but before her happy 
hildhood had ended, she went across the 
reen old Isle to its western coast, and spent 
year or two in Galway. There, in the 
xquisite scenery of that wild region, with 
le grand roar of the Atlantic sounding 
/er in her ears, and the witchery of sky, 
jod, and sea sinking like a fresh, sweet 
yl into her soul, our young poetess gar- 



nered many a roseate memory for the future 

crowning of her muse. Traces of those early 

dreamings by the strand can be discerned 

in "My Song and I," where she tells us 

how 

"Aloft, above the sea, by the tall cliff"'s winding 

path, 
A flitting foot treads down the sweet wild 

thyme, 
When its fragrant bloom runs over all the mossy 

rath, 
And tides are full, and the year is in its golden 

prime." 

Or in "The Stowaways," when she cries 
out in rapture to a passing vessel (the float- 
ing figure of some private personal expe- 
rience) : 

" O wide-winged ship, out of a distant port, 
The winds are with thee, and the seas run white: 

Hope-breathing winds, and seas of wild delight; 
Thy prow can cut a thousand moments short ! ' ' 

In the "Wild Geese," in that exquisite 
lyric "Thither," or in the weird, irregular 
music of "Kilfenora," the dream of those 
purple hills of Galway, and of that 

"... lonely, lamenting, chiming sea, 
With its prayerful chant and its loud 'Amen,' " 

finds frequent and melodious expression, to 
say nothing of their reproduction in the 
matchless marine-pictures wherewith her 
prose- romances abound. 

For the graceful pen of Miss Mulholland 
is equally at home in prose and verse. ' ' Her 
literary vocation was decided at a very early 
age, ' ' says the gifted editor of The Irish 
Monthly;'^ "some of her first appearances 
in print being short tales contributed to 
Dufff s Hibernian Magazine^ and then in 
London Society^ and The Cornhill Maga- 
zine; and the London publishers. Smith & 
Elder, had a three-volume novel from her 
before she was well out of her teens. Very 
early in her literary career, her talent was 
discovered by Charles Dickens, who, for 
several years before his death, published in 
All the Year Romid a large number of her 
poems, and a still larger number of her 
stories. The anonymity enforced on all con- 
tributors to Dickens' periodical helped to 



* The Rev. Matthew Russell, S.J. 



222 



The Ave Maria, 



keep Miss Mulholland's name from being 
more widely known. ' ' 

No one is better fitted to furnish these 
facts than Father Matthew Russell, S.J. 
A poet himself, and a delicate discerner 
of poetic spirits, the author of "Emman- 
uel, " " Madonna, ' ' and ' * Erin ' ' is, besides, 
closely related by family and social ties to 
the authoress of "Vagrant Verses." Rosa 
Mulholland's elder sister is the wife of his 
brother. Sir Charles Russell, at present 
Attorney-General for England, — the first 
Catholic since the Reformation who has 
gained that position; gaining it, moreover, 
in spite of being not only a Catholic but an 
Irishman. 

Another (single) sister of Rosa is Miss 
Clara Mulholland, who is also a writer; 
her literary talent having been displayed 
chiefly in stories for the young, such as 
"The Strange Adventures of Little Snow- 
drop, " " Linda' s Misfortunes, " " Naughty 
Miss Bunny, " " The Story of Cackle, a Dis- 
contented Young Goose," and many other 
pleasant little books. 

In this literary family circle of the Mul- 
hollands and the Russells mention must 
not be omitted of that illustrious departed 
member, that gifted divine, the late Dr. 
Charles William Russell, whose contribu- 
tions to Catholic literature were of a graver 
and less ephemeral character. President of 
Maynooth College for nearly a quarter of 
a century (i 857-1880), Dr. Russell, whilst 
ably and conscientiously directing the 
workings of that venerable and famous seat 
of learning, still found leisure amid his 
onerous duties to be the chief support of 
The Dublin Review in its palmiest days, a 
frequent contributor to The Edinburgh Re- , 
view, and the author of an exhaustive ' ' Life 
of Mezzofanti," which Italy herself (as has 
been cleverly said of it) was fain to translate 
and adopt as the standard biography of her 
polyglot Cardinal. Dr. Russell died Febru- 
ary 26, 1880, in the sixty-eighth year of his 
age and the forty-fifth of his priesthood, be- 
loved and lamented by all, a signal loss to 
the world of letters as well as to the noble 
establishment which hailed him as its chief 



But to return to our Singing Rose of 
Erin. Save for her visit to Galway, and 
occasional sojourns with her relatives in 
London, Rosa's life has been spent in what 
an enthusiastic friend (more Irish than the 
Irish) terms "the finest city of the world" 
— Dublin. Here the true poet and artist 
can always find a circle of the most appre- 
ciative admirers, the ablest of critics; and 
in this golden atmosphere of praise and 
nice suggestion, like fruit in the frost-tem- 
pered balm of an autumnal sunshine, the 
genius of our favored heroine has been ad- 
mirably mellowed and ripened. 

As a novelist, she is unrivalled among our 
living Catholic writers. With the strength 
and mental endurance of a man she com- 
bines the delicacy, purity, and tenderness|of 1 
a genuine and highly-gifted woman. Her 
works are of the highest type of refined 
fiction, and betray a delightfully accurate 
knowledge of human nature. 

Who can fully estimate the value and 
important mission of a good Catholic novel? 
Father Faber says, in his comments on 
well-managed recreations, that a spiritual 
person can merit even by reading a trashy 
romance, provided trashiness be its only 
defect, and provided the reading be pre- 
ceded, accompanied, and sanctified by an 
honest intention to distract an over-taxed 
mind, and render it fresher and more elastic 
in its graver duties for the glory of God. 
This being so, what a return of prayerful 
gratitude do we not owe at the present day 
to such admirable writers of Catholic fiction 
as Rosa Mulholland, Lady Herbert of Lea, I 
Kathleen O'Meara, the Author of "Ty' 
borne, "and dear, dead Lady Fullerton; tc 
say nothing of our own Anna Hanson Dor- 
sey. Christian Reid, Dr. O'Reilly, Maurice 
F. Egan, Eliza Allen Starr, and the Sadlierj 
(mother and daughter), for the delicioui 
and nourishing pabulum they have fur 
nished us in precious seasons of Christiai 
relaxation ! 

In this era of passionate sensualism an( 
universal corruption of the human heart! 
the devil has no mightier or deadlier instru 
ment to work his will on souls than th 



I 



The Ave Maria. 



225 



T eapon of a foul, debasing fiction — those 
s locking native or exotic novels, which we 
s ludder to see young eyes devouring with 
s ich unmistakable avidity and delight. In 
s )ite of their manifold fascinations of lan- 
g aage and style, however, we pray God such 
b )oks may soon be abandoned to the igno- 
uinious obscurity which veils the profligate 
liierature of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
C(mturies, whose romances and dramas, as 
a thoughtful writer has remarked, are "like 
forsaken mines, no longer worked, though 
their veins are rich with ore, because of the 
mephitic air that fouls their passages, and 
which no safety-lamp yet invented can 
render innoxious to the most intrepid vir- 
tue." 

As a preventive of the evils of such dan- 
gerous and degrading works, as an incentive 
to all that is pure, lovely, and elevated in 
woman, all that is meek, noble, and self-sac- 
rificing in man, we can safely recommend 
the beautiful novels of Rosa MulhoUand. 
Her two longest stories, "Hester's His- 
tory" and "The Wicked Woods of To- 
bereevil, ' ' were reprints of serials in All the 
Year Round, \n two charming volumes each. 
3f the first mentioned book the London 
Athencsum has said : " ' Hester's History ' is 
dever, compact, and entertaining; the per- 
onages are well drawn, well colored, and 
veil set upon the stage, and they all perform 
heir parts well. There is an unhackneyed 
reshness about the incidents and a simplic- 
ty in their management, which make us 
tnagine this to be a first work, written with 
I pleasure that has made labor a delight. . . . 
^he description of Hampton Court, and of 
le lonely child playing about the old 
:>oms, making friends and playfellows of 
le portraits, and going up and down ' the 
olden ladder' made by the sunbeams on 
le king's staircase, is true and childlike, 
or is Hester in the gardens, making real- 
ies of the old Traditions of the place, and 
lacting imaginary scenes with the person- 
^es of the pictures, less true or charming; 
seemed like fairyland to the child, and 
,e author makes it look like fairyland to 
te reader." 



"The Wicked Woods" is a tale of mod- 
ern times, yet weird and fantastic as the 
goblin stories of Germany. "The whole 
country round Tobereevil is present to the 
reader's eye: — the awful gloom of the 
Wicked Woods, the gaunt wreck of the 
miser's home, the savage desolation of the 
fields, the lofty mountains touched with 
gold as they recede farthest from man. Full 
of power and fascination is the picture of 
the miser himself. There is a spell in his 
woe, in his agony, in his rage, in his despair. 
The colors are caught with a master-hand, 
and withal a delicate charity which forbids 
hate; though always despicable, he com- 
mands still your pity. . . . The reader will 
here find the outcome of a pure and sin- 
gularly-vivid imagination; a sense of the 
beautiful, expressed often in noble, always 
in exquisite language; a sympathy with the 
humbler types of humanity at once rare and 
attractive; and a power of combination sec- 
ond to few in the highest walks of litera- 
ture. ' ' * 

This tale, which is a romance, as Natha- 
niel Hawthorne understood the term, has 
been widely copied by our American Cath- 
olic journals, and most of our readers are 
as well acquainted with the sweet, quaint, 
lovable May Mourne as with the hard, 
grinding, cruel-hearted Simon Finiston. 

Besides "Dunmara" (a clever three- vol- 
ume novel) and "The Wild Birds of Kil- 
leevy" — which have long since flown across 
the Atlantic, and made their nest (noble 
Kevin and bewitching Fanchea) in the 
literary groves of the New World, — Rosa 
MulhoUand has given us lately a capital 
Irish story of the present day, ' ' Marcella 
Grace," which ran as a serial, a year or 
so 'ago, through the pages of The Irish 
Monthly. As a writer of short stories and 
sketches of Irish character, her talent is 
inimitable; and how prolific and successful 
have been her labors for Catholic youth is 
evidenced by her delightful child-books (all 
handsomely printed and illustrated), " El- 
dergowan, " " The lyittle Flower-Seekers, ' ' 



* Dublin Freeman' s Journal. 



224 



The Ave Maria. 



"Puck and Blossom," "Five Little Farm- 
ers," "Prince and Saviour; or, the Story 
of Jesus told Simply for the Young, " " The 
Walking Trees," "Hetty Gray," etc., etc. 
None of these juvenile books, however, have 
reached the vast circulation of her very 
original prayer-book for children — "The 
Holy Childhood," — of which the editions 
follow one another in rapid succession. 

Miss Mulholland's renown as a novelist — 
in America, at least, — had antedated her 
fame as a poet. For many years her health 
was so frail that those who loved her best, 
at home and abroad, fond hearts and true, 
were troubled with an ever-haunting fear 
lest the Singing Rose of Erin should be 
transplanted from earth before its time — 
fated to bloom for God alone, and breathe 
forth the full music of its fragrance only in 
His celestial gardens. But the divine will 
had reserved her for a great and holy work ; 
and now, in the mellow ripeness of her 
perfect womanhood, she takes her allotted 
rank in the choir of our sweetest Catholic 
singers, crowned with the glory of her rare 
poetic gift. 

Had Rosa Mulholland written nothing 
else save ' ' Vagrant Verses, ' ' those pure and 
polished gems of song would suffice to win 
for her an enviable and enduring reputation; 
for, as an able Irish reviewer has recently 
remarked, " Her merits as a writer of poetry 
are even of a higher order than those which 
have already made her name popular as a 
very successful writer of prose fiction. ' ' 

The old adage, nascitur non fit^ applies 
with full force to the breathings of this 
gifted lady's muse. Her rich poetic fancy 
and chaste, elevated spirit are rivalled only 
by her exquisite taste, delicate ear for 
rhythm, and deep sympathy with all that 
is beautiful and true in nature and human 
feeling. If the Singing Rose descant of 
earthly love (like the nightingale with her 
breast against a thorn), how tender are her 
strains in "The Faithful Light," "My 
Blackbird," "Girlhood at Midnight," and 
' ' Then and Now " ! If she sweep the silver 
strings of her own island-harp, giving all its 

", . . . chords to light, freedom, and song," 



how full of native, thrilling music are 
her "Children of Lir," "Emmet's Love," 
"Shamrocks," and "Snow and Famine"! 
And if (as her muse most frequently does) 
she rises on the wings of celestial poesy 

"To the higher levels of love and praise," 
how exquisite are the inspirations of her 
pure, fervent soul in "Christ the Gleaner," 
' ' Saint Barbara, " " Perpetual Light, ' ' 
"Sister Mary of the Love of God," ''Ave 
Maria,''' "Lilies and Roses," "Saint Bri- 
gid,"and "A Prayer"! 

