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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.' "
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. You are, per-
haps, by this time aware that Robert Per-
cival (now dead) was for a time your uncle's
partner. You are probably also aware that
he died a poor man, and left his wife and
daughter without any means of subsistence.
Do you know how that occurred?"
"Yes," answered Philip; "I have been
told that he brought the firm to the verge
of ruin by imprudent speculation, and then
gave up his property to make good what he
had lost. It was hard, if you will, but — '^
I
The Ave Maria.
247
''Hard!" repeated Graham. He rose
again, and the two men stood facing each
other. "Listen," he said, "since you zvill
have the truth. Robert Percival indeed
speculated, but it is not true that it was
without the knowledge of his partner. That
partner not only knew what was done, but
he also knew exactly the value of the stocks
speculated in. There came a day when
these dropped suddenly in value. Then
Thornton said to his partner: 'The firm is
on the verge of bankruptcy, and you are
responsible for it.' What could the other
do? It was true that he had conducted
the speculations on his own responsibility,
though taking the consent of his partner
for granted. He gave up his property, as
you have said, to make good what he had
lost, and the partnership was dissolved. ' '
"Well," said Philip, as the voice of the
other ceased, "what is there in this more
than I have heard already ? ' '
"There is this," replied Graham: "I
have been told, by men who would make no
such assertion rashly, that James Thornton
knew the real value of those stocks when
he professed to believe himself on the verge
of ruin. However that might be, they after-
wards appreciated and became as valuable
as Robert Percival had believed that they
would. Did Thornton then make amends
to the man whom he had robbed? Not at
all. He retained everything, including the
property which Percival had made over to
him — real estate in an advancing part of the
city — and built his fortune on that wrong. ' '
Philip felt himself turning cold. The
assertions, as they were uttered, seemed but
his own fears put into words. Yet he made
still an effort against the certainty that was
oppressing him.
"If this were true," he said, "v/hy did
not Robert Percival claim what was due to
him? I am no lawyer, but I know that
there must be in law an equitable remedy
for such a wrongf. ' '
"Certainly there is," answered Graham.
But Robert Percival died within a year
after the partnership was dissolved, leaving
his wife and daughter in poverty and help-
lessness. Who \^ias there, then, to press his
claim against a man so powerful in the
might of riches?"
Silence fell, and after a moment Philip
sat down in the chair from which he had
risen, and buried his face in his hands.
Graham's heart smote him for what he had
done, as he read in this attitude all the pain
and humiliation which had so suddenly
fallen on the head that, with its bright locks,
seemed made for sunshine and prosperity.
A sharp doubt of his own motives added to
his regret, and softened his tone when he
presently said:
"I am sorry, Thornton — very sorry that
I was led to speak of such a matter. I beg
your pardon again, and I hope that this
time you will accept my apology. ' '
"What does it matter," asked Philip,
lifting his head, "whether you spoke of it
to me or not, if it is true? It is that alone
which concerns me. I would give my right
hand at this moment to be sure that it is
not true. But how can I satisfy myself?"
' ' I can give you the names of my in-
formants," said Graham; and he named
two or three men of high station and irre-
proachable honor.
" It is not possible for me to go to them
or to any one else to inquire concerning my
uncle's affairs," replied Philip; "but I can
and I will go to himself. He shall know
what is said of him, and he shall have the
opportunity to prove his integrity. ' '
Graham gave him a quick glance. ' ' My
dear fellow," he said, "you will only do
harm to yourself by approaching your un-
cle on that subject. I do not wish to hurt
you further, but there is one proof, of which
you and I must feel the force. It was after
that affair that he gave up his religion. "
Philip shrank a little. He, indeed, felt the
force of the proof, but it did not alter his
determination. " It is impossible, ' ' he said,
' ' that I can entertain such a suspicion re-
garding him and not give him an oppor-
tunity to set me right. As for the conse-
quences to myself, I care nothing for them.
If what you have told me is true, I shall
never profit by the result of the wrong.**
248
The Ave Maria,
^'Will you not?" said Graham, regard-
ing him keenly. "Yet, after all, you know
his fortune is his own. He only owes the
Percivals the value of the property unjustly
taken from them."
"Would they accept it?" asked Philip,
with sudden eagerness.
The other shrugged his shoulders. "I
have never heard them allude to such a
possibility, ' ' he replied. ' ' But why should
they not accept it as a matter of rightful
restitution? We are discussing something
that will never come to pass, however.
James Thornton will never make such res-
titution."
"Would to God that /could make it!"
exclaimed Philip. He sprang to his feet and
walked across the office, then turned and
came back to where Graham stood, with his
face grown hard. "Does she — does Miss
Percival know all that you have told me?"
he asked.
