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f^arbarti College ILt&rarn 


M^vnuA I jJU^^ 




Jl ffm^int of (Btntxai %xttXBimt, 






iiOHDOir : mjitNS aicd oatks ; simpkik, uabshall aks co. 


FEB 8 1917*^^ 



Tdd in & Horantiiie Stadio. By the Rot. Dayid Beame, 8. J. . • 
Bradoen Hollow. By Roea Hulholland .. 
In a Quiet Street By M. E. Francis • • • . • ■ 

Father Pat. By M. E. Franois 
Mike Donne's Gaze. By A. K. . • 

The Organist's Vigil. By the Rev. David Beame, S.J. 
A Striking Contrast. By the Author of <' The Miser of Kingsoourt." 
CHAPTER I. Sylvia's Home 
II. Sylvia's Esoort 

III. On Board the <' Cimbria " 

IV. A Terrible Night 

V. Cast up by the Sea • • . • 

VI. A Cruel Separation 
VII. A Revelation .. •• 

Vm. A Voice from the Wilderness 
DC. OniheTrack .. . .. 

X. A Bitter Disappointment 
XI. Anxious Days ' . • • • 

XII. Put to the Test 
Xm. Lord Ashfield is much puzzled 
XIV. Who is Sylvia? 

XV. Lady Ashfield makes up her mind . . 
XVI. Lord Ashfield makes a request 
XVII. Madge loses her situation 
XVni. Dora's Visitor 
XIX. An Unexpected Meeting 

XX. A Sudden Determination . • 

XXI. Madge is persuaded to be silent 
XXII. Dora is tried beyond her strength . . 

XXIII. Lady Ashfield changes her tactics .. 

XXIV . At Bay 

XXV. Do they speak the truth? .. . 

XXVI. Sir Eustace is forced to believe 
XXVI I. Sylvia gives way to despair 
XXVIII. Weddiag Bells 
KoUy's Fortunes. By M. E. Francis. 

XXVIL A Love Token 
XXVHL Arcadia 



Sketches of Places and Persons. 

Irisli Jesuit 8 since IBOO .. * 

A Skotch from Life. By Alfred Webb , , 

Itoma about Iriflh Mon mid Women 

An Ulster Poet. By Johii MoGrutli 

Riies*ifln Piekl. B}" D. Mixieiietf O'Ctinnor 

TJie trfifo and Influenco of ^t. Aiigiistiiifji By the Rev. P. A. Sheehan 

Tbc? Triab < istt^mrtus of Mimrit Mi^lpray, By Rosa Mulholland 

The IhbY. C. P. iluehftn, Tiy the Eilitur . * 

Br, ISkkeof Dr^imore, and Tntiier O^Nei^ of Rostrevor. By the Editor 

The D.iUda Miilig-rtwa. By M^ J^ ton son .. 

A GlaiTHjc atthf LjUter-Dnj SainU. By iL A. 0. ,, .. ^ 

Mich ttol Blake, BUliop of Dromoro Part X. By the Editor .. 

Sket*?he? in LrUh Bing-mphy, No, 19. — xJohn Cornelius O'Callaghan. By 

Smuts and Sjg-Ut*3ooing nt Anneny. By L, M. Kenny 

The Seraph of Aseisi* By th© Rev. P. A. Sheehan . . 

Cardinal NewTnan, By the Editor . . . . 

Under tht? Guldtn SppHra By M. E. Frtinuis 

Good-bye to Ober-Ammergau till 1900. By Katharine Roche .. 

St. Yvea of Brittany. By Mrs. Bartle Teeliug 

John Pius Ijeahy, 0.P- , Bishop of Dromore* By the Editor 

Sir (-harleft Iltilk', the MuMoiau 

IteniH from Aai^tralifl 

The Kermetihge at Ath. By M, Steneon 

An Aujstraliftn'ti Notcia at Wie^hadeii. By Snsan Gkivan DuflPy , , 



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Essays and Reviews. 

A No^ I>eicrlptlTe of Christmas-tide. By R. E. 
Anonymities Unveiled « . « * 

Wttller Crane and Denny Lane on Art Education 
A Hodt^m ConTeraatI<m. By ^M. W. L. » , 
Linen Wt-aving in Skibboroen, By BoiMt MalhoUand 
llie Two Qviliiiateons. By the Rev. V. A, Sheehan 

293, 368 

Notes on Niiw Books. 

Fatlier RuBstU'a Harp of Jeeus,— The Poor Sisters [of Nazareth.— A Book of 
(told, &e.— Philippe Restitution.— Ludy Ferguson's ** Ireland before the 
CouqueHt/* — Iriflh Fairy Tales.— Linda's Task. — The Armourer of 
Solin gen.— Wrongfully A cctitied.— Christmas Legends. — The Jolly 
Harper. ^Life of Dom Bos^co.— A Shrine and a Story, &c., &c. . . 61 

Father GaUwey's Siilvage from the Wreck. — C. Patmore*8 Principle in Art. — 
1 be Poetry and Song of Ireland.— The Lish in Boston. — The Review of 
Ri.'vie'Ws. —Hoppy- go- lucky. — Flowers from the Catholic Kindergarten. — 
The Light of Rt^ason — Mies Peggy 0* Dillon.- - Songs in a Minor Key.— 
Paeitkr Coatt Abjmiiac. -CathoUo Annual, &c. ,, ., ,.108 