From a casket filled to its brim with so 
many priceless gems, it is difficult to select 
the brightest jewels. Tastes are so various 
that where one might pick pearls and dia- 
monds, another might tenderly affection 
rubies and emeralds. So chacun a songoiit, 
and ' ' Vagrant Verses ' ' for us all. But as the 
writer of this imperfect little sketch lays 
aside the charming book, with its dainty 
diction and its delicate imagery, its fair 
margins, clear print, and dove- tinted cover, 
she stoops lovingly in spirit, O dear Rosa 
Mulholland! to 

"Kiss the pen that spoke your thought. 
The spot whereon you knelt to pray, 
The message with your wisdom fraught 
Writ down on paper yesterday. ' ' 

And she feels assured that no matter what 
shadows may fall upon the paths of duller, 
grosser spirits, what doubts or damps may 
clog their feet in their passage through this 
valley of tears, which men call Life, 

' ' Your way is across the hills in the kindling j 

light, 
'Mid living souls, with a footstep glad and free!' 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



X. 



PHILIP left his uncle's presence with aj 
mind more disturbed than he would 
have believed possible had the fact been 
told him a few months before. Then he 
would have accepted the fate prepared for, 
him with entire resignation, now he was 



1^ 



The Ave Maria. 



225 



illed with a sense of regret which surprised 
limself. What had changed him so greatly 
n so short a time? He debated this ques- 
I ion mentally as he left the house, and did 
^^t find the solution of it altogether easy. 
Rpmething had wakened within him — 
ifiind, heart, conscience, which was it? — 
and roused him to a sense of the great pos- 
sibilities that lay in life. As the trumpet 
call rouses a sleeping soldier to battle, so in 
the depths of his nature a trumpet had been 
sounded, which had roused him to think 
of something more than frivolous pleas- 
ures or the amassing and the enjoyment of 
wealth. 

He scarcely knew what influence had 
done this — more than one influence, per- 
haps, had united in doing it, — but the fact 
and the result were not to be ignored. For 
the first time he felt impatient of the fetters 
that boiuid his life: he longed for more free- 
dom and a wider field. Yet, quite apart from 
I any consideration of self-interest, he was 
I reluctant to disregard his uncle's claims 
upon him. Selfishness often cloaks itself 
behind independence of spirit, but an un- 
selfish nature can not, even for the sake of 
independence, wound those who have de- 
served submission and respect. So long as 
his uncle's demands were within legitimate 
bounds, Philip felt that he could not fail to 
y^ield to them. But was it a legitimate de- 
nand that he should marry Constance? 
This was the question he had now to answer. 
He had left the house without consider- 
ng where he was going, but involuntarily 
lis steps followed a familiar road, and be- 
ore long he found himself in the wake of a 
tream of people who were entering the 
'athedral for Vespers. The roll of the great 
rgan filled the building, and the choir were 
banting the Psalms as he entered. The 
oble, familiar strains seemed to calm and 
rengthen his spirit. Impressionable to all 
ifluences, he now felt that every influence 
ound him was sustaining and inspiring, 
it were necessary to make a decision 
bich would affect his whole life, here 
rely was the best place to make it. And 
is it a recollection of the impulse that had 



come to him at tlie sight of the San Sisto 
Madonna that led his feet toward the altar 
of the Blessed Virgin ? One of the many 
tender names which the love and reverence 
of the faithful have bestowed upon her 
came into his mind as he looked at the 
figure, standing throned upon the earth 
which her Son had redeemed — Mother of 
Good Counsel. So she was called ; and he, 
who felt so strongly the need of counsel, 
knelt, and by that gracious name invoked 
her powerful aid. 

Owing to the fashion of pews that pre- 
vails in American churches — an odious 
fashion surely, as are all fashions borrowed 
from Protestantism — one does not see those 
devotional groups kneeling at different 
shrines and chapels while the great central 
worship goes on, which are so charming to 
the eye and spirit in the great churches of 
Catholic Europe. Philip, therefore — who 
had no desire to make himself remarkable 
in the face of a congregation of people seated 
decorously in their pews, while the Vespers 
were sung over their heads — also enter( d 
one of the boxes, which, with their closed, 
proprietary air, are so foreign to the spirit 
of Catholicity, and so expressive of the sys- 
tem from which they sprang. 

He had knelt for some time, with his head 
bowed in his hands, when a stir, the sound 
of rustling silk, and the opening of a pew- 
door in front of him, made him involunta- 
rily look up. The sexton was ushering a 
lady and gentleman to a seat, and a glance 
showed him that they were Constance and 
Bellamy. Their appearance did not sur- 
prise him, for he knew how often, together 
with other Protestants, they came to the 
Cathedral ' ' to hear the music, ' ' which of 
late had become well worth hearing; but 
he felt strangely moved to see before him 
at this moment the woman who was upper- 
most in his thoughts. And she was seated 
only a few feet from the shrine of Mary! 
Would she lift her eyes, in reverence at 
least, to the image of her in whom woman- 
hood was forever exalted, — her who had 
been found worthy to clothe with the robe 
of humanity the Son of God? 



226 



The Ave Maria. 



With a kind of fascination he watched 
for a sign of this reverence, but watched in 
vain. Constance was too finely bred to be 
guilty of such outward rudeness as many 
Protestants permit themselves in a Catho- 
lic church; but Philip, who was familiar 
with all the expressions of her face, read ac- 
curately enough the meaning of the glance 
that roved critically over the altar, and the 
figure above it — resting on the last for a mo- 
ment with cold scrutiny— and then turned 
away. 

Here was a woman who in all her life 
had never echoed the Angelic Salutation, 
— had never cried to the Mother of God, 
"Hail Mary!" and would certainly never 
teach those holy words to infant lips. It 
was easy to forget this when one saw her 
in the world, young, lovely and charming, 
— when she was the belle of a ball-room, 
the centre of admiration; but here, in the 
house of God, where she sat unmoved before 
the altar, or glanced with the instinctive 
aversion of Protestantism at the image of 
the Mother of God, it was impossible to for- 
get it. 

Considering the atmosphere in which he 
lived, it was hardly strange that Philip had 
never given a thought to the difference ot 
religion between Constance and himself, 
until it had suddenly flashed upon him as 
a ground for objection in the interview 
with his uncle. But, once awakened to the 
thought, he realized more and more all that 
it meant. If he married this woman, she 
could only touch the surface of his life; for 
what deep feeling or deep thought had he 
which was not influenced by the religion 
that she had been taught to reject? 

One often wonders that this consideration 
does not weigh more strongly with those 
who are meditating a mixed marriage. 
Where lives are narrowly bounded by ma- 
terial and domestic interests, there is, of 
course, some common ground on which to 
meet, though all the evils of religious dif- 
ference remain. But with those who live 
in the broader world of thought, where is 
there any common ground? Human con- 
duct, human history, human life in all its 



aspects, — the innumerable questions in pol- 
itics, in science, nay even in art, which 
agitate the world, have for the Catholic re- 
lations to certain great, immutable truths 
which the non- Catholic denies or ignores. 
There is no hope of agreement; for the basis 
on which opinion rests is radically different. 
What Catholic has not felt this where some 
Protestant friend or relative is concerned, 
and has not been taught that there is hardly 
a fact of history or a subject of contempo- 
rary thought which it is possible for them 
to view in the same light? And yet there 
are Catholics who will introduce the same 
dissonance, the same hopeless lack of sym- 
pathy, into the closest relation of human 
life, — a relation so close that only perfect 
sympathy can render it endurable to one 
who thinks or feels. 

These reflections crowded upon Philip as 
he looked from the star-crowned siatue of 
Mary to the fashionable figure seated before 
it. He had learned of late, for the first time 
since his childhood, what Catholic woman- 
hood might be, and he knew now the dif- 
ference between its charm and that which 
was the result of natural amiability and ■ 
worldly grace. "It is impossible!" he; 
thought; "I can not run the risk of such ! 
a marriage, — a risk for others as well as for 
myself. If Constance will become a Cath- 
olic, I will comply with my uncle's wishes; 
but otherwise I can not." 

He said this to himself, in a kind of de- 
spair — torn between the wish to requite his 
uncle's great kindness by gratifying what 
he knew to be his strongest desire, and by! 
his reluctance to bind his life in the manner I 
demanded. He sternly ignored in this 
struggle certain feelings which drew his 
heart in another direction. He felt that he 
was, in a degree, bound to Constance, and he 
knew that any suit of his to Alice Percival 
would be utterly hopeless. He tried, there 
fore, to drive away the image of the latter 
whenever it presented itself. 

But now the Vespers had ended ; the priest! 
with his train approached the altar,thecon-| 
gregation sank on their knees, the door of the! 
tabernacle swung open, and, hark ! from the; 



The Ave Maria. 



227 



'*^,'j'>:i7' 



t hoir-loft came a voice like that of an an- 

< el leading the worship of heavenly choirs. 
O salutaris Hostia!^^ it sang, lifting up 

< n its silver notes, full of the spirit of faith 
nd adoration, the hearts of all below. "(9 
iilutaris Hostia!^^ Philip echoed in the 

, epths of his own, as he raised his glance to 
i^e throned monstrance. In withdrawing, 
it fell on Constance. She had not stirred, 
hut still sat careless and erect in her seat, 
only turning her head toward the gallery 
from which came the tones that seemed 
giving utterance to the worship of all the 
kneeling throng. ' ' Do they say nothing to 
her?" Philip thought, with a sense of won- 
der; but when he saw her give a glance and 
a slight nod of approbation to Bellamy, he 
knew that they had said no more tO her 
than the aria of a singef in an opera. 

(TO BE CONTINUED.) 



A September Sonnet. 



BY WILLIAM D, KELLY. 

SEPTEMBER'S soughing wind sighs sad 
and soft 
Above the meadow-lands, where, day by day, 
To duller tints the hues of green give way; 
And where, in lengthened lines, within the 

croft. 
The rifled cornstalks lift their heads aloft, 
Like soldiers serried for a coming fray, 
Since they are fled, it chants a funeral lay 
For flowers the summer zephyrs kissed so oft. 

And yet, despite the breeze, by day and night, 
Which o'er the meadow -land and in the 
corn, 
Sighs for the flowers and sorrows for their 
flight. 
Until all things around us seem forlorn, 
The month. Madonna, has its own delight, 
Since it was in it, Mother, thou wast born. 



After confession one should feel and act 
like a school-boy, who, after being punished 
for soiling his copy-book, gets a new one 
to start afresh, and takes special pains to 
do better. 



With Staff and Scrip. 



BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 



V. — Damascus, " Pearl of the East." 
(Continued.) 

FROM A Lattice. — Sitting in my win- 
dow at Dimitri's, — a window over- 
hanging the street like a huge birdcage, 
and with broad green blinds propped out in 
front of it, after the fashion of Alpine eaves, 
— I am lost in contemplation of the street- 
travel and traffic, and again and again re- 
call the delightful pages of the Arabian 
Nights. 

Every figure that passes is the living 
image of some hero or heroine in those im- 
mortal ta-les: — the fine animals, thorough- 
bred Arabian,, indeed worthy to be called 
steeds ; the gorgeous trappings, crusted with 
embroideries done in gold or silver thread, 
that cover the high - stepping mares, and 
trail their rich fringes nearly to the ground; 
the shapeless bundles of bright-colored silks 
and satins, with a woman at the core of 
them, — a woman whose dark eyes dart a 
scornful glance at the Christian, as she jogs 
by on her diminutive donkey; the troops 
of donkeys, with their bare-legged boy- 
master cudgelling them bravely, as they 
hang upon the flying heels in breathless 
pursuit; the camels, that eye me contempt- 
uously as they stalk by, with their humps 
as high as my first-floor window, their flabby 
lips pursing within reach of my hand, and 
their clumsy burdens fairly brushing my 
sleeve as I lean from the lattice at Dimitri's. 