"Of course she knows it," Graham an-
swered, coldly. ' * She has always known it.' '
"And yet she has treated me with the
courtesy, the kindness of an angel! " said
Philip. ' ' While I — I should never have had
the presumption to approach her. And I
would not have done so if I had known.
Why did you not tell me that first time I ever
saw her — when I asked you to present me,
and you rightly declined — why did you not
tell me then all that you have told me now? "
"It did not se^m my place to tell you,"
Graham answered. ' 'Although, ' ' he added,
frankly, " I think I should have done so if I
had imagined that you were likely to meet
her afterwards. But nothing appeared less
probable."
* ' It was a mere chance, ' ' observed Philip ;
* * and I fear that I have annoyed her through
my ignorance. But I shall not annoy her
again — now that I know how great a strain
it must have been upon her charity to treat
me as she has done. ' '
' ' Oh ! her charity is equal to a strain, ' '
said Graham, who felt at once gratified, and
ashamed of his gratification. ' 'And she has
a very high-minded way of regarding the
matter. She did not feel that you were in
any degree accountable for your uncle's
conduct; although, of course, Thornton is
not a name that sounds very pleasantly to
Percival ears."
' ' I— suppose not; ' replied Philip. ' ' Well,
I can keep mine from sounding any more
in Miss Percival' s ears. And now I will not
trespass longer on your time. I came to you
for advice, and I have received instead some
painful information; but perhaps it may
make my way clearer in the end. ' '
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
The Sailors' Song.*
iplUEEN of the Waves! look forth across the
^ ocean,
From north to south, from east to stormy
west;
See how the waters, with tumultuous motion.
Rise up and foam without a pause or rest.
But fear we not, though storm-clouds round us
gather;
Thou art our Mother, and thy little Child
Is the All-Merciful, our tender Father,
Ivord of the sea and of the tempest wild.
Help, then, sweet Queen, in our exceeding
danger;
By thy seven griefs, in pity, I^ady, save;
Think of the Babe that slept within the man-
ger.
And help us now, dear I^ady of the Wave!
Up to thy shrine we look, and see the glim-
mer
Thy votive lamp sheds down on us afar;
lyight of our eyes! oh! let it ne'er grow dim-
mer,
Till in the sky we hail the morning-star.
Then joyful hearts shall kneel around thine
altar,
And grateful psalms re-echo down the nave.
Our faith in thy sweet power can never falter,
Mother of God! Our I^ady of the Wave!
— Morwenna P. Hawker.
^ On a hill at S' Addresse, a suburb of Havre,
is erected a chapel dedicated to Notre-Dame des
Flots. It is visible to vessels passing up and
down Channel.
I
r
The Ave Maria.
249
With Staff and Scrip.
BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD.
(■
V. — Damascus, "Pkarl of the East."
\ (Concluded.)
THE Venerable City. — If we may
believe Josephus, then Damascus was
founded by Uz, the son of Aram and grand-
rson of Shem. Abraham's steward was a na-
tive of the place, as is recorded in the Book
of Genesis. Nothing more is known of Da-
mascus, until the time of David, when "the
Syrians of Damascus came to succor Hadad-
ezer, King of Zobah," with whom David
was at war. On this occasion "David slew
of the Syrians 22,000 men," and, in conse-
quence of his victory, became complete
master of the territory, which he garrisoned
with Israelites. From that time through
several centuries the city was taken and
retaken at intervals, fortune alternately
favoring the Syrians, the Israelites, or Ju-
deans.
Damascus has ever been a great centre
of trade. Strabo says it was the most famous
place in Syria during the Persian period.
Its Gospel history, though not so full as is
that of the Old Testament, is yet of deep
interest to Christian readers. One is still
shown the window in the wall from which
St. Paul was let down in a basket, and the
site of his miraculous conversion, — though
this is a disputed point. Then there is the
house of Naaman the Syrian, where there
are a few indifferent lepers; and the house of
Ananias ; and the street which was ' ' called
Strait," and which, no doubt, deserved its
name in the day of its baptism; but new
houses have crept in on both sides of it, and
the old ones have sunk away, so that now
it is no longer worthy to be called anything
but crooked.
The great mosque should not be forgot-
ten, though a sight of it is hardly worth
the handful of francs and the trouble it
takes to see it. The chief interest that per-
tains to this structure is the fact that when
the mosque was finished, with its roof of
fine gold, from- which were suspended six
hundred golden lamps, while the prayer-
nithes were set thick with priceless gems,
the accounts of the various artificers were
duly presented on the backs of eighteen
well-burdened mules. Then the caliph, who
was responsible for the payment thereof,
had them all religiously burned — and that
was his final settlement. As for the glorious
mosque, few traces of its ancient splendor
are now visible ; in brief, it is a disappoint-
ment; but one finds consolation in the
cafes of Damascus, and healing and balm
for all wounds. Let us adjourn thither.