Contenh, v 


Blonden and Forgeries : Historical Essays by Fathef Bridgett. — Isabella of 
Castile.— Sir J. 0. Barrow^ s Mary of Nazareth. — Cardinal Manning on 
National Education. — ^Works about St. Patrick, St. Joseph, and St. 
Francis of Assisi.— Miss Amy Fowler's Tales.— Books and Reading.— 
St. Cecilia* s Gates. — New American Publications.— Souvenir College of 
American Catholic Congress.— Political Prisoners.- Father Gerard's 
Natural History Papers. — ^On Rescue Bent— The Bugle CaU, and Other 
Poems, &o. . . . . . . . . ' . . • . 160 

My Time and what I've done with it.— Rev. Arthur Ryan's Sermonfe, 1877- 
1887 — Scenes from the Life of St. Benedict.- St Patrick's Hymn Book. 
— Gtolden Words, &c., &c. . . . . . . . . 223 

WiUiam Leighton's Poems.— Development of Old English Thought.— Dom 
Boeco. — Rev. P. Dillon's Sermons.— Life of St. Justin. — Marie and 
Paul. — Sufferings of English Carthusians.— F. Charles Sire, S.J. — A 
Shrine and a Story.— The Church of my Baptism . . . . 277 

The One Mediator. — The Passion Play at Obefr Ammergau.— E^athleen 
Mavoumeen.— 1701 : a Tale of St. Domingo. — Carmel in America. — 
Chimes for Holydays. — Poems and Ballads of Young Ireland.— Principles 
of Religious Life.— Notes on Electric Lighting.— Easy Lessons in 
Cookery.— St. Brigid of Kildare.— Benediction Hyoms Explained, &c. . . 333 

Ireland's Ancient Schools and Scholars. — Lehmkuhl's De Ponte.— Wild Birds 
of Killeevy.— Odile.— Institutiones Patrologise. — English Criticson "The 
Harp of Jesus."— Thomas Rileton. — Socialism.— Natural Religion.*- 
Wreaths of Song.— Poems of the Past. — American Catholic Periodicals. — 
Sir C. C. Duffy's Thomas Davis, &c., &o. . . . . . . 387 

Rosa Mulholland's New Stories.- Life of Thomas Davis. — Brother Azarias on 
literature. — ^Aids to Elocution. — ^The Leper Queen.— F. Perry, the 
Jesuit Astronomer, — Plain Sermons.— life of B. Margaret Mary. — St. 
John the Baptist.— life of St. Patrick.- Christian Education. — Dr. More 
Madden on Hypnotism . . . . . . . . . . 437 

Lady Margaret Domville's Lamartine. — ^Educational Grievances of Irish 
Catholics. — Forgotten Heroines.— Life of St. Thomas Aquinas.— Maxims 
of St. PhiUp Neri.— Wild Birds of Killeevy.— Illustrated Catholic 
Misidons, &c., &c. .. .. .. .. .. 603 

Judge O'Hagan's Children's Ballad Rosary.— A Summer Holiday in 
Europe.- Rosa Mulholland's " Father Mathew."— American Con- 
fectionery Book. — Sayings of Cardinal Newman. — Children of Holy 
Scripture. — Dlustrated Catholic Missions. — ^The Lamp. — History of the 
Passion. r-Catholic Truth Society's Publications . . . . . . 556 

Rer. T. Gilmartin's Church History. ~ Cardinal Moran's Occasional Papers. — 
N. Russo, S. J., de Philosophia Morali.— Baker's Holy Wisdom.—* * Truth" 
on Miss Mulholland's Latest Volume. — Mrs. Sigerson's Irish Novel. — 
C. T. S. Newest Publications.— Valentine Riant. — Grandfather and 
Grandson.— littie Gems^ from Thomas a Kempis.— The Paternoster 
Review .. ., ,. ,. .. ..613 

"Whisper!" by Frances Wynne.— Verses along the Way.— Lehmkuhl 
Moral Theology.— Dr. S. B. Smith's Canon Law.— Tom in a Tangle.— 
The Sacred Heart studied in the Scriptures. — Little Helpers of the Holy 
Souls. — ^A Cracked Fiddle.— Catholic Annual, &c.— Criticisms on Judge 
0'Hagan*8 Ballad Rosary for Children ., •, ••660 



Poems and Miscellaneous Papers. 

En Attendant. By Frances Wynne 

ComradeB. ByS. .. •• .• .« 

Lnx in Tenebris. By Katharine Tynan . . • • ' 

Dethroned. By E. S. .. •• 

The Bedbreast. By D. B. 

In the Hospice for the Dying. By Katharine Tjman 

The Prayer of St. Atty. By Patrick J. Coleman 

The Childhood of Father Damien. By W. a. 

Two Unpublished Letters of Dr. Livingstone 

To a Shell brought from Norway. By G. T. 

On reading Aubrey de Vere's *' Legend of St. Patrick." By M. F. M. 

A Shamrock. By Helena Callanan 

Karoh. By Mary Elizabeth Blake 

Other Worlds. By T. E. B. . . 

A Story of a Saint By Clement J. B. Carteret . , 

Damianus Apostolus Leprosorum. By H. A. Hinkson 

Liues of St. Prudentius. By T. £. B. . . 

A Califomian Bose. By Magdalen Rock • • 

A Groye in Spring. By M. F. M. 

The Blesaiug of Dublin. ByS. 

Innocence. By Dora Sigerson 

The Pope's Last Poem. 

From Shore to Shore. ByE. S. .. 

Little Dorrit. By Mary Furlong . . . • 

A Venetian Ballade. By Eugene Daris . . 