Is it not like an Arabian tale? The little 
hunchback, the porter, the royal calendars, 
and the ladies of Bagdad; the barber and 
his six brothers, the sleeper awakened, the 
poor blind man, the slave of love, the en- 
chanted horse — yea, even the forty thieves 
— all, all are here visible to the naked eye, 
and making that wondrous book of Eastern 
romance seem like a reality. Who knows 
but somewhere in the bewildering throng 
beneath my window the young King of the 
Black Isles may be masquerading? Or that 



228 



The Ave Maria. 



the beautiful oue who just passed was a 
Princess of Cathay? Perhaps the Caliph 
Harouu-al-Raschid may not be far distant. 
You will remember his love of adventure; 
and are not all those fairy- people of Arabia 
immortal? 

Among the Pariahs. — From my win- 
dow, looking up a street directly in front of 
me, and down another street which crosses 
it at right angles — the street our hospice 
borders on, — and looking &(Ay about fifty 
paces in each direction, I have counted 
twenty-seven dogs lying asleep in the mid- 
dle of the day, and likewise the middle of 
the way. These are the pariah dogs of the 
Orient, and I believe there are more of them 
in Damascus than in any other city of the 
East. Camels and horses step over them; 
donkeys turn out for them; men ignore 
them; children kick them, beat them with 
sticks, and throw missiles at them; but the 
poor curs only raise their heads, give a yelp 
of pain, and drop off to sleep again. 

It must be borne in mind that there are 
no pavements in Oriental cities; that man 
and beast share the middle of the street, and 
that the pedestrian is in constant danger of 
being run down by some animal or vehicle. 
Yet these dogs sleep calmly in the very 
midst of the thoroughfare; and they sleep 
most of the day — no wonder: they sit up all 
night to bark. 

Of the numberless canines that came 
under my notice in the Orient, I do not re- 
member having seen one without blemish; 
they are bald in spots, weak -jointed, blear- 
eyed, mangy, miserable creatures. No one 
owns them, no one cares for them; they 
live upon the offal that is heaped in the 
streets after dark, and each must fight for 
his share of it. Every dog has his district 
as well as his day; he may travel up and 
down certain streets and lanes, known well 
enough to himself and to his enemies; he 
may toe the border-line of his beat, and 
make mouths at the dogs over the way; he 
may say as many saucy and wicked things 
as he chooses, so long as he remains on his 
own ground; but let him venture a yard 
beyond it, and a score of vengeful canines 



will fall upon him, and rend him limb from 
limb. 

I have seen a sickly and feverish cur 
steal noiselessly into the enemy's camp, to 
slake his thirst at a neighboring fountain. 
While the poor wretch w^as drinking — I 
wonder how he could swallow with his tail 
curled down so tightly! — while he lapped 
greedily and fearfully, his presence was dis- 
covered, and he was at once surrounded. 
A hop-ski p-and-jump would have brought 
him to his native heath, and then it would 
have been his turn to bark; but he was- 
seized at once by a dozen cowardly brutes, 
that dragged him hither and thither, and 
would have devoured him alive, but that 
his piercing cries and the general hubbub- 
brought down his tribe to the rescue. He 
was saved, poor fellow, and limped home 
in the pitch of battle, unobserved by the 
infuriated enemy ; but his ears were torn to 
shreds, and he was so full of holes that had 
he fallen into the fountain which brought 
him so little refreshment, he would have 
filled and sunk inside of ten seconds. 

It is not safe to venture forth after dark 
without one of the long paper lanterns, 
which everyone carries — looking like an 
illuminated concertina standing on end, — 
to light your steps. Indeed, there is a law 
compelling all pedestrians to keep their 
lamps trimmed and burning; hence, also, 
the Scriptural figure: "He shall be a lamp- 
unto your feet, and a light unto your path." 

A story is told of a foolish virgin, or a 
tramp, possibly, who ventured forth alone 
in the dark streets without his lantern ; his» 
stumbling steps were heard, the alarm was 
sounded, and in three minutes he was ten 
feet deep in dogs. When the day broke, and 
the row was over, there was nothing left to- 
tell the tale but a pair of indigestible boots. 

The cry of these outcasts is terrific, but 
it is incessant; and therefore in the course 
of time the ear becomes accustomed to the 
horrible discord, and it is scarcely noticed. 
Can you not see the contempt concentrated 
in the favorite Mohammedan epithet, too 
often hurled at our devoted heads, ' ' Dog 
of a Christian"? 




The Ave Maria. 



229 



Bazaar Life. — The bazaars of Damas- 
cus are extolled above those of Cairo and 
Constantinople; but the bazaar in itself, let 
^ it be wfiere it may, so long as it is sheltered 
from the glare of the sun, and sweetened 
with the perfumes of Arabia, is far too 
iharming a resort ever to lose much by 
:om pari son. 

The Damascus streets, narrow and ill- 
laved — the receptacles of every species of 
omestic filth, — are often covered with steep 
oofs of loosely laid boards or dried palm 
boughs, through which the strong sun-- 
light sifts its powdered gold. In this semi- 
obscurity, jostled continually by the stream- 
ing crowd that surges to and fro, all the 
senses are steeped in the fulness of that 
luxurious Eastern life, which in Damascus 
alone seems as yet to have suffered no notice- 
able decay. 

It was in Damascus, the largest city of 
Syria, containing 110,000 souls, of whom 
90,000 are Mohammedans, that the latter 
fell upon the Christians in 1866, and slew 
them in the streets, in their own houses, 
and even on the very steps of the altar, 
whither they had flown for safety. For days 
the streets ran blood; the bodies of 6,000 
Christian citizens were left where they fell. 
The dogs fed on them; the birds came in 
from the desert to join the feast The per- 
secuted Christians were unable to bury 
their dead; for no sooner had the living 
stolen from their hiding-places than they 
were slaughtered by the bloodthirsty and 
unrelenting Mussulmans. 

It is due to the memory of Abd-el-Kader 
to say here that all his influence was ex- 
erted in behalf of the Christians, and that 
he was ever most charitably disposed; but 
the massacre was not checked until 15,000 
Christians had fallen a prey to Mohamme- 
dan fanaticism. 

You are apt to think of this as you lounge 
in the bazaars of Damascus, and hear from 
time to time some bitter imprecation hissed 
at you under the breath; and, yet, so bewil- 
dering is the spectacle that surrounds you, 
that fear is lost in admiration, and you 
venture onward, filled with childlike won- 



derment. You enter the saddle - market^ 
where there are heaps of huge pillows, gold 
embroidered and with fringes a foot deep. 
These are Oriental saddles, and they make 
a very broad, very flat, and very comfortable 
seat atop of the wee Egyptian donkeys. 
There are straps, girths, bridles, sharp Ara- 
bian bits, clumsy stirrups that hide the 
whole foot, holsters, and gewgaws without 
end, all glittering and jingling — such daz- 
zling paraphernalia as is the pride of the 
circus ring-master, and the delight of the 
applauding populace; yet these are for the 
daily use of the picturesque Damascenes. 

Farther on, the copper-smiths beat noisily 
at their anvils, and display huge platters 
that might almost hold a barbecued ox. 
The bazaar of the second-hand clothier is 
called Luk-el-Kumeleh — literally the louse- 
market. There is something startlinij in 
the naked truths that occasionally surprise 
the tongues of these Levantine euphemists. 
The Greek Bazaar is more general; in it 
one sees almost anything, from food and 
raiment to the far-famed Damascus blades; 
but the latter article has lost both its edge 
and its temper in these degenerate days. 

Afterward, elbow to elbow, a double line 
of booths stretches away into the shadowy 
distance, where the twilight of the place 
dims the brilliant costumes of the loung- 
ers. It is the bazaar of the pipe-sellers. 
Here there are pipes of cocoanut shells and 
ostrich eggs, mounted in gold and silver, 
and having stems a fathom long, with im- 
mense globes of amber for mouth-pieces. 
Then there are the drapers with fabrics 
rainbow- dyed ; camel'shair cloaks — web- 
like tissues with gossamer blossoms floating 
through them as lightly as the down of the 
dandelion. And the booksellers, with their 
precious tomes filled with ancient and 
Eastern lore; lyrics of Persian poets, en- 
grossed on dainty rolls of ivory -smooth 
parchment, tied with a thread of gold; and 
there are sealed volumes of magic and mys- 
tery. It is said that these proud booksellers 
sometimes refuse the money of a Christian 
customer. 

In the silk bazaar one sees embroideries 



230 



The Ave Alarm. 



from the Lebanon; dainty pouches for the 
curled shavings of the fragrant tobacco; 
slippers, millions and millions of them — a 
whole parish filled with nothing but scarlet 
and lemon-colored slippers. Then there 
are draperies from Bagdad, flowered cottons 
from Birmingham, filmy veils from Swit- 
zerland, embroidered window - hangings 
and table-covers from the South of France, 
and fezes — such as everyone wears in the 
Orient, — all made in the factories of Vienna. 
Perhaps it is not generally known that 
many of the so-called Oriental fabrics are 
manufactured in Europe and shipped to the 
bazaars of Cairo, Damascus, and Stomboul. 
Genuine Oriental wares, of all descriptions, 
are growing scarcer every year. 

At the baker-shops and the little cafes 
that are sprinkled through the bazaars one 
sees the thin cakes of flour pasted against 
the sloping sides of small, portable ovens, 
ready to be eaten hot at all hours. The 
baker's boy cries: Ya rezzak! — ^'O giver 
of sustenance! " A sweetish loaf, sopped in 
grape sirup and sprinkled with sesame, is 
offered for sale, with the cry , ' ' Food for swal- 
lows!" Young maidens are specially fond 
of this dish. When water-cresses are sold, 
the vender shouts: "Tender cresses from 
the spring of Ed-Drriyeh. If an old woman 
eats them she is young again next morn- 
ing." And the lad who hawks bouquets 
sings out significantly : " O young husband, 
appease your mother-in-law!" 

The bazaar of the joiners is noisy with 
the saw, the file, and the hammer. Here the 
workers in perfumed wood, and those who 
inlay mother-of-pearl, make the high, stilt- 
like pattens, the small tables, the mirror- 
frames, and the clumsy but ornamental fur- 
niture which the Damascenes delight in. 
The goldsmiths beat their gold into rude 
armlets, and make the tiny and delicate 
filigree stands for the fragile coffee-cups we 
are continually handling. 

The great Khan of Asad Pasha is forever 
associated with the bazaars of Damascus, 
and is just the spot to rest in after one has 
exhausted himself with sight- seeing. It is 
by far the most interesting of all the khans; 



is built of black and yellow stone, the alter- 
nate layers striping the walls to the top. 
Imagine a very large and very lofty hall, 
square, with four tall columns in the centre 
supporting a dome; the central dome sur- 
rounded by eight others of equal size, and 
all of them perforated with starlike win- 
dows, through which the sunlight slants its 
dusty rays. There is a fountain between the 
central columns. Two galleries surround 
the building, and afford shelter for foreign 
merchants, who come to Damascus to pur- 
chase or dispose of wares. These, with their 
retainers, camp along the walls in the gal- 
leries, and, having turned their camels and 
asses loose about the fountain, gather their 
legs under them among the cushions of the 
divans, and smoke or chat or pray, or listen 
to the wandering minstrels and story-tellers, 
who often stray into the khan to charm 
the merchants with their romansas and 
romances. I observed that all business was 
usually suspended until the climax of the 
tale was reached or the singer had sung 
out his song. 

There is a kind of magnetism in the stuffs 
heaped about in broken bales, that is sure 
to drain your pocket sooner or later. I 
wonder if old Abou Antika, who throws 
wide his doors, stirs his snow-chilled sher- 
bet, and lays fire to his best pipes when the 
distinguished foreigner is announced — I 
wonder if he has no compunctions of con- 
science when he closes a bargain, and knows 
that he has defrauded his customer thrice 
over? 