In a Damask Garden. — We dined at
sunset. The first call to prayer rang out
from a neighboring minaret between soup
and fish. -We knew the voice of that partic-
ular muezzin. Five times every four-and-
twenty hours he climbed into his high gal-
lery, and chanted the ' ^Addn ' ' like a lark.
Poor fellow! In common with the majority
of his singular and exclusive tribe, he was
stone-blind. With much worldly wisdom,
blind men are usually appointed to the semi-
sacred office; because from the gallery of
the minaret one looks over the housetops
and into the jealous court of many a harem;
and with wilful eyes the muezzin might di-
rect his prayer at the wrong angle in search
of paradise.
As we were already at the table, we could
not lift up our hearts until the meal was
over; no Moslem ever is expected to; though
at that moment the shrill, sweet voice soared
in the air, crying: "God is most great; I
testify that there is no deity but God; I tes-
tify that Mohammed is God's apostle. Come
to prayer; come to security. God is most
great ; there is no deity but God ! ' '
We finished dining, and repaired to the
court of the hotel, where a half-dozen mer-
chants were inviting custom, with their
wares temptingly displayed upon rich rugs.
iV snake-charmer offered to divert us with
a sack full of reptiles; a wandering poet,
with his lute, volunteered a song; swallows
swung to and fro between the eaves of the
court ; the fountain plashed monotonously.
It occurred to us that the amusements of
250
The Ave Maria.
Damascenes were lacking in variety. One
gets tired of looking at rude armlets of
beaten silver and disks of yellow gold em-
bossed with verses from the Koran. The
snake-charmers are, for the most part, tire-
some and tricky; the magicians, clever but
avaricious; the poets, pleasant enough —
one sees them in nearly every cafe — which
reminded us that the evening might be
passed in one of the cafes for which Damas-
cus is famous.
Once more the muezzin poured out his
voice upon the air. The twilight had fallen;
the afterglow had dissolved into the deep
blue that was gathering about us, with the
great stars scattered through it. This was
the second call to prayer — a repetition of
the first just after sunset. I could think of
nothing as I listened to the pathetic cry but
of those caged quails in Capri, whose eyes
are put out that they may pipe the more
pathetically, and with wistful notes entrap
their fellows hastening over the Tyrian
waves to Africa.
The poet promised to conduct us to the
Cafe of the Thousand Island;^. The snake-
charmer withdrew ; the merchants shut up
shop on the instant. With long paper lan-
terns we groped through the ill-kept streets;
droves oi pariah dogs snapped at our heels,
but the lanterns were our salvation. From
one of the darkest of the streets we entered a
dingy hall. It was not inviting; it contained
a few very cheap and not over-clean tables,
a few chairs, a few lanterns — too few, — a
few indolent guests, who seemed to have lost
all interest in life. We hesitated at the for-
bidding threshold. The poet begged us to
enter, hinting that as death is the only gate
to the seventh heaven, it was possible that
we were even then upon the thorny borders
of the gardens of delight. We entered.
There was a sound of rushing waters. The
air was cooled with spray. Above the mur-
mur of the waters we heard music and low
laughter, though laughter is uncommon
with those people. We heard the twang of
the seven - stringed ^ood^ the wail of the
rahab^ the singer's viol with its two cords,
the trill of the double-stemmed arghool^
the clang of the sagat^ the jingle of the tar^
the throb of the darabiikkeh.
We passed out of the hall into a parterre
bordered with date-palms. Drifts of snowy
jasmine whitened the winding paths. Be-
yond us was a grove of date-palms and
mimosas, whose boughs were filled with
lanterns. The music ceased for a moment;
there was no sound but the babble of in-
numerable streams, the plash of innumer-
able fountains, and the gurgle of rose-water
bubbling in the tanks of the naigilehs.
' 'Are not the Abana and the Pharphar,
rivers of Damascus, better than all the
waters of Israel?" asked Naaman of old.
Here the rivers are broken into ten thou-
sand rivulets, -that wind in and out among
grassy islands, making music for evermore.
Rustic bridges spring from one shore to
another. You may make the tour of the
Thousand Islands dry-shod. You may wan-
der from bower to bower, under illuminated
canopies, and find at last the seclusion of
some kiosk^ where pipe-bearers attend you,
and youthful slaves lift to your lips the
fragile sherbet- cups, and minstrels and
dancers await your bidding.
Our cups were drained; our pipes were
filled; we rioted at the feast of lanterns.
Again epicurean music filled the night;
we were reclining on deep divans. On either
hand kursees (small tables inlaid with pearl,
tortoise-shell, and ivory) were placed within
our reach. The cofiee steamed upon them.
An attendant approached, and planted a
flaming mesh^ al near us — a cresset filled
with burning wood, that gave forth a deli-
cious odor. A lurid glow flooded the pa-
vilion.