The Children's Ballad Rosary. By Judge O'Hagan 

I. — ^The Joyful Mysteries . . . . 

II.—The Sorrowful Mysteries 
III.— The Glorious Mysteries . , « , 

A Life's Strength, By Teresa Boylan . . 
Home-sickness. By E^atharine Tynan . . 
Mother of God, Mother ! By the ReT. B. 0' Kennedy 
Unpublishd Letter of D' Arcy McG^e . . • • 

The Priest. By D. B. Collins 
Providence. By Patrick J. Coleman 
Sick Calls. By the Rev. Richard O'Kennedy 
A Shepherd without Sheep, By the Rev. John Fitzpatrick, Jl. 
The Highway to Fame. By Dora Sigerson 
Kindness. By R. O'K. 
Dead— in Naw York. By Magdalen Bock 
A Proof-reader's Act of Contrition 
Martyrs. By S. H. C. 

Members of the Congregation. By Frances Wynne . • 
ATwiUghtVigil. By L D. ,. 
The Melancholy Ocean. By 0. 
The Irish Reaper's Evensong. By Patrick J. Coleman 
To the Night. By Hilaire Belloo m •• 



Gaiidiiial Kewinaa. By H. Keiheroott • • 

AGaoine. By Booe Eayanagh 

fuwSdae Lost By Frances Wynne . . . • 

The Mbntli'fl Mind at Edgbaston. By John D. Ck>lclongh 

To a SoETOwing Mother. By Qraoe Bains 

<*I)e Frafnndis." By Montagu GrifBn .. 

Interpaceting. By B. O'E. «. 

Sonnet* By £. S. • • « • • • 

iOlen O'Leazy. By Bose Eayanagh 

To a Bee found dead in a Flower. By the Bey. John Fitzpatrick, 

Pigeonhole Pazagraphs .. •• 

Thb Children. By G. N. P. . . .. .• 

Sinite Paxmloe. By the Bey. Dayid Beame, S.J. • • 
little White Bose. By Dora Sigerson •• 
To 9i«fe6r Maiy Benigna. By the Bey. John Fitzpatriok, O.M.I, 
Captain Vernon Harris and'* The Irish Monthly" •• 
Judge O'Hagan : A Word in Memory 


272, 496 


The many, kind friends who take a personal interest in the 
prosperity of this Magazine can serve it best by forwarding at onoe 
their subscription of Seven Shillings for the year 1891, to the 
Eev. Matthew Eussell, S.J., St. Francis Xavier's, Upper 
Gardiner-street, Dublin, who will be glad of the opportunity of 
thanking them, individually. 



JANUARY, 1890. 

IRISH J:ESUITS since 1800. 

THE foUo^dng sketch, founded on some notes of Father 
Grene's (who died Feh. 4, 1887, aged 80), was drawn up 
for a domestic publication, intended only for members of the 
Society of Jesus. Some of the persons named were known, or are 
known, to many of our readers, who will also take a kind interest 
in some whom they hear of here for the first time. The domestic 
c'haraet^r of some of its details is, indeed, an obvious objection to 
the publication of the sketch in its present form ; but, on the other 
hand, its simplicity and unconventionality may have advantages of 
their own. 

Irieh history has been said to be ijivertehrcte^ wanting the backbone^ 
which is furnished to the history of England (for instance) liy the 
regular line of kings, around whom historians' have found it con- 
venient to group the successive events into chapters. In the history 
«)f the Society of Jesus a similar purpose is served by the succession 
of generals. Even in this fi*agmenl of the history of a small provinc« 
of the Minima Societal, the fittest item to begin with is a list of the 
Irish Provincials. Strictly speaking, the first of those was Father 
Joseph Lentaigne,who became Provincial on the feast of the Immaculate 
Conception, 1860. Ireland was previously a Vice-Province from the 
year 1830, and before that date a Mission, both depending immediately 
^n the Father General. 


Peter Kenney, September 30, 1812. 
Charles Aylmer, September 29, 1817. 
Bartholomew Esmonde, August, 1820. 
Peter Kenney {a second time), September 29, 1821. 
Vol.. xvm. No. 199. o^ 

2 The Irish Monthly. 


Eobert St. Leger, May, 1830. ' 

Peter Kenney {for a third time)y April, 1 834. 

Patrick Bracken, May, 1836. » 

Robert St. Leger {second term of office), February 23, 1841. 

John Curtis, Marcli 19, 1850. 

John Ffrencb, June 24, 1856. 

Joseph Lentaigne, February 2, 1858. 


Joseph Lentaigne, December 8, 1860. 
Edmund O'Reilly, December 8, 1863. 
iVicholas Walsh, April 20, 1870. 
Aloysius Sturzo, March 18, 1877. 
James Tuite, July 31, 1880. 
Thomas P. Brown, April 21, 1883. 
Timothy Kenny, February 3, 1888. 

The chief link between the Irish Jesuits who. flourished before the 
suppression of the Society in 1773, and those who resumed their work 
aftex" the restoration, was Father Thomas Betagh, who was born at 
Kells, in Co. Meath, in 1738. He was not the youngest of the 
ex-Jesuits, for Father John Barron was only 49 years old when he 
died in 1798, and Father Betagh was over 60 at that date. The 
following seventeen are given as the survivors of the Irish Mission, as 
our Province was then called : — 

John Ward 
Clement KelUy . 
Edward Keating 
John St. Leger . 
Nicholas Barron 
John Austin 
Peter Berill 
James Morony . 
Michael Cawood . 
I^fichael Fitzgerald 
John Fullam 
Paul Power 
John Barron 
Joseph O'Hallorim 
James Mulcaile . 
Richard 0*Callag]iaa 
Thomas Betagh 

died 1775 a^c^d 70 

































Irish Jesuits since 1800. 3 

These Fathers looked forward with confidence to the restoration 
ot the beloved Society, and they husbanded carefully the resources in 
their hands, confiding the management of them to one of their 
number who gave an account of this fund when they met from time 
to time. Father John Ward filled this office very satisfactorily, and, 
at his death in 1775 Father FuUam succeeded. These funds were 
kept safe with the help of Father Marmaduke Stone, and still more 
of Father Charles Plowden of the English Province. 