In Abou's bazaar you recline upon Per- 
sian rugs of downy and silken softness, 
while about you are heaped the spoils of 
empires — not the sort of empires that poke 
one another in the ribs with wordy docu- 
ments, and divert one another with the 
exchange of pompous telegrams; but the 
empires that sleep the sleep of the lotos- 
eaters, and dream dreams of an earthly para- 
dise, until they waken from this peaceful I 
dream to war; then, like a tempest-tossed I 
sea, they overflow their borders, carrying 
death and destruction with them. Some- 
thing of the wreck that follows has been 



The Ave Maria. 



231 



fathered and stored in this treasure-house — 

I splendid and barbaric confusion of jewel- 

lilted weapons, and of all the shapely or 

hapeless bric-h-brac that for centuries have 

)een in the jealous keeping of pagan hands. 

^ow a man's heart leaps at the first sight 

\i these covetable keepsakes, lying like 

jlibbish heaps about the bazaar of this 

.niserly Mussulman ; how \v\^porte-monnaie 

.shrivels up beneath the simoon breath of 

the final and fatal bargain! Abou Antika is 

a temptation and a snare. Away with such 

a fellow as he! Mashallah — I have said it! 

(to be continued.) 



Palms. 



BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY. 



CHAPTER XVI.— (Continued.) 

IN the mean time the "mill of the gods" 
had gone on grinding the fine wheat of 
the Lord; at the Temple of Mars, in the 
Flavian Amphitheatre at the Temple of the 
Earth, in the dungeons outside the gates 
and elsewhere in and about Rome, the work 
went on, as it had been going on year after 
year, until more than a lustrum had passed, 
without a sign that it was near the end. 
It was monotonous, and the spectacle of a 
martyrdom was too commonplace now to 
excite much curiosity or interest, except 
when something more extraordinary than 
usual attended it. Besides, the Roman peo- 
ple liked extremes; if they had horrors they 
wanted an even balance of pleasure and 
amusement; and, somehow, it happened 
that just at this time there was more of the 
former and less of the latter than seemed to 
them either agreeable or necessary. 

Something was at hand, however, that 
would not only break the present monotony, 
but give Rome a laugh — under the breath 
be it understood — at the expense of Vale- 
nan Imperator. It was rumored on a certain 
day that the Emperor was going to the 
Temple of Mars, to receive from Laurence 
the Deacon — the same who had been in 
chains in the dungeons of Hippolytus ever 



since his arrest, and had there exercised 
those powers attributed by the pagans to 
magic — the key of the Christian Treasury, 
which contained, it was asserted, an enor- 
mous amount of gold, silver, and jewels. 

In his rich imperial robes, seated in his 
curule chair, surrounded by lictors and 
guards, Valerian awaited his anticipated 
triumph; for was not he the first of the 
Emperors who had been able to wrest their 
concealed treasures from the Christians! 
And was it not a sign that their cause was 
weakening and near its end ? He was in the 
best of spirits, and conversed affably with 
certain of his satellites whom he had in- 
vited to attend him. 

Opposite to him was the catasta^ raised 
by a few steps above the floor of the Prae- 
torium, upon which the criminal usually 
stood, in view of all present. The procu- 
rator, in official robes, occupied his place; 
here were the consiliarii^ there the notaries, 
ready to take down questions and deposi- 
tions. On one side appeared lictors, the keen 
edge of the axe bound up and their fasces 
turned outward ; while against the wall a 
group of savage-looking men, naked to the 
waist, waited with implements of torture, 
ready at a word to spring to their bloody 
work. 

The Praetorium wore the semblance of a 
hall of justice, but Valerian Imperator pre- 
sided. There would be no formal trial; he 
was there to receive, from one pre-judged 
by his own acts, the concealed treasures 
forfeited by his crimes to the State, and to 
deal as the laws of the Empire demanded 
against conspirators and blasphemers of the 
gods; but for the sake of appearances it was 
well for the ofl&cials of the law to be present. 

Outside, a scene was progressing that 
baffles description. Rome seemed to have 
vomited forth all her beggars— halt, blind, 
diseased, — a hollow-eyed, want -stricken, 
tattered army of men, women, and children, 
that, despite the resistance of the guards, 
gathered around the Temple, pressing upon 
one another, and overflowing the great por- 
tico and pillared vestibule. The hum of 
their voices, the angry orders of the soldiers, 



232 



The Ave Maria. 



the sound of blows, followed by shrill out- 
cries, reached the ears of Valerian, like the 
confused roar of a tumult, and a pallid hue 
stole over his bloated visage. Was there a 
revolt? — were assassins at hand, who would 
presently rush in and slay him where he 
sat? His flesh trembled, his brutal heart 
grew faint; but suddenly there was silence, 
and he breathed more freely. 

At that moment Laurence, accompanied 
by Hippolytus and surrounded by guards, 
was ascending the Temple steps, and when 
about half-way he turned for an instant, 
confronting the terrified assemblage below, 
and, lifting his manacled hand, made the 
Sign of Redemption, and breathed forth his 
blessing like a heavenly dew upon them; 
then the guards, recovered from their sur- 
prise, more roughly than before urged his 
advance. 

Although under suspicion of sharing 
with his family and slaves the delusion aris- 
ing from the singular events that had so 
recently occurred in the dungeons of his 
house, Hippolytus had not been interfered 
with, but still had the custody of Laurence, 
as it was believied that through his persua- 
sions the latter would be induced to give 
up the treasures he had in charge. This 
supposition was confirmed by the fact that 
he had consented to yield his secret. 

Hippolytus was not yet openly a Chris- 
tian, although grace had touched his heart, 
and he was almost persuaded that, so far, 
he had had no time to weigh the matter. 
And now what use Laurence expected to 
make of the mob that, with his co-operation, 
he had summoned to meet him on this 9th 
day of August, 258, Hippolytus was at a loss 
to understand; but, supposing that these 
poor wretches were connected in some way 
with the question of the secret treasures, he 
gave the holy deacon his own way, thinking 
that, even should the means seem foolish, 
the result would prove satisfactory. Ac- 
cordingly he whispered an order to the cap- 
tain of the guards as the prisoner entered 
the vestibule, and those who had been 
driven back by blows a few moments before 
were allowed to pour in, until all the avail- 



able space in the Prsetorium was filled. 

Valerian had been promptly informed of 
the harmlessness of the uproar that had sa 
startled him, and quite regained his self- 
possession when he saw the Christian dea- 
con standing on the catasta^ calmly await- 
ing his pleasure. The dignified, composed 
air of Laurence, his serene, fearless counte- 
nance, in whose presence he secretly felt his 
own ignoble inferiority, stung the tyrant, 
who, however, resolved to control himself 
until the coveted treasures were in his pos- 
session; then — let the furies dance and 
Cerberus whet his fangs! 

' ' Thou kno west why thou art here ? De- 
liver up the key of thy treasury, and des- 
ignate its location; then, if thou wilt cast a 
grain of incense in yonder brazier in honor 
of Jupiter, life and liberty are thine," said 
Valerian, in tones which were intended to 
sound conciliatory, but their coarse ram- 
bling had quite the contrary effect. 

"Had I a thousand lives instead of one, 
I would not cast a grain of incense in honor 
of thy gods, which are of stone and metal, 
without sense or feeling," was the clear, 
ringing answer, that penetrated every ear 
in the vast hall. "I have but one life, and 
that belongs to Jesus Christ, the only True 
and Living God, whom I serve and adore^ 
and for the love of whom I am ready to- 
suffer death. As to the treasury of the 
Church, behold it, tyrant! in the poor and 
miserable congregated here and around this 
Temple, who have been brought hither by 
my summons, that thou mightest see and 
know that the Church of Christ hoards 
neither gold nor silver nor precious things, 
but distributes all to the poor." 

The rage of Valerian at an answer that 
demolished with one blow his avaricious 
schemes took from him the power of artic- 
ulate speech, and for a moment or two he 
roared like an infuriated bull, while every 
heart quailed before him, not knowing what 
form his vengeance would take, or on how 
many it might fall, — every heart except 
that of Laurence, which, uplifted above all 
tempests of human wrath, had a foretaste 
of those eternal consolations which would 



The Ave Maria, 



233 



ioon reward him in their complete fulness. 
I At last from the chaos of the tyrant's 
fury words shaped themselves. 

''Seize him, lictors, and scourge him, the 

liar! the deceiver! the blasphemer of the 

;pds! And disperse yonder rabble! — hunt 

em down! trample them in the dust!" 
fie bellowed. 

While the "rabble," weeping for the 
fcacher who had led them into the way of 
falvation, and been their provider and con- 

ler, were being dispersed, and, with obe- 
dient fidelity, "trampled in the dust," — - 
while the lictors were laying bare to his 
■loins the tender flesh of I^aurence, Valerian 
:suddenly remembered that it was due to his 
own dignity to assume au indifferent and 
impartial air, as of a stern judge intent only 
•on the punishment of an offender against 
the State; for had he not been publicly 
•duped, and would not all Rome make a jest 
and comedy of his discomfiture? He knew 
the Roman spirit too well not to feel as- 
sured that its satirical wit would break out 
in epigram and lampoon at his expense; 
that it would be a sweet nut for the teeth 
of every vagabond in the streets, and be 
laughed over equally in the low drinking- 
slums of the city, as (on the sly) even in the 
porticusoi the academies and libraries. Aye! 
he knew the laugh was against* him, and 
that there was no love for him to keep it 
back; but woe betide the audacious Chris- 
tian who had humiliated him! 

Aye! woe indeed, so far as he had power 
over the body. With demoniacal malice he 
looked on, while the lictors with dexterous 
blows bruised the flesh of their unresisting 
victim with their rods, — while the scorpion 
whips of the executioners tore and mangled 
it, expecting, hoping every moment that he 
would cry out or moan with excess of pain. 
But this satisfaction was denied him; for 
I^aurence stood with folded arms and closed 
eyes, turning himself this way and that, as 
he was bidden; the edge of his keen suffer- 
ings dulled by the contemplation of Jesus 
in the Hall of Pilate, counting every blow 
endured for the love of Him precious be- 
yond all price. 



Still more enraged by this heavenly 
composure, which he looked on as defiance, 
but which the devils who instigated him 
understood, the cruel Emperor now caused 
Laurence to be laid upon the rack, and hot 
plates of iron applied to his bleeding, quiv- 
ering sides; but the firmness of the saintly 
victim remained unshaken, his constancy 
unmoved, and no sound escaped his lips ex- 
cept the Holy Name of Him for the sake of 
whom he suffered. 

A soldier named Romanus,who had been 
regulating the tension of the rack, amazed 
at the heroic endurance of the tortured 
Christian, and touched with an emotion of 
pity by his sufferings, turned from his screws 
and pulleys to cast a glance upon him, 
when his astonished eyes beheld an angel 
anointing-his mangled flesh with healing 
balms. And as he gazed upon the heavenly 
visitant — by the others unseen — the inspira- 
tions of divine grace illuminated his mind. 
To loosen the handle of the rack, lift the 
sufferer from his bed of torture, throw him- 
self on his knees at his side and beg for 
baptism, was the work of a moment; then, 
before the lookers-on could understand or 
interfere, he ran out, returned quickly with 
a copper vessel of water, with which Lau- 
rence, rejoicing in the midst of his tribula- 
tion, baptized him. 

(TO BE CONTINUED.) 



Catholic Notes. 



An interesting feature of the great pilgrim- 
age to Notre- Dame de Fourviere on the 5th of 
July was the procession of deaf mutes from 
the Institute of Bourg. These children were 
happy to place themselves under the protec- 
tion of the Blessed Mother of God, and intrust 
themselves to her maternal care. They aston- 
ished all present by the clearness and distinct- 
ness with which they articulated and spoke; 
a truly wonderful result of the caref;; 
to which they had been subj( 
them, not more than ten years 
distinctly the prayers of the 
by the Director of the Institute; 
in a loud voice, recited an Act of 




234 



The Ave Maria, 



to the Blessed Virgin. On leaving the chapel, 
several persons spoke with the little mutes, and 
admired the ease with which they followed 
the conversations, and the aptness of their re- 
plies. 