Did we dream, or was it a Jiojwi that daz-
zled us w th a tiara of jingling coins, and
with rows of coins upon the breast, and
chains upon the arms, and girdles upon the
hips? A loose garment flowed from the
throat to the feet, confined only by these
glittering coins — a fortune in themselves.
The white lace mask of the Circassian
beauty hid the lower half of \h.^ghazeeyeJis
face. The uncovered eyes blazed from their
dark rims of kohl. Between her fingers she
The Ave Maria.
251
ped the bronze sagat. Small silver bells
upon her anklets, and from a neck-
ace was suspended a gilded kurs, that hung
] ike a breastplate upon her bosom.
When she danced the minstrels played
'jQore glibly. Every motion of her body in-
:feimed their hearts. It was not a dance as
've know it — it was the writhing of a cap-
rive serpent, whose rising gorge sends the
)lood plunging through the veins, swells
<!very muscle in the body, and makes the
ilesh quiver and creep perceptibly. Not all
he Ghawdse of the East might furnish a
rival to this little creature; and when at last
she leaped like flame, and fanned the air,
the minstrels shrieked with joy, and threw
down their instruments in the moment
when she sank to the earth in rapturous
exhaustion.
We were silent a moment; the waters still
played on every hand; the lanterns were
burning low. Here was a Peri in a terres-
trial paradise; an Odalisque escaped from
the harem of the Sultan. Soon the poet led
us away into the dark lanes of the city,
toward Dimitri's hospitable house.
The late moon was just rising and flood-
ing the east w^ith silver — or was it day-
break? From a minaret came the third call
to prayer — it zvas daybreak.
Anon, when it was all over, with the cafes
of the Thousand Islands, and the feast of
lanterns, and the rioting waters, and the
odors that made a rose garden of the place,
such as would have gladdened the heart of
Saadi or Hafiz, — when even the poet had
departed, and the city was still as death, —
lo! from among the stars fell that marvel-
lous voice, "God is most great; come to
prayer; come to security. Prayer is better
than sleep ! ' ' But we slept.
(to be continued.)
There is nothing sweeter in the world
than to be forgotten, except by those who
love us and whom we love. The rest bring
us more trouble than joy; and when we
have accomplished our task, dug our fur-
row, be it great or small, the happiest thing
IS to disappear. — Lacordaire.
Palms.
BY ANNA HANSON DORSEY.
CHAPTER XVI.— (Continued.)
FAITH and courage now filled the soul
of Romanus; he desired only to suffer
the same torments he had inflicted on Lau-
rence ; and, standing forth and raising his
hand to secure attention, in a loud voice he
declared himself a Christian. *
' ' Scourge the cur within an inch of his
life!" roared Valerian from his curule
chair; "then may the furies of hell devour
him!"
Venting his rage on Romanus until
wearied by his invincible constancy, the
gentle Imperator wiped his frothing lips,
refreshed himself with a draught of cooled
wine, then ordered his new victim to be
taken outside the gates and executed.
And Romanus, who had consoled himself
through it all by repeating the Holy Name
he had learned from the lips of Laurence,
was led away, outside the Porta Salara, to
his death, which, by faith, baptism, and the
shedding of his blood for Christ, filled up
the measure of his merits, and in a brief
space won for him the crown and palm of
martyrdom.
By this time Valerian was fatigued, over-
heated, and — hungry. The supper hour
was approaching, and his pampered, luxu-
rious appetite craved its wonted indulgence.
He would go to the Baths of Sallust, re-
fresh himself, and return to finish the work
so well begun. Having left his instructions
with the officials, he went away with his
attendants.
The holy Deacon Laurence, without a
sound spot in his flesh, was removed (still
accompanied by Hippolytus) to another
apartment, which opened upon the grove of
palms that surrounded the Temple of Mars.
Here he was visited and consoled by many
* All that is related of the martyrdom of St.
Laurence, and of the conversion and martyrdom
of the soldier Romanus, has been gleaned from
the "Acts of St. Laurence."
252
The Ave Maria,
of his friends, among them a priest sent by
the Pontiff Stephen, from whom at an op-
portune moment he received the Eucharis-
tic Bread — the Holy Viaticum, which left
nothing more to be wished for on earth.
Hippolytus no longer wavered. Drawn
nearer and nearer to Laurence, whose noble
virtues and sanctity of life while in his cus-
tody had already won the admiration of his
honest heart, his conversion was confirmed
by the glorious example of his sufferings.
Divine love, like a fiery glow, animated his
soul; life was nothing: he only wished to
declare himself a Christian at whatever cost.
But he was restrained by a whisper from
Laurence, who saw that his time had not
yet come.
Lower sank the sun towards the bright,
restless sea; th 
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