These Irish Fathers devoted themselves to missionary work, and 
also to education in Dublin, with great success, Father Austin and 
Father Betagh being the most distinguished. Several youths of high 
promise were trained up with a view to entering the Society, 
©specially after it had been restored in Sicily, in the year 1 804, by 
l*upe Pius VI, Thither these candidates for the Society were sent 
-from Stonyhurst, where they had been placed for their education. 
About this time the Father General Brzozowski wrote to Father 
Betagh a letter, which is preserved in the archives of the Irish 
Province, and which shows the close relations subsisting between the 
members of the suppressed Society in places so far apart as Dublin 
>and St. Petersburg : — 

Eeverkndb m Chbisto Pater, 

P. C. 

Cum summa animi mei voluptate a Patribus nostris qui sunt in 
Anglia accepi quam egregiam operam quamque utilem Eeverentia 
vestra, quamquam rotate provecta, ponat in ilia Domini Nostri vinea. 
Xon dubito. benevolentiam qua Episcopi Hibernise prosequuntur 
^^ocietatem proficisci a zelo apostolico antiquorum nostrorum Patrum, 
sed eandem augeri per laborom indefessum quem vident a Eeverentia 
vt'stra in salute animarum procuranda exantlari. Gratias igitur Peve- 
rentia) vestriB ago quantas possum maximas pro hoc erga Matrem 
uostram amore. Perge, Pater Reverende, eam tuis omare officiis et 
b^^neficiis. Para tui zeli et spiritus successores ex iis juvenibus qui 
ill Anglia instruuntur. Certissimus est consensus Sunimi Pontificis 
(^uoad vestram nobiscum unionem, quidquid quidam aliter dicant vol 
sciibant. Hoc consensu posito, cum melius profecto sit esse quam 
non esse, judicarem Societatem in Hibernia etiam resuscitari posse, 
licet caute, prudenter, et sine strepitu, ne scilicet ob huno ipsum 
.consensum Sanctissimo Patri novse causentur molestiee. Veniet 
tempus, et brevi quidem, quo Sancta Sedes etiam canouice scripto 
hanc unionem coiifirmabit. Si itaque mature prroparamus socios, 
gaadebit tum ecclesia Hibemensium, gaudebit Societas, adesse 
operarios et militesjqui ad prrolia Domini prselianda sint parati. 

R. P. Callaghan virum apostolicum saluto ac veneror. Utriquo 

^4 The Irish Monthly. 


omnem diyinam benedictionem precor, meque Societatemque utriusque- 
sauctis sacrificiis commendo. 

Reverentife Vestree 

Servus in Cbristo addictissimiis, 

Thaddjeus Brzozowski, 

P. G., S. J. 
Petropoli, 14 Junii, 1806. 

Father Betagh, who then filled the office of Yicar-General to the 
Archbishop of Dublin, had iormed high expectations, in particular of 
Mr Peter Kenney, then about 25 years of age. A friend said to him 
one day : ' Oh ! Dr. Betagh, what will become of us all when you go 
to Heaven V ' No matter,' answered he, * I am old and stupid, but 
there is a young cock coming from Sicily that will crow ten times as 
loud as ever I could do.' 

In the ninth volume of this Magazine, at page 441, and again at 
page 500 (August and September 1881), may be found an articlo 
entitled * To Palermo and Back, Seventy years Ago,' which describes 
the voyage to Sicily of the first band of young Irish Jesuits of the 
nineteenth century. A letter is there given, dated * Stonyhurst, July 
7th, 1809,* in which the Rector, Father Nicholas Sewall, gives *the 
E.OV. Mr. Betagh, Cook Street, Dublin,' an account of the departure 
from liiverpool in the ship Lascelles of Bartholomew Esmonde of 
Kildare, Paul Ferley of Dublin, Charles Aylmer of Kildare, Robert 
St. Leger of Waterford, Edmond Cogan of Cork, and James Butler 
of Dublin— 'all young men of abilities and likely to do credit to their 
country.' Next follows a minute account of the voyage by Bartholomew 
Esmoude, then aged 19 years, and the youngest of the little company. 
Peter Kenney and Matthew Gahan had preceded them to the Kingdom 
of tl'e Two Sicilies. England then occupied Sicily against France ; 
and Father Keni^ey was sent on one occasion to Civita Vecchia to act 
as interpreter between the Pope and the English Admiral, who held 
himself in readiness to give to His Holiness the protection of the 
British fleet. 

Of the little band mentioned above Edmund Cogan died after a 
year in Sicily. The others after their ordination were fortunate enough 
to be at Rome on their homeward journey when the Pope restored tiie 
Society throughout the world. They were thus among the first to 
resume the Jesuit dress. On the 7th of August, 1814, the Bull of 
Restoration was published at the Gesu, where the Pope, in the presence 
of the Sacred College of Cardinals, celebrated Mass at the altar of 
St. Ignatius. 