The investigations made by some of the 
Protestant journals of Montreal have gone 
far to prove that the cure of Miss Hermine 
I^abrie, at the shrine of Ste.-Anne de Beaupre, 
on the 15th of July, was indeed miraculous. 
Several persons who knew Miss Ivabrie for a 
long time bore testimony to the fact that she 
was ill for many years, suffering from nausea, 
vomiting, indigestion, and general debil- 
ity, constantly growing worse, until she be- 
came unable to move without help, and that 
she now enjoys good health. Added to this is 
the certificate of the doctor who attended her 
for six years, and who testifies to his own ap- 
prehensions of a fatal issue to the pilgrimage 
which the invalid longed to make, and which 
was so happily rewarded. Miss I^abrie herself 
related that after her six years of suffering, in 
return for her confidence in I^a Bonne Sainte 
Anne, she was now once more in the enjoy- 
ment of perfect health and strength. In proof 
of this she referred to the fact that when she 
reached home on the evening of the 15th of 
July she actually ran up the stairs, down which 
she had had to be carried in the morning; that 
she had since walked out almost daily to 
church, market, or to visit her friends; that she 
had had been on a second pilgrimage to Ste.- 
Anne de Beaupre to return thanks; in a word, 
that "she was perfectly cured, and wanted all 
the world to know it. ' ' 



The Rev. S. J. Perry, S. J., of ^Stonyhurst 
College, accompanied the astronomical expe- 
dition, which sailed from Southampton, Eng- 
land, on the 29th of July, for the Island of 
Grenada in the West Indies. The expedition 
was sent out by the Royal Society, to observe 
the total eclipse of the sun on the 29th ult. 



A letter from Dublin to the Indianapolis 
Journal pays the following tribute to the faith 
and devotion of the Irish people: 

>* X'have learned to respect the Roman Catholic 
, ChaTCh more than ever before, since my visit to 
this country. Everywhere I find the convents 
filled with the children of the poorer classes, who 
are given an industrial education, — children who 
would otherwise grow up in ignorance and vice. 



At the Convent of Kenmare I found nearly 500 
children received as day pupils. Many of these 
little ones came from five and eight miles in the 
country, and were so poor that a breakfast was 
necessarily given 200 of them upon their arrival, 
and a piece of bread before they started for their 
homes at evening. The magnificent buildings of 
the convent were the donations of one man, who 
is buried beside the altar in a cathedral adjoin- 
ing. Lace-making is taught here, and I was shown 
the bedspread ordered by Queen Victoria, which 
was being skilfully wrought by the nimble fin- 
gers of the misses in these schools. Said the gra- 
cious Sister: ' Maybe you can mention our laces 
to the Americans, that they may order of us; for 
we support ourselves entirely through the gener- 
osity of those who love and see the necessity of 
our work ; for our people are very poor. ' In the 
overcrowded work -houses I saw these gentle- 
mannered, sweet -faced Sisters ministering in 
sickness and in death. In this district I find the 
percentage of crime very low; theft is almost un- 
known, notwithstanding the poverty; women are 
virtuous to an eminent degree. I believe this to 
be owing to the strict surveillance of the Roman 
Catholic religion upon the conscience of these 
people. They live more for the rewards of eter- 
nity than for the pleasures of the present." 

There is an incident — and it is only one 
of many — related of the late illustrious Car- 
dinal Guibert, which well portrays the great 
love which his Eminence always manifested 
towards the poor, — a love carried to such 
bounds that he himself died in poverty. It is 
said that during the first years following his 
promotion to the See of Paris, the members of 
his household remarked that at a certain hour 
each morning the Archbishop left the palace, 
in the dress of a simple priest, returned after 
some time, and retired to his library, without 
a word to any one. These daily absences were 
so regular, and so mysteriously conducted, 
that curiosity was excited, and the private 
secretary determined to try and solve the mys- 
tery. One morning, after the Archbishop left 
the house, the secretary quickly followed, and 
soon observed him enter a house in a poor 
narrow street. The secretary also entered the 
house, and hid himself in a corner. After 
waiting about half an hour he saw the Arch- 
bishop come out of a certain room, and walk 
quickly away. He then knocked at the door 
himself, and, obeying the invitation to enter, 
found himself in a very modest but neat apart- 
ment, occupied by a poor, infirm old woman. 
"Madame," said the secretary, "there was a 



k. 



The Ave Maria. 



235 



•riest here just now. " " Yes, sir. " " What 
lid he come here for ? " " He comes here every 
lay to fix my little room for me. He brings 
he table near my bed, arranges my food and 
aedicine; then he speaks to me so beautifully 
)f the goodness and mercy of God, exhorts me 
:b resignation; then he leaves some means of 
ipport, gives me his blessing, and retires. 
' sir, this priest is, indeed, most charita- 

iThe secretary, greatly moved on hearing 
[is recital, comforted the poor invalid, gave 
\x some alms, and returned to the archiepis- 
)pal residence, blessing God, who had given 
the diocese a pastor whose life recalled the vir- 
tues of St, Charles Borromeo. 



The Catholic pilgrimage to the place of mar- 
tyrdom of Father Jogues, near Auriesville, N. Y,, 
was very large on the Feast of the Assumption. 
The place promises to' become a shrine. — Mich- 
igan Catholic. 

The ' ' place ' ' has already become a shrine, 
as witnessed by the pilgrimages and the in- 
creasing devotion to Our I^ady of Martyrs. 



A General Chapter of the Congregation of 
the Holy Cross was held at the Mother House, 
^Otre Dame, Ind., during the week ending 
August 21. The Chapter was presided over by 
the Very Rev. guperior- General, Father Ed- 
ward Sorin, the founder of Notre Dame, also 
of The "Ave Maria." There were present 
delegated representatives of the Community 
from various parts of the Vorld, among whom 
were Mgr. Dufal, formerly Vicar- Apostolic of 
Eastern Bengal, now Procurator- General of the 
Congregation at Rome, and the Very Rev. Pro- 
vincials of France and Canada, together with 
representatives of the priests and brothers in 
the various provinces in which the Community 
holds establishments in Europe and America. 
The Chapter was opened on the Feast of the 
Vssumption, with Pontifical Mass of the Holy 
jhost, celebrated by Mgr. Dufal, after which 
the sessions were held each day, and measures 
deliberated upon and approved for the wel- 
fare of the Congregation. The holding of this 
General Chapter marks a feature in American 
Catholic history, as it is the second of the 
kind in this country since its discovery by 
Columbus. 

Acorrespondentof the Western Watchman, 
noticing Father L^ambing's excellent article 



on ' ' Holy Water, ' ' which appeared recently 
in The "Ave Majiia," quotes the following 
from Mgr. Barbier in regard to the custom of 
taking holy water on leaving the church: 

"The holy-water font, as its name indicates, is 
a vase intended to contain holy water for the use 
of the faithful, who bless themselves [with it] on 
entering the church, and not when leaving; for 
they purify themselves to enter the holy place; 
but when they leave it they should have no further 
use for the spiritual succor, sanctified as they 
have been by prayer, the Sacraments, and the lit- 
urgic offices. Such is the practice universally 
followed at Rome." 



New Publications. 



The Cardinal Archbishop of Westmin- 
ster. With Notes. By John Oldcastle. London: 
Burns & Gates. New York: The Catholic Pub- 
lication Society Co. 

We think the principal charm of this vol- 
ume lies in the four portraits of Cardinal 
Manning, taken at wide intervals during his 
life, which would of themselves make it a de- 
sirable acquisition to the library. For the rest, 
we fail to see the motive of the work. If the 
author has intended it for those who are un- 
acquainted with the history of the Cardinal 
Archbishop, he has not said enough; for al- 
though, in anticipation of some such criticism, 
he tells us in the preface that ' ' the wise say 
least," they are, for the most part, enabled to 
make their meaning clear. He gives us where- 
with to whet the literary appetite of practised 
readers, but not enough to inform the uncriti- 
cal and more careless average reading mind. 
Again, if the purpose of the author has been 
to impress the numerous admirers of the Car- 
dinal with a fuller sense and appreciation of 
his great talents, his unswerving loyalty to 
truth, his wonderful discrimination and he- 
roic virtues, the effort seems to us superfluous. 
"By their works ye shall know them," and 
the Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster has 
long been the central figure in contempora- 
neous English Catholic history. We deprecate 
the idea of flattery, although Mr. Oldcastle 's 
work just fails of being fulsome to those who 
can not read between the lines. 

Catholic Controversy. From the Writ- 
ings of St. Francis de Sales. Same Publishers. 
The third volume of the ' ' lyibrary of St. 



236 



'Ilie Ave JMarici. 



Francis de Sales," now being presented to the 
public by the Benedictine Fathers, is the fa- 
mous treatise of St. Francis to the Calvinists of 
the Chablais, written in his own inimitable, 
gentle yet convincing way, — the way by which 
he brought so many souls to God. By many 
authorities this book is considered the best of 
his writings, though where all are so charm- 
ing it is difficult to particularize. We of the 
nineteenth century, with our lauded philan- 
thropic tendencies, should be specially at- 
tracted towards St. Francis, whose sympathies 
for the weak and those in error were the lode- 
stone that attracted even the most violent 
opponents of his own time. He has taken all 
the hardness and dryness out of controversy 
in these beautifully written expositions and 
explanations of faith, making it all the more 
desirable reading for Protestants as well as 
Catholics. The translator's preface is volumi- 
nous and interesting, forming a fitting intro- 
duction to the book, for which we predict 
success. 

The Sacrbd Hearts of Jksus and Mary, 
etc. A Manual of Devotion especially intended 
for the Members of the Apostleship of Prayer. 
Compiled from the German Publications of the 
Rev. Joseph Aloysius Krebs, of the Congrega- 
tion of the Most Holy Redeemer. New York and 
Cincinnati: F. Pustet & Co. 

Although, as announced on the title-page, 
this little book is especially intended for the 
members of the Apostleship of Prayer, it will 
prove a valuable incentive to pietj^ in every 
Catholic home. It is a carefully culled bouquet 
from the garden of the saints, of which the 
flowers are prayers and multiplied forms of 
devotion to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and 
Mary. It contains five methods of hearing 
Mass, short meditations for every day in June, 
with a complete explanation of the object of 
the Apostleship of Prayer, besides many beau- 
tiful indulgenced prayers, and several litanies. 
Withal, it is nicely bound, printed in clear, 
attractive type, and is offered to the public for 
the moderate sum of one dollar. 

We are in receipt of an oleograph por- 
trait of his Eminence Cardinal Gibbons, just 
brought out by Messrs. Benziger Brothers. It 
is a very creditable piece of color-printing, and 
is said to be an excellent likeness of our new 
Cardinal. Size, 13 inches by 10. Price, 60 
cents. 




PARTMENt 



Norine's Promise. 



I. 

It was a summer evening, resplendent 
with all the varied loveliness of earth and 
sky, when the inmates of a convent school 
left their respective class-rooms, to enjoy the 
usual recreation. The gracefully arched ve- 
randas, over which the light-hearted troops 
glided or skipped, opened on a lawn, that 
stretched far and wide beneath magnificent 
shade trees, which partially concealed from 
the railroad near by ^ monastic edifice, 
stately indeed, but not ennobled by the 
poesy of antiquity. Soon peals of laughter 
rent the air; hoops were trundled, croquet- 
balls driven, sides taken for tennis, etc. 

One group of grown-up misses remained 
on the veranda, slowly pacing back and 
forth, discussing some theme treated during 
class hours. Suddenly one of them quietly 
drew aside from her companions, bounded 
over the shaven sward to a sequestered 
nook, in which she observed a favorite 
teacher, and knelt beside her arm-chair. 

"I hope you are feeling better, Sister? 
I am glad to see you out this fine evening." 

A blush overspread the pallid counte- 
nance of the invalid, like a flame behind 
fine porcelain, as she replied, in a low, sweet 
voice: "Thanks, Norine. I am far from 
well; indeed, I never shall be well until I 
go to meet our dear Lord. Sister Ignatia 
is so kind. She had me brought here, be- 
cause she thought the air would refresh 
me." Then, pointing to the sunset, she 
added: "Does it not seem as if the gates j 
of heaven were unfolding? lyook at those 
royal purple clouds edged with fiery flame. 
Oh! I long to be away!" 

."But we can not spare you yet, dear 
Sister," said Norine, in a caressing tone 

' ' Something assures me that I shall not 
tarry much longer. I shall soon be at rest. 



I 






The Ave Maria, 



237 



)li! long- desired rest!" And Sister Bene- 
icta sighed. 
"Rest in the Sacred Heart of Jesus," 
( choed Norine. Yet she wondered why the 

rir invalid should sigh, since the thought 
Death was so consoling to her, and his 
fcit so near. 

^ Both kept silence a while. 
Norine had been educated in the convent, 
;ind had ever considered Sister Benedicta 
"an angel," but still a mourning angel. 
Nothing could have pleased the girl better 
than to have it in her power to do a favor 
for a teacher whoifi she loved dearly. Still, 
what could she do for her? If consolation 
in a spiritual way were needed, had not the 
Sister everything requisite as a religious? 
And could she offer anything temporal to 
one who had contemned the superfluous 
goods of earth? Her life had been perfect: 
there could be no remorse. These thoughts 
flashed through tlie mind of the affection- 
ate girl, when Sister Benedicta said: 

"Norine, I must see you before I die. I 
will obtain the necessary permission. Help 
me, dear, to rise and go to the house; I fear 
the dew is beginning to fall." 

Norine was about to offer her assistance, 
when two Sisters advanced to support the 
invalid. 

"Take these roses, dear Sister," said 
Norine, presenting her a nosegay of rare 
blooms, which she had arranged whilst they 
were chatting. "I cultivated them myself 
in my own little garden; they are more 
fragrant than white roses generally are, I 
think." 

"I accept them most gratefully. You 
will lay them for me before the statue of 
Our Lady. Now good-night, dear; I shall 
soon see you again. ' ' And they parted. 

II. 
A few days later the Mother Superior 
summoned Norine to her room, and said: 
"My child, Sister Benedicta would like to 
ee you. Go quietly up the stairway to the 
corridor on the first floor; you will find her 
awaiting you in the last little room." 

"Is she going to die?" asked the girl, 
tears vStarting in her eyes. 



"Not to-day, I presume," said Mother 
Beatrice ; "at least, we hope to keep her 
with us some time yet; for she suffers so 
patiently that she draws down blessings on 
the school and the community. Now go, 
dear; and pay great attention to what Sister 
will tell you." 

Norine, deeply moved, and feeling a cer- 
tain natural dread of seeing a dying person, 
ascended the stairway, and passing through 
a long, broad corridor, from which doors 
opened on either side, each one marked by 
the picture of a saint, or a holy legend, 
she at length reached the room indicated. 
Sister Benedicta was alone. The half-raised 
curtains displayed the frail form, propped 
up with pillows, her long, slender fingers 
clasping th^ crucifix of her rosary. Sweetly 
smiling, she beckoned her timid pupil 
closer to her; and Norine, reverently kissing 
the wax-like hand, interiorly wondered why 
she should have been called in preference 
to her numerous companions. 

The dark, expressive eyes of the Sister 
seemed to be penetrating the veil which 
hid some more distant sphere. 

"Sister Ignatia has left me for a little 
while, to attend to her devotions ; so take a 
chair, dear," she said, gently. 

The trembling visitor quietly obeyed. 

"My dear Norine, did you ever hear my 
name mentioned in your family ? " 

"No, Sister — never," replied the won- 
dering girl. 

' ' I am a distant relative of your grand- 
mother, Mrs. de Reville." 

Norine, in her surprise, hardly knew 
what to answer. After a moment she said : 
"I never saw my grandmother, but we 
have a full-length portrait of her." 

' ' Yes, I know. It hangs in the red par- 
lor," said the Sister, with the gentlest, 
sweetest of smiles. "Well, my father's 
family being numerous and expensive, Mrs. 
de Reville proposed that I should take the 
place of lady companion to her; and as she 
was a relative of my father, no objection was 
offered. Your father did not reside with his 
mother, but frequently came to see her." 

The Sister remained vsilent a few mo- 



238 



The Ave Maria, 



ttients, as if raising her heart to God, then 
sipped a potion near her, and went on: 

"Your father and I both loved music, and 
we often played and sang together; for I 
used to grow weary of reading to Mrs. de 
Reville, and he was fatigued from business 
occupations. Insensibly an attachment was 
formed between us, and your father was 
anxious that I should accept his hand in 
marriage. Your grandmother opposed the 
match, on the plea of consanguinity ; but, 
more likely, because I was poor. Your father 
persisted. Not thinking it right that he 
should disobey his mother, I wrote to my 
parents, who immediately took me home. I 
consulted God in prayer, and resolved to 
decline any further attentions from Mr. de 
Reville. The sacrifice cost me much, but I 
soon found occupation in charitable works, 
and after a while I became not only re- 
signed but happy, in the desire of conse- 
crating myself unreservedly to God in the 
religious state. When I took the veil, a 
heavenly peace entered my heart, and amply 
repaid me for all my sacrifices. 

"But your father was not so fortunate 
in the methods he adopted to banish me, a 
wretched creature, from his thoughts. In- 
stead of seeking strength in prayer, he gave 
himself up to worldly pleasures. After a 
time he married; but neither marriage nor 
paternity succeeded in keeping him to his 
Christian duties. The news of his sad career 
reached ^me in my cloistered home. Your 
mother died soon after your birth. She was, 
therefore, spared the pain of knowing that 
her husband had joined the Masonic sect. 
The thought of Mr. de Reville' s dangerous 
state is the only event in my family that 
has caused me any serious anxiety since I 
entered this blessed retreat. I have prayed 
daily, performed continual acts of self-de- 
nial, and all the penances my superiors 
would permit, to obtain the conversion of 
your father, but my supplication is still un- 
answered. I sent for you, dear Norine, to 
ask you to replace me as petitioner before 
the Throne of Mercy." 

Sister Benedicta seized the hands of her 
youthful listener, and hot tears fell upon 



them as she asked the girl if she was willing 
to fulfil her dying request. Norine, over- 
whelmed with emotion, turned to a large 
crucifix suspended near the bedside, and, 
with streaming eyes and quivering lips, said : 
' ' Sister, I promise you that I will pray for 
papa's conversion until my latest breath." 

The religious sunk back exhausted on the 
pillows, while a beam of heavenly joy stole 
ov^r her emaciated but still beautiful face. 
"Then, dear Norine, I can die in peace. I 
know that you will keep your sacred prom- 
ise; and, thank God, I have naught else to 
disturb me in my last moments." 

Two days later Death claimed his vic- 
tim, and the last cry of her purified soul — 
"Mercy, O my Jesus! " — was, possibly, not 
for herself alone. 

(CONCIvUSION IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.) 



Miss Discontent. 



BY M. J. B. 

It was late in the afternoon, on a bright 
September day, when a young girl lay on 
the grass, at the foot of a shady old apple- 
tree. Discontent was written in her face, 
every line of which suggested the aptness 
of the name ' ' Miss Discontent, ' ' as she was 
called by her brother Ed. 

Belle lyce had not always been known 
by such an ugly name. Hardly more than 
a year ago she lay under that same old tree, 
a bright, happy, contented little country- 
girl. But one day Aunt Margaret came to 
visit her relatives on the old farm, and on 
returning to her city home succeeded in 
persuading her brother to allow his little 
daughter to accompany her. She had taken 
a great fancy to the child, and would like to 
have her spend a year with her, and attend 
a fashionable school in the city. Before the 
year was out, however. Aunt Margaret died, 
and Belle returned home, a changed girl, — 
not the merry, laughing maiden of a few 
months ago, but a sullen, gloomy, discon- 
tented miss, who considered herself an un- 
fortunate, much-abused person, and who 




The Ave Maria, 



239 



5pent the most of her time in reading and 
mswering the letters of the bosom friend 
3f her city life, Miss Adele Wilton. 

So Belle lay on the grass that bright au- 
tumn day. Her hat was thrown carelessly 
iside, and in her hand she held Adele' s last 
etter, which she had just finished reading 
for about the twentieth time. Oh ! what a 
happy girl was Adele! She was not obliged 
to live in an out-of-the-way country place, 
where there were no houses within two 
miles, no fine shops, no picture galleries, 
no museums — nothing, in fact, to make life 
endurable, much less pleasant; and Belle 
flung the letter away, and, covering her 
face with her hands, groaned aloud: 

"Belle! Belle! isn't this your letter? I 
found it on the grass behind that bush," 
called the bright, young voice of Alice Lee. 
In another minute she was at her sister's 
side, exclaiming: ' ' Why, what in the world 
is the matter. Belle? You look simply 
awful!" 

"Oh! everything is the matter!" an- 
swered the girl, in a tragic tone. ' 'Alice, do 
you know, I'd just as soon be dead, and 
lying at rest under the green grass, as buried 
alive in this way. ' ' 

"O dear! it all comes from that horrid 
school! I wish you had never gone there! 
And I suppose it is Adele who has been 
telling you that you are buried alive. May 
I see what she does say ? " 

Belle handed her sister the letter, and 
Alice read aloud, commenting as she went: 

"My Own Poor, Dear Littt.e Country- 
GiRi,! — [Hem! what does she mean by calling you 
herown? You're not hers: you're ours. And poor? 
We're rich enough.] Buried alive [I thought so !] 
as doubtless you feel you are, in your seques- 
tered, suburban retreat, [O my! She's been swal- 
lowing the dictionary!] a letter telling of the gay 
life of our delightful city must surely be, I might 
almost say, a godsend to you, mon pauvre Belle! 
[That young lady needs a French grammar.] And 
I have such a delightful party to tell you of! 

"It was that long-looked-for birthday /^/^ of 
Maude Hunter's, and in every way it fulfilled our 
fondest hopes. Ah! dearest, how I wish you 
could have been there! For, although there was 
one other girl who had nearly as handsome a dress 
as mine — and mine was made by that divinely 
fashionable Mrs. F.,— still it was the nearest ap- 



proach to heaven on earth that I have ever yet 
experienced. [Queer idea she has of heaven !] My 
dress was of — [bother! here's a whole description 
of what each one wore, the names of those with 
whom she danced, and all that kind of stuff. I'll 
skip it, and go on to the next page.] All those who 
were at your party I met again last night. Almost 
all were inquiring very particularly for you, and I 
was charged with so many messages of condolence 
that I hardly remember one. [Sad !] But I assure 
you, my fragrant and boxed-up little flower, that 
you are not forgotten, and have left much of your 
sweetness far behind. [I think you left it all far 
behind; we don't perceive it, anyhow.] You must 
have been one of those whom the poet had in his 
mind when he wrote: 

" 'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. ' 

"Take comfort, my own, in that thought, and 
who knows what may happen ? My sweet one, 
you must spend the coming Winter with me. 
Your parents will not possibly have the heart to 
refuse you this short-lived pleasure. [I'm afraid 
they will !] So, Belle dearest, let me know in your 
next how soon I may expect you. Mamma says 
I may have that little room next to mine newly 
fitted up in whatever style I wish. If you come, 
it shall be done in rose color, which will charm- 
ingly set off" your dark eyes and raven tresses 
[romantic!] ; while if you do not, I shall fit it up in 
pale blue, and invite that dear little blonde, Mabel 
Summers, to take your place. 

' ' I will not apologize for the length of this; for 
I imagine any break, however dull, in the monot- 
ony of your life, must be welcome to you, my 
poor dear! But adieu for the present; I shall await 
your reply with impatience. 
"Ever yours till death, 

"AdeIvE W11.TON." 

As Alice finished reading, she remarked: 
''O Belle! wouldn't I love to answer that 
letter!" 

"Why?" asked "Miss Discontent." 

"Well, just to give her a few points on 
matters and things in general, and then to 
tell her what I think of her — that she is a 
silly, insincere, horrid sort of a person, and 
that she is doing you more harm than — 
than — paris green." 

Belle hastily sprang to her feet, exclaim- 
ing : ' ' How dare you, Alice ! — how dare you 
speak so of my friend! She is the dearest 
girl in all the world, and her letter just 
shows her own beautiful character. It is so- 
kind of her to invite me, and offer to have a 
room fitted up in my favorite color!" 



240 



The Ave Maria, 



*' I don't think she will die of disappoint- 
ment if you don't go; for she appears to 
have 'that dear little blonde' qnite handy. 
To tell the truth, Belle, I did believe that 
you had more spirit than to like either a 
letter or a girl of that description. I should 
think you wouldn't want to acknowledge 
that you missed those things so much. 
Write a letter that will make her envy you 
the many delightful pleasures of a country 
life. Tell her she can not imagine how 
much she loses." 