Meanwhile Father Betagh liad died at 92 Cook Street, Dublin, 
Feb. 16th, 1811, aged 73. He had kept an excellent schoul behind the 

Irish Jesuits since 1800. 5 

houses in Fishamble Street, and amongst liis pupils was Daniel 
Murray, afterwards Archbishop ol Dublin, and ever a devoted friend 
to Father Kenney and the Society. Another pupil of his was Michael 
Blake, the restorer of the Irish College in !Rome, and ^bsequently 
Bishop of Dromore in Ulster * In a sermon preached on Palm Sunday, 
1811, which was printed with another in 1821, and which now lies 
before us, he pays a very touching tribute to the * venerable Betagh,' 
as he calls him. The sermon was for the evening Free Schools which 
Father Betagh had founded and supported, and which to this day are 
known as Dr. Betagh's Schools. Already, in 1811, more than three 
thousand boys had received their education in these schools, which 
have been continuing their work ever since. Dr. Blake speaks of 
* the man who established that Institution, who cherished the objects 
of it with the affection of a parent, who superintended their instruc- 
tion, who rewarded the most promising of them by a classical 
education, who at the age of seventy- three would sit down in a cold, 
<Ianip cellar every night to hear the lessons of these children, and 
-contrived to clothe forty of the most destitute of them every year at 
his own expense.' After describing the patriarch's holy death, the 
young priest — who himself lived for fifty years after — gives a wonder- 
ful account of the grief shown by the people, * the crowds which, at 
all hours of the day and night, and under the most heavy, incessant 
Tain, were seen pouring in from eveiy quarter of the city to the house 
where his body lay.' His funeral testified to the extraordinary 
veneration in which he was held by all classes. 

But we have given an undue amount of our space to Father 
Betagh. We do so because he was the chief connecting link between 
the old and the new Society in Ireland. Another of the Fathers 
-during the interregnum, Father Mulcaile, translated Feller's 
Philosophical Catechism into English. Father Callaghan, whom 
Father Brzozowski, in the letter quoted before, salutes and vensraics 
-as a vir apostolicusy had suffered for the faith in the Philippine 

After their return from Sicily in 1812, Fathers Kenney, Dinan, 
and Gahan resided at No 3 George's Hill, Dublin, which house is now 
s, portion of the schools of the Presentation Nuns. The Jesuits, before 
and during the Suppression, had long been connected with that parish 
of St. Michan, and they officiated in the Parish Church, formerly in 
Mary's Lane, but removed long since to North Anne Street. Father 
Xenney was Superior of the Irish Mission of the Society. Another 
pupil of Father Betagh's, Dr. Daniel Murray, had been appointed 

♦ Several papers in our Ninth and Tenth Volumes were devoted to this vener- 
able man. 

6 The Irish Mmihly. 

Coadjutor to Dr. Troy, the Archbishop of Dublin ; and yet, in June; 
1812, he was persuaded by the Bishops to became president of 
Maynooth College. He yielded, it is said, on condition that Father 
Kenney should help him as vice-president. In the College Calendar 
Father Kenney's appointment is assigned to the following November. 
Their term of office was intended to be brief, but it left its mark on 
the College, and no doubt had a share in the immense veneration with 
which Father Kenney's name is stiU remembered among the priests- 
of Ireland. The meditations which the Vice-President proposed during 
that year to the students were eagerly copied, and are not even yet 
forgotten or disused. 

The money mentioned before as having been carefully husbanded 
during the Suppression was expended on the purchase of Castle 
Browne, *or '^Clongowes Wood, in County Kildare, 16 Irish miles, or 
27 English miles, from Dublin. It is now known by its older name of 
Clongowes, but at the time it was called Castle Browne, from the old 
Catholic family who had owned it, and of whom the head then was 
General Browne, in the service of the King of Saxony. Captain Wogan 
Browne is at this present moment a Catholic Officer in the British 
army. The Brownes had been in possession for two himdred year*^ 
being preceded by another Catholic race, the Eustaces, whose name- 
still survives in the small town of Ballymore Eustace not far distant. 
The purchase of Clongowes was completed in 1813, but some time was- 
spent in preparing it for its new destiny. The first pupil entered on 
the 14th of May, 1814. We should gladly mention the boy's name if 
tradition had handed it down. 

Til ere lies before us a fragment of a diary kept by someone at 
Clongowes two years after. Some little bits of internal evidence seem 
to point to Father Charles Aylmer as its author ; and comparing the 
handwriting with that of Father Aylmer's 'Journal of a Tour in 
Sicily/ which chances to come under our eyes at this moment, the two- 
manuscrii)ts seem to be written by the same person. The Sicilian 
Journal is dated three years earlier, September, 1813. We notice in 
it that Father Aylmer was already a priest in his 29th year, having 
been born in 1784. This fragment of a journal ends with a lovingly 
minute description of the shrine of St. Lucy, at Syracuse ; and this is 
another proof of identity between Father Aylmer and the Clongowes 
Diarist, for it* explains what had previously surprised me — namely, 
why in the Diary December 13th is called * St. Lucy's Day,' no other 
saint of- November and December being thus mentioned, except, of 
course, St. Stanislaus and St. Francis Xavier. 

The diary begins on October 1st, 1816, giving the stattu dmnus at 
full length. Father Peter Kenney, Superior of the whole Society ul 