"She loses nothing but the dulness." 
"O bother, Belle! If you have resolved 
to be stupid and not understand me, there 
is no use in talking; but I must tell you a 
thought that came into my head last night. 
Whether I read it in a book or heard some- 
body repeat it, I can not remember. All I 
know is that I found it stored up in my 
memory, and, like Cap' en Cuttle, 'when 
found, I made a note on't, ' — made a note to 
keep us both from being discontented, and 
make us feel proud. Here it is, scrawled on 
this scrap of paper. ' ' 

Belle took the .slip, and read : 
"Sow not wishes in other people's gardens. 
Don't try to be anything- different from what you 
are, but the very best of what you are. The great- 
est secret of happiness is to make the most of the 
circumstances in which you happen to be placed." 

' ' Miss Discontent ' ' slowly lifted her eyes 
to her sister's face. 

"Well, don't you think that's true?" 
asked Alice. 

A silent nod was the answer. 

"Do laugh. Belle! Don't look so glum. 
What fun we could have, if you would only 
wake up and enjoy it! Why, if you so sigh 
for the ball-room, we can all come out here 
this very evening and dance like daddy- 
long-legs. You can climb up in that tree, 
and, taking the moon and stars for your 
lamps, imagine you are in your paradise. 
The fruit will serve for refreshments, and 
the song of the — the — ' ' 

"Mosquitos?" suggested Belle. 

"Well, yes: even the mosquito's song 
would do for music — be very good, in fact; 
for it would touch you, and you would feel 
^what you heard. ' ' 



Belle was forced to laugh. Just then a 
voice called from the house: "Alice! Alice! " 
"There, mamma is calling me! " said the 
young philosopher; and she tripped mer- 
rily away to answer her mother's siimnions. 
Belle, the smile still lingering on her lips, 
leaned back against her ball-room, and 
thought, thought, thought for fully half an 
hour. 

"Halloo, 'Miss Discontent'! Aren't you 
coming to supper to-night?" sang out a 
voice close behind her. But as the speaker 
peeped into her fice, he exclaimed: "Why, 
Miss Belle Lee, I am delighted to see you 
back amongst us once more! How do you 
do! Allow me to escort you to our evening 
meal." And the gallant Ed marched his 
favorite sister off under his arm. Belle 
laughed outright as she said : ' ' Ed, are you 
not glad 'Miss Discontent' has gone back 
to the city?" 

"You bet I am!" was the emphatic 
though not elegant answer. "Hope she'll 
never come back." 

At supper Belle told about her new ball- • 
room, and what Alice had proposed for to- 
night. Everyone was delighted with the 1 
novel idea, and Will added that when they 
grew tired of the trees, they might have a 
moonlight dance on the lawn, and his fiddle 
should furnish the music. It was a merry 
supper- table ; for Belle — their own real 
Belle — was amongst them once more, and 
that disagreeable intruder had gone. 

But there was sad news awaiting Belle. 
Two weeks later a letter came from Adele, 
telling of her mother's sudden death, and 
her own absence at the time, though she 
had been told by her father "to remain in 
the house that night, as mamma was not, 
feeling very well. But I did so want to goj 
to that party," wrote Adele; "and mamma 
seemed only to be a little weak, so I went 
and, O Belle! have I not been punished? 
If you only knew how I feel ! ' ' 
"Poor, poor Adele!" cried Belle. 
Yes, indeed, she was to be pitied now. 
That terrible news drove "Miss Discon- 
tent" farther and farther away; in fact, sht 
never again came back to the dear old farm 




\^oi.. XXIII. NOTRE DAME, INDIANA, SEPTEMBER ii, 1886. No. 11. 



I» 



[Copyright :— lUv. D. E. Hudsoh, C. S. C] 



The Holy Name of Mary. 




HE name of Mary has always been 
held in especial reverence in the 
Church, and was in former ages 
considered too holy to be given in baptism. 
To bestow it on a woman, were she even of 
the blood royal, would have been deemed an 
impropriety. When Alphonsus VI., King 
of Castile, chose for his spouse a woman 
of Moorish origin, who ardently desired to 
receive in baptism the name of Mary, the 
Prince opposed this, saying that it would be 
a profanation of the sacred name for it to be 
borne by any except the Queen of Heaven. 
In the marriage articles of L/adislaus, King 
of Poland, and Marie Louise, of the family 
of the Counts of Nevers, a clause was in- 
troduced, expressly stipulating that Marie 
Louise should renounce her first name; and 
since that time this venerated name of Mary 
has never been conferred on any one in the 
Kingdom of Poland. 

In our days a directly opposite usage has 
obtained, and the name of Our Lady is the 
one most frequently and most joyfully given 
in baptism ; it is even often conferred upon 
men in combination with other Christian 
names. Both its avoidance and its use are 
founded upon the same sentiment of respect. 
The saints whose names we bear being 
?iven us by the Church as patrons, parents 
ove to place their children under the pro- 
ection of Her who, ^s Mother of God and 
3ueen of all the saints, enjoys the highest 



power of any creature in heaven or on earth. 
After the names of God and Jesus 
Christ, that of Mary is the most sacred, the 
most venerated by angels and by men, the 
most dreaded by the powers of hell; and cer- 
tain theologians of approved merit have not 
hesitated to affirm that the pious invocation 
of this name, selected by God Himself, pro- 
duces the most salutary effects; not only 
on account of the dispositions of the person 
pronouncing it, or ex opere operantis^ as the 
schoolmen have it, but ex opere operato^ — 
that is,by its own proper and inherent virtue, 
as is the case in regard to all the Sacra- 
ments and to some sacramentals. However 
this may be, it is certain that the most beau- 
tiful of names, given by divine ordinance 
to the most pure and most august of all 
creatures, ought to have an exceptional ef- 
ficacy; and the experience of ages shows 
us that it has never been invoked in vain. 
Mary, our Mother, is always ready to succor 
her children when they call upon her. 

The veneration of the name of Mary is 
as ancient as the practice of devotion to the 
Blessed Virgin — dating from the very foun- 
dation of the Church; but it was long cher- 
ished as an exclusively private devotion. 
In the year 1513 the Apostolic See permitted 
the celebration of the Feast of the Holy 
Name of Mary in the city and diocese of 
Cuenga, in Spain. The special office com- 
posed for this occasion was omitted when 
the Breviary, by commandof St. Pius V.,was 
reformed; but SixtusV. caused its insertion; 
and henceforward its use, instead of being 



242 



The Ave Maria, 



confined to Spain, was adopted in all coun- 
tries. At first it was celebrated on a fixed 
day (the 2 2d of September). Subsequently 
it became a movable feast, and is appointed 
for the Sunday within the Octave of Our 
Blessed Lady's Nativity, unless the occur- 
rence of a feast of a higher order requires 
that it shall be transferred. 

The feast was solemnized in the various 
dioceses only in virtue of particular conces- 
sions, until an event occurred of the gravest 
importance for Christian Europe, the happy 
results of which inspired Innocent XI. with 
the thought of extending the privilege to 
the Universal Church. Vienna was besieged 
by the Turks with an overwhelming mul- 
titude of soldiery; and if this city had been 
then taken, no human power could have 
preserved Christian Europe from destruc- 
tion. In this extremity universal prayer was 
ordered for the triumph of the Christian 
arms, and the intercession of the Most Holy 
Virgin was specially implored. A brilliant 
victory, achieved under the most extraor- 
dinary circumstances, manifested that the 
world had not trusted in vain to the protec- 
tion of Mary. The Turks were obliged to 
raise the siege; John Sobieski,who was the 
principal instrument of their defeat, pur- 
sued and overthrew them, reducing them for 
the time to a state of utter powerlessness. 

To excite the gratitude of Christians 
towards the Mother of God, to whose favor 
he justly ascribed this remarkable success, 
the same Pontiff commanded that the Feast 
of the Holy Name of Mary should be cele- 
brated by all Christendom. His decree met 
with opposition from a few individuals, who, 
believing themselves wiser and more pru- 
dent than the Church, contended that the 
institution of this feast elevated the name 
of the Blessed Virgin to an equality with 
that of Our Lord Jesus Christ, which was 
already honored by a special, appointed sol- 
emnity. The piety of the faithful, however, 
was not shaken, and the pontifical decree 
was everywhere accepted. 

We can suggest no reflections more pow- 
erful to enkindle devotion in the hearts of 
the children of Mary than those St. Bernard 



sets forth in the following eloquent passage: 
''''''And the name of the Virgin was 
Mary. ' Let us speak in brief, of this name, 
signifying Star of the Sea, which is rightly 
applied to the Virgin-Mother. Even as a 
star transmits its rays unaltered, so did the 
Blessed Virgin bring forth her Son without 
detriment to her virginity. The transmis- 
sion of its rays does not decrease the brill- 
iancy of the star: the integrity of the Virgin 
is unchanged in giving us her Son. She is 
that Star of Jacob, illuminating the entire 
universe, shining amidst the splendors of 
heaven, penetrating even into hell, animat- 
ing souls upon earth to continual increase 
of virtues, to constant victory over vices. 
Yes, she is indeed that lustrous Star, whose 
beams ever shine upon the vast sea of life, 
glorious in merit, our perpetual exemplar. 
"O you! whoever you may be, who feel 
yourself borne away by the mighty current 
of this world, tossed by storm and tempest, 
in order that you be not overwhelmed by 
the waves fix your eyes upon that shining 
Star. If the winds of temptation drive you 
towards the rocks of distress, regard the 
Star — invoke Mary. If the tossing waters of 
pride, ambition, detraction, jealousy, arise 
against you, regard the Star — invoke Mary. 
If anger, avarice, the seductions of the flesh, 
threaten the little bark of your soul, turn 
your eyes to Mary. If troubled by the great- 
ness of your crimes, covered with confusion 
by a burdened conscience, terrified at the 
thought of judgment feeling yourself about 
to plunge into the abyss of sadness and de- 
spair, think of Mary. In d mger, in distress,! 
in uncertainty, think of Mary, invoke Mary. 
Let her name be ever on your lips, hei 
memory ever in your heart; and that you 
may obtain her prayers, imitate her life. 
Following her, you will never go astray j 
praying to her, you need never despair 
thinking of her, you will be secure of guid 
ance. If she sustains, you will not fall; if sh 
protects, you need not fear; if she conductsj 
fatigue will vanish; if she is propitiou 
you will attain your end ; and your own ex 
perience will show you how justly it is saic 
''And the name of the Virgin was Mary, 



I 




The Ave Maria, 



H3 



Hymn to the Sacred Heart. 



BY M. A. 



ESCKNDING from Thy throne on high, 
lyord of the Sacred Heart! 
^o every soul Thou drawest nigh, 

All loving as Thou art! 
From such a height of holiness 

To such a depth of love! — 
But our poor words are powerless 

Our gratitude to prove. 

O would our hearts were temples blest, 

Fragrant with lovely flowers, 
Wherein Thy Sacred Heart might rest. 

As in yon heavenly bowers! — 
Where holy angels fain might come 

To love and worship Thee, — 
Where Thy dear Heart might find a home 

Of peace and purity! 

Dear Lord, while kneeling to adore 

Before Thy sacred shrine, 
, A special blessing we implore. 

To keep us ever Thine; 
^hat we may live for Thee alone. 

And ne'er from Thee depart; 
Make us Thine own, ' ' Thy very own, ' ' 

lyord of the Sacred Heart! 



Philip's Restitution. 



BY CHRISTIAN REID. 



XL 



A FEW days later Philip decided to put 
t\. his fate to the touch, so far as Constance 
^as concerned. He felt that he must know 
before speaking to his uncle again what his 
luswer was to be, and he could not know 
hat before he had sounded Constance. If 
ihe were willing even to entertain the 
hough t of becoming a Catholic, it would 
)e enough for the present; for surely, he 
considered, there need be no haste about 
heir marriage. Opportunities to speak to 
ler were not lacking, and he took advan- 
age of an occasion when they were together 
ne day in Mrs. Thornton's private sitting- 



room — a charming apartment, to which 
only her most intimate friends were ever 
admitted. 

It was in the morning, and Philip had 
entered the room, to find the young girl 
sitting by one of the windows, intent on an 
elaborate piece of artistic needlework. Her 
graceful figure and fair head outlined 
against the light, her fingers busy with the 
rich-hued silks, made a pretty picture — so 
pretty that he wondered a little that it left 
him so cold. They exchanged a few words 
on indifferent subjects, and then he re- 
mained silent so long that she glanced up 
at him interrogatively. He answered the 
glance by drawing nearer and sitting down 
before her. 