Irish Jesuits sitwe 1800. 7 

Ireland, prefect of higher studies, preaches every week to the pupils^ 
Father Aylmer is the Minister and Father Claudius Jautard is 
fc^piiitual Father — a Frenchman, who seemed a patriarch in the youthful 
community, as another old scrap of paper tells us he was bora in 
1740, and entered the Society in 1756. before Choiseul and Pombal 
and the devil had got their will.* Father James Butler is Professor 
of Moral and Dogmatic Theology. Father Paul Ferloy is Professor 
of Log^c and Metaphysics ; and curiously enough it is announced that 
he is to preach on the next Good Friday, still half a year distant, 
Father Matthew Gahan is described as missioner in the parish of St. 
Nicholas, Francis Street, Dublin, and confessor to the Nuns at 
Harold's Cross and Summer Hill — the former still the home of the Poor 
Clares, the latter the first beginnings of the Irish Sisters of Charity. 
The four remaining priests in the Clongowes Community seventy 
years ago were Fathers Robert ^St. Leger, W. Dinan, Bartholomew 
Esmonde (Superior of the Scholastics), and John Ryan, a missioner in 
St. Paul's Parish, Arran Quay. Among the Scholastics, the masters 
and prefects were Brothers Frazer, Levins, Connor, Bracken, Sherlock, 
Moran, Mullen, and McGlade. Several of these were following the 
theological classes at the same time, and others were applied exclusively 
to their studies ; of these last two survived to our own time, dying 
only two or three years ago, nonagenarians — Robert Haly and Jdhn 
Curtis. A third was the first of all to die, the first buried in the 
rustic graveyard of old Mainham — Nicholas Fitzharris, who had been 
a Maynooth student during Father Kenney's vice-presidency, and 
followed him when he left the College. 

The Diary begins with All Saints* Day, 1816, mentioning that the 
number of scholars was then 194. On the feast of St. Francis 
Xavier it is recorded, ' J. Heaney came to the house, and completed 
the 200 scholars who are in all on the list 201, in the house 199.' 
Among these were Joseph Lentaigae, who was our first Irish 
Provincial, and his brother, who died recently. Sir John Leutaigne ; 
also Frank Mahony (* Father Prout'), and James Lynch, now Bishop 
of Kildare. 

The manner in which Father Aylmer's opinion is reported in the 
following passage is one of my reasons for thinking that Father 
Aylmer wrote the Diary. * The letter froiii Mr. Kennoy on the 3rd 
was to' desire the opinions of Fathers Ferley, Butler, and Aylmer 
with regard to his' preaching a charity sermon in Cork, at the request 
of the Bishop, Dr. Murphy, and consequent to his accepting that of 
Cork, another in Limerick. The two former were of opinion that 
both ought to be accepted ; the latter said he did not entirely agree 

* Ho died at Clongowes in 1821, agod 81. 

« The Irkh Monthly. 

with them, because he thought that Mr. Kenney's freqiient absence 
from the College, wher§ he had so often declared that all were too 
young and not to be depended upon, was highly injurious. As to 
the propriety of preaching both sermons, Mr. Kenney himself could 
alone determine, as he alone knew the circumstances and situation of 

The Diary, which records very minutely' everything about the 
examinations, and the health of the boys, and sundry other matters, 
ends with the 13th of Deceniber. On the same day it is said : * We 
heard that Mr. Kenney had got possession of Hard wick Street Chapel.* 

These entries refer to the first Dublin Sanctuary of the Societ}' 
after its Eestoration. It was already a holy spot. The Poor Glares, 
'who are now serving God according to their holy state at Harold's 
Cross, near Dublin, carried out their vocation even amidst the terrors 
of the Penal Laws. In 1752, some of them who were living in North 
ICing Street, removed to the house of Major Favier in Drumcondra 
Lane, now called Dorset Street. 'After a few years,' say their 
annals, from which the Mother Abbess has copied this extract for us, 
* they built a neat chapel with eight cells over it at a cost of £800. 
In the year 1804, October 19th, the conmiuuity was transferred to 
Harold's Cross ; and their chaplain, the Uev. Bernard McMahon, 
took a lease of the chapel, and celebrated Mass there till his death. 
He had the eight cells prepared for his accommodation as a residence. 
The gentlemen of Clongowes College are now in possession of it, the 
entrance being in 38 Hardwick StiWet, which has been built on the 
bite of our kitchen garden that stood at the rear of the convent.' 

This, the first public Jesuit chapel in Ireland in this century, 
is still easily recognised in the middle of Hardwick Street (No. 38). 
AVhen St. Francis Xavier's Church was opened in 1832, our Fathers 
used the Hardwick Street House as a day school till 1841-, when 
Belvidere College was opened at No. 6 Great Denmark Street. It 
became subsequently a Methodist chapel, and is now a National 
school imder Protestant auspices. It was here that Father Kenney 
preached some of his first sermons, with that massive eloquence which 
lias made his name so profoundly respected by the Irish priests and 
people. Next to him as a preacher was Father Esmoude, who began 
in the miserable little thatched parish chapel of Mainham. 

In 1817, Father Fidelis Grivel was sent as a Visitor to England and 
Ireland. He made Father Aylmer Eector of Clongowes, with Father 
Matthew Gahan as Minister. In some unpublished reminiscences of 
Father Haly, we learn that Father Aylmer changed the dinner hour 
from half -past 12 to half-past 3 o'clock. But after Father Aylmer's 
rectorship this important event was changed back to the earlier hour. 

Irish Jesuits sifice 1800. 9 

Amongst the founders of Clongowes, a high place belongs to 
Father James Butler. He was a man of extraordinary ability and 
deTotedness and inspired masters and scholars^ with some of his own 
energy. His health gave way, and he died on the 22ud of August, 
1821, aged 31 years : for his birthday was the feast of St. Stanislaus, 

Just before this, Father Aylmer had been chosen to take part in 
the procuratorial congregation at Home. The Russian Tsar had 
turned against the Jesuits, whom he had before befriended when all 
the world was agaiust them. Father Aylmer arranged that three of 
the Fathers banished by Russia should come to Ireland — Fathers 
Casimir Hlasko, Francis Stackhowsi, and a fine-looking young 
Father whose Christian nauie was Adam, says Father Haly. With 
this help a school of theology was opened, and six English scholastics 
were sent over to join it — John Weston, John Scott, Henry Brigham, 
William Watorton (brother to the famous traveller and naturalist), 
James Carr, and Bernard Addis. These all completed their theological 
course in Ireland, and retained ever after very pleasing memories of 
their Irish sojourn. 

Father Kenney was sent twice to America as Visitor ; first by the 
General, Thaddasus Brzozowski, in 1819, when he returned after a few 
months, and again in 1830, by Father Koothaan, when he spent three 
years in his arduous and delicate office, to the satisfaction of all. 

Father Kenney, who had been Superior of the Irish Mission almost 
c^mtinuously since 1812— Father Aj-imer filling the office for three 
years after September 29th, 1817, and Father Esmonde for a year 
after 1820 — upon his return from America, became the second Vice- 
Provincial, in April, 1834, the first Superior, when Ireland became a 
Vice-Province in, 1830, being Father Robert St. Leger, who had a 
second term of nine years before 1850, between Father Bracken and 
Father Curtis. He it was who was, for some years before the last 
mentioned date, Prefect- Apostolic of Calcutta. 

It was chiefly between these two trips across the Atlantic — which 
at that time was considerably broader than it is accounted nowadays — 
ihat Father Kenney acquired his great and solid reputation as a 
preacher. In his stj'le of eloquence, and especial Ij in his slow and 
weighty delivery, he resembled 0*Connell far more than Shell. His 
retreats to the clergy were eagerly sought for. An aged Bishop 

* One of these translated the whole of Cicero's oration, Fro MUone, into Greek, 
vhich won the admiration of a Fellow of Trinity College. Another (Jeremiah 
Juhn Murphy), afterwards Master in Chancery, composed rapidly, at a T.C.D. 
vx amma tiop, some eighty or a hundred exoellent Greek hexametei-s on a given 

10 The Irislf Monthly, 

recalls in particular the overmastering tenderness and vehemence of 
liis apostrophes to the crucifix, which he delivered with streaminj^ 
eyes on some occasions ; and he declares that his vivid recollection of 
Father Kenney's preaching had made him unable to relish any other 
preacher, however eminent, even Father Thomas Burke himself. 
Father Aylmer, himself a most effective preacher, used to say that his 
gi'eatest humiliation was to be obliged to preach from the same altar- 
steps from- which Father Kenney had electrified the congregation the 
Sunday before. Naturally the crowd on such occasions overflowed into 
Hardwick Street. Grattan is said to have expressed great admiration 
for Father Kenney's eloquence ; and an eminent literary nvan declared 
that to listen to one of his well-prepared discourses was an exquisite 
intellectual treat. We may emphasize the phrase ' well-prepared ' as 
an excuse for remarking that the impressions of some vho heard him 
when he was forced to speak without due preparation run counter to 
these enthusiastic testimonials. Father Kenney's personal character 
liad, no doubt, a large share in the effectiveness of his words. He 
was the trusted counsellor of very many among the priest and Bishops 
of Ireland. His own Archbishop, Doctor Murray, placed unlimited 
confidence in his life-long friend. When he wished to bring the 
famous J. K. L. round from certain peculiar opinions, Dr. Doyle and 
Father Kenney were invited to dine at the Archbishop's house in 
North Cumberland Street* where the points in question were discussed 
with the greatest fulness and candour (as we are assured), and with 
the result desired. 

However, we must not forget that this rapid and unmethodical 
sketch is not a biography of Father Kenuey, and we shall only 
add that he died at Rome, November 19, 1841, aged 62. 

The venerable Dean Meagher, in his funeral oration over Arch- 
bishop Murray, called Father Kenney the Apostle of Dublin. Father 
Matthew Gahan,t whom we have mentioned before, had a better, or 
at least a more exclusive claim to the title often given to him, of 
Apostle of the Isle of Man. This interesting island was altogether 
<lestitute of spiritual help, and full of strange superstitions, when he 
volunteered for this lonely mission in 1826. He laboured hard, 
built a church at Douglas, and established schools, not, we may 
be sure, from the resource supplied by the handful of indifferent 

* Quantum mutatus ah ilio Hectare ! Not even a curate would lodge iu 
Cumberland Street now. Dr. Murray 80on removed to Mountjoy Square, where he 

t Nephew to Father William Grahan, O.S.A., remembered for his popular 
prayerbook ** Catholic Piety," and for his connection with the deathbed of Lord 

Irish Jesuits since 1800. 11 

Catholics he found on the island. Father Aylmer, by what we call an 
accident, paid him an unexpected visit in the early part of 1837, and 
WHS juBt in time to give the solitary missionary all the consolations of 
religion before he died on the 22nd of February. 

The second visit of the cholera to Dublin, in 1834 (the first visit 
was two years earlier), carried off after one night^s sickness. Father 
John Shine, and, four days later, Father Eobert O'Ferrall, in hi$ 
thirtieth year. The latter was brother to the Bight Hon. Richard 
More OTerrall, whose best title to remembrance is that he resigned 
the Governorship of Malta as a protest against Jjord John Russell^s 
Papal Agression BiU. Father Shine was, perhaps, after Father 
James Butler, the most efficient of the first Clongowes professors, and 
had for four or five years taken charge of the day school into which 
the Hardwick Street Chapel had been transformed after the opening^ 
of St. Francis Xavier's, Gardiner Street, He caught the dreadful 
malady from a poor person whom he was attending. So great was 
the dread of contagion, that he was buried by torchlight in Glasnevin 
during the following night. 