"Constance," he began, abruptly, "I 
have something to say to you." 

The sea-shell pink on Constance's cheek 
deepened, for she knew that there could be 
only one thing which Philip would have to 
say to her in this formal manner; but she 
did not lift her eyes again. She only said, 
' ' What is it ? ' ' very quietly. 

" It is something which I think you must 
know as well as I, " answered Philip, who 
had not given much thought to the manner, 
but only to the matter of what he had to 
say. ' ' You must be aware that my uncle 
and your aunt wish us to marry. ' ' 

Constance's lips moved slightly in what 
was apparently an assent, but no audible 
sound issued from them, and her eyes still 
remained fastened on her work, though her 
hand that drew the needleful of silk through 
the cloth trembled a little. 

' ' I can not tell what you may think of it, 
on your side, ' ' said Philip, who hated him- 
self for his coldness, yet felt unable to sum- 
mon any more warmth to his manner; "but 
to me it is — it appears — most desirable. ' ' 

' ' Does it ? " asked Constance. She lifted 
her eyes now, and looked at him with a 
composure which he had not expected. ' ' I 
understand," she went on, "why my uncle 
and aunt desire such an — arrangement. ^ I 
should be very stupid if I did not. But why 
do you desire it ? " 

"I!" said Philip. He was conscious of 



244 



The Ave Maria. 



coloring. How could he say, ' ' Because they 
do"? and yet what other answer was pos- 
sible? He looked at the fair face before 
him, and felt that another answer should 
be possible. ' ' Because, ' ' he replied, after a 
slight hesitation, "I think that we might 
be happy together, you and I. It is true 
that we have been so closely associated 
that it is not possible for us to ' fall in love ' 
after the romantic fashion; but I have a 
most deep and sincere attachment to you, 
and I hope that you have a little for me. 
No one could appreciate your gentleness, 
your sweetness, your grace of person and 
manner more than I do. If you are half as 
well satisfied with me as I am with you," 
he said, smiling a little, "it will not be dif- 
ficult for us to gratify those whose hearts 
are set upon this project." 

"I have no fault to find with you," said 
Constance, leaning back in her chair and 
regarding him critically, while she turned a 
diamond ring slowly round upon her finger; 
"so you may consider your compliments 
returned. And it is quite true, no doubt, 
what you say — that we have known each 
other too intimately to fall in love. But, 
all the same, Philip, it seems to me a terri- 
blv cold-blooded way of — of — " 

"Marrying, "said Philip, calmly. "Well, 
I don't know. Accordino- to American 
ideas, perhaps so. But in Cu-rinental Eu- 
rope marriages are altogether contracted in 
thi^ way, and I suppose they are generally 
happy enough. I hive not oh;erved that 
happiness invariably attend ; marriages 
here," he ended, dryly. 

"No," replied Constance, "not invari- 
ably; but Ihere must be a better hope — a 
better chance — of happiness when people 
love each other." 

" Their best chance for happiness,.in my 
opinion, "said Philip, "is when they know 
and understand each other, and when there 
is an assurance of sympathy between them 
on all important points. And this reminds 
m£"— his face grew grave— "that on one 
very important subject, Constance, we do 
not possess that sympathy. We are not of 
the same religious faith," 



' ' No, ' ' answered Constance, carelessly. 
"But I am not prejudiced. I have no ob- 
jection to thaty 

' ' Have you not ? " asked Philip. ' ' Then 
we differ very much; for I do object to it. I 
can not conceive that happiness is possible 
where husband and wife are not united on 
that point above all others." 

' ' I had no idea that you were so narrow- 
minded," said Constance, with cold sur- 
prise. ' ' How do you propose to arrange 
matters, then?" 

' ' I propose, ' ' he answered, ' * to beg you 
to consider — to examine — the claims of the 
Catholic faith. If you only would do so, I 
am sure that you would embrace it. No 
reasonable and unprejudiced person has 
ever examined it and failed to be convinced 
of its truth. Be sure of that. And you 
could not be an exception to the rule. You 
have only to consent to be instructed — " 

" I ! " cried Constance. She looked at him 
as if divided between indignation, amaze- 
ment, and amusement. The last finally 
triumphed, and she burst into laughter — 
scornful laughter, that made Philip start to 
his feet. "/ become a Roman Catholic!" 
she said. "How utterly absurd! You must 
be mad to think of such a thing!" 

"Mad!" repeated Philip. "No, I am 
quite sane; for I shall never marry any 
woman who is not a Catholic. ' ' 

"Then you will never marry me," said 
she, haughtily, rising in turn. "What! do 
you think yourself so secure of me that you 
can even impose conditions, and such 
condition ? Was it not enough that I waived 
the objection which I migh^ have made tc 
your very objeclionable religion ? You fancy 
that /would embrace it — /.^" 

' ' Pardon aie, ' ' said Philip, with icy cold- 
ness. "I have made a mistake — a mistake 
altogether — which I shall not repeat. Yoi 
are right. There would be little chance o| 
happiness for us in marriage, and I will tell 
my uncle tliat such is my opinion." 

' ' You may tell him that it is also mine,' 
she said, paling a little. 

"No," he replied: "I shall say nothin; 
of you. The responsibility is mine. I hav 



f 






The Ave Maria, 



n ide a condition from which I can not 
n :ede, and which he will no doubt consider 
a^ unreasonable as you do; so the whole 
bl ime of refusal will rest, and rest justly, 
oi me. Let me advise you " (significantly) 
^fi leave it there." 

If ^"- 

R was with a sense of relief that Philip 
felt, after his interview with Constance, that 
all irresolution and doubt were over, and 
thit he had now only to let his uncle know 
that he could not comply with his wishes. 
The last was a necessity from which he 
shrank, feeling keenly how sharp the disap- 
pointment would be; but he had no thought 
bf evasion or delay. Had it been possible, 
iie would have gone to him at once; but, as 
t chanced, Mr. Thornton was out of the 
;ity, and would not return for several days. 
50 much delay, therefore, was unavoidable. 
Vhether he was grateful or sorry for it, 
hilip hardly knew. He would have pre- 
irred, in his own phrase, "to have the 
latter over ' ' ; yet he was aware that a little 
ime to reflect on his course afterward was 
esirable. His uncle had threatened that if 
e did not comply with his wishes, it would 
lake a great change in his intentions tow- 
rd him; and if those intentions were, to 
changed, Philip knew that his mode of 
fe would change also. 
"I must be prepared for the worst," 
ought the young man. " If he declines to 
ive anything more to do with me, I shall 
'ive no right to complain. Luckily, I have 
me small means of my own, no debts, and 
lead that ought to be worth something, 
'ter all, there are worse things than 'a 
ust of bread and liberty,' if it comes to 
lit." 

ie was rather exhilarated than depressed 

Ij the prospect, and, without asking him- 

f what had wrought so great a change in 

views — for certainly narrow means, and 

narrowing of life which they imply, 

11 not seemed to him very desirable be- 

f^e — he determined to learn without delay 

at prospects would be his if his circum- 

ices materially altered. 

Ignorant of the change in Graham's sen- 



timents toward him, it was to Graham that 
his thoughts instinctively turned for prac- 
tical counsel, and his steps soon followed 
his thoughts. When he entered the office 
of the young lawyer, he found him, as usual, 
absorbed in his books, and evidently not 
very well pleased to be interrupted. In fact, 
his reception was so far from gracious that 
Philip hesitated to remain. 

*'If I disturb you," he remarked when 
Graham indicated a chair, ' ' I will not sit 
down." 

' "Oh, disturb! — of course you disturb 
me!" replied the other. "But if you have 
anything important to say, you might as 
well say it now. I shall hardly be less busy 
another time. ' ' 

Philip thought this ungraciousness was 
only "Graham's way," and sat down. 
' ' What I have to say is important only to 
myself, ' ' he observed. * ' I can not expect 
you to find it so; yet I hope you will give 
me your ear and your advice. You are al- 
ways so candid that I need not adjure you 
to be honest. Tell me, then, do you think 
I could make a lawyer?" 

This question was so different from what 
Graham had feared and expected, that he 
stared at the young man a moment without 
replying. Philip smiled as he met his eyes. 

' ' Your astonishment is not compliment- 
ary," he said. "Do you rate my abilities 
so low?'' 

"My astonishment has nothing to do 
with your abilities," Graham answered. 
' ' They are good enough, as you know very 
well. What surprises me is that you should 
think of embracing a laborious and exact- 
ing profession when there is no need for 
you to do so — that is, unless you wish to be 
a lawyer merely in name. ' ' 

"I should never wish to be anything 
merely in name," replied Philip, flushing 
a little. ' ' You have certainly a very poor 
opinion of me. ' ' 

' ' I have never suspected you of loving 
work for work's sake; few people do," said 
Graham. "And you have probably little 
idea — few people, again, have that — of how 
much labor is required to make a lawyer 



246 



The Ave Maria. 



who takes any rank in the profession." 

' ' I have some idea, ' ' replied Philip ; ' ' and, 
though I do not love work for work's sake, 
I am capable of it when I have an end in 
view. ' ' 

" And what end, may I ask, have you in 
view in desiring to become a lawyer?" 

' ' The end of independence. If I can make 
*my bread by the use of my brains, I shoiild 
prefer that to the use of my hands; and it 
may be necessary that I should make it." 

Graham regarded him curiously. ' ' Have 
you quarrelled with your uncle?" he asked. 

''No," Philip answered, " nor ever shall ; 
because it takes two to make a quarrel. 
But I can not agree to all his wishes, and 
he may change his intentions toward me; 
in short, 1 prefer to be prepared for any 
event. ' ' 

"I see," said Graham. (He appeared to 
see a good deal; for he gazed straight before 
him for some time without speaking. When 
he did speak it was in a tone of studious re- 
serve. ) ' ' There is no reason why you should 
not become a lawyer, and succeed at the 
bar," he said. "It depends entirely upon 
yourself, and is a question merely of in- 
dustry and application. But, of course, 
you know that time is required — time and 
means. ' ' 

' ' I have some means of my own, ' ' Philip 
answered. ' ' My father left me a little prop- 
erty. I can, therefore, command both. So 
tell me what to do." 

Graham told him, but in every word the 
same reserve was perceptible. When his 
brief statement was over he added : " I must 
warn you, however, that after all this is 
done — after you have made your course in 
the law school, and obtained your license — 
you will, in all probability, have long to 
wait before you can command any practice, 
and it may not be worth much after it 
comes. ' ' 

"I know all that," Philip answered. "If 
I were merely intent on making money, I 
might make it much more quickly by fol- 
lowing in my uncle's footsteps. But I 
prefer a more intellectual life with less pros- 
perity. ' ' 



"And more integrity, I hope," observed 
Graham. 

The words escaped him without pre- 
meditation, almost without intention. He 
scarcely realized what he had said, until he 
saw the flash that came into Philip's eyes, 
as the latter rose to his feet. 

"You will understand," he said, "that I 
can not suffer such a remark as that to pass. 
What do you mean by it?" 

The stern challenge of his tone roused 
all of Graham's repressed animosity. 

"I mean," he answered, "what is well 
known, that your uncle is deficient in in- 
tegrity. But I should not have made such 
a remark to you," he added, with a faint 
recollection of the demands of ordinary 
courtesy. "The words escaped me unin- 
tentionally. I — beg your pardon." 

Philip made a gesture as if putting the 
apology aside. He had suddenly grown 
very pale. " Ycur breach of courtesy to me 
does not matter, ' ' he said ; ' ' but the charge 
against my uncle is one which you must 
either substantiate or retract. ' ' 

"It is easy enough to substantiate it,'^ 
replied Graham, coldly. ' ' But I should pre- 
fer that you would drop the subject." 

' ' That is impossible, ' ' said Philip. ' ' You 
must either prove your assertion, or I shall 
hold it to be false. ' ' 

The other started to his feet, then re- 
membered himself, and sat down again. 
Philip was in the right; having made such 
a charge, Graham had no ground to resent 
being called to account for it. 

"It is a pity," he said, "that you insist; 
but as you do, of course I must speak. One 
proof, I suppose, will suffice.