Before mentioning some names of persons, it seems right to speak, 
even with unfair brevity, of a place in which many Irish Jesuits have 
done good and hard work for God, The College of St. Stanislaus, at 
TuUabeg, in King's County, forty -nine Irish miles from Dublin, wa8 
opened not very long after Clongowes. It was, indeed, at first 
intended as a novitiate, and for some time was applied to this purpose 
under its first Eectdr, Father Robert St. Leger ; but it t«oon became 
a school, at first preparatory to' Clongowes, and subsequently vieing 
with Clongowes. Large additional buildings were erected by 
subsequent Rectors, especially Fathers John Ffrench, Matthew 
Seaver, and Alfred Murphy. A fi'esh impulse was given to the 
studies of 'the boys under Father William Delany, from the year 
1870, and the College of St. Stanislaus scored well in the niati-icula- 
tion at the University of London, and also in the Irish Intermediate 
Examinations. But in the year 1886 it was considered wi'^e to com- 
bine the teaching power of our two Colleges, which are not very fnr 
apart, and to give further development to Clongowes, the Mother- 
House of the Society in Ireland. Large additions to the buildings ^ 
had been made by Father Eugene Browne, Father Robert Carbery, 
and other Rectors. On the 8th of April, 1866, afire, caused by the 
negligence of a plumber at work on the roof of the fine study hall 
erected by Father Aylmer, spread to the refectory underneath, and 
destroyed these rooms, with many valuable pictures, books and papers. 
A plentiful supply of water and efficient engines kept the fire within 
its original limit, and no danger to life or limb occuiTed. The loss 

12 The Irish Monthly. 

was partly covered by insurance, and it was made the occasion of a 
practical proof of affection by former pupils of the College. The result 
has been highly beneficial to the elegance and efficiency of the col- 
legiate buildings. May it be the opening of a new era of prosperity 
fur dear old Clongowes under its present Eector, Father John Conmee. 

This sketch deals chiefly with places and persons. The places 
which remain still to be commemorated must have even scantier 
j ustice accorded to them. We have mentioned incidentally that the 
JIardwick Street day school was transferred to Belvidere House, No. 
6 Great Denmark Street, which in some of its internal decorations 
gives one some idea of the magnificence of the Irish nobility before 
the Union impoverished Dublin. Very fine school-rooms and a 
spacious lecture-hall and theatre have recently been built by the late 
Kector, Father Thomas Finlay. With the name of Belvidere— which 
is now attended by about three hundred boys, a large number for an 
Irish school — we may link the names of some of its former Hectors, 
such as Father Meagher (uncle to the eloquent Thomas Francis 
Meagher, of,*48, and afterwards General in the American Army); 
Father Francis Muiphy, still teaching boys in St. Patrick's College. 
Melbourne ; and Fatlier Michael 0*Ferrall, who for some years after 
1 864, helped our Fathers of the dispersed Sardinian Province in their 
prosperous exile near the Golden Gate. He died soon after his return 
from San Francisco. 

Father Edward Kelly, and Father Thomas Kelly, presided also 
over this establishment before and after Father Stanley Matthews, 
who died comparatively young ; but their work in the arduous office 
of Superior lay chiefly in Limerick. Their names, coupled with that 
of their eldest brother, Father William Kelly, — one of the founders 
of the Australian Mission, and still exercising his versatile gifts 
A.M.D.G. in New South Wales*— suggest a remark that has some- 
times been made. Is there any Province of the Society, even twice 
or thrice as large as Ireland, which has among its members so many 
pairs and triplets of brothers ? We have just named three brothers. 
Of another name (Hughes) we have three also, and again two ; and 
we have had two Fathers ^t. Leger, two Fathers Bellew, two Fathers 
Lynch, two Fathers Seaver, two Fathers Duffy, two Fathers Keating; 
and we still have two Fathers Dalton, two Fathers Finlay, four 
Fathers Daly, two Fathers Colgan, and some other fraternal couples, 

• He lids since been recalled to teach Hebrew and Scripture in the Theological 
Seminary opened recently at MiUtown Park, near Dublin. Will it be indiscreet to 
add in the seclusion of a footnote that the only other member of the fireside circle 
has been doing the holy work of a Sister of Mercy these thirty years in Perth, 
Western Australia, whither she bravely went from her i^oviceship in the Mother 
House in Baggot Street. 

Irtyi Jesuits since 1800. 13 

besides cousins galore, that is, to n factors. But these details may, 
perhaps, he heneath the dignity of the historic muse. 

8t. Munchin's College (afterwards College of the Sacred Heart) 
was opened in Limerick, in March, 1859, Tnth the cordial sanction of 
the good old Bishop, Poctor Ryan. Father Edward Kelly was the first 
Rector. The Church of the Sacred Heart was huilt hy his successor, 
Father Thomas Kelly, and opened in 1868, the dedication sermon. 
being preached by the holy and eloquent Dominican Bishop of Dromore, 
Doctor John Pius Leahy. The next Superior in Limerick was Father 
William Bonan, who is known in the United States for his exertions 
in estahlishing the Apostolic School at Mungret, near Limerick, in 
which very arduous task he was greatly encouraged hy Doctor Eyan's 
successor in the See of Limerick, Doctor George Butler. Dr. Butler 
died in the year, 1886, and has been succeeded hy one of the fiist 
Limerick pupils of the Society, Doctor Edward 0'i)wTer. 

Our Galway house was opened about the same time as Limerick. 
Father Eobert Haly was the first Superior, and his exertions had tl'e 
chief part in building the Church of St. Ignatius in that interesting 
but not very prosperous town. With Galway should be linked tlio 
name of Father Michael Bellew, a' man of singular holiness. Hi»^ 
eldest brother. Sir Christopher Bellew, resigned his position in tlie 
world to become a very devout and humble member of the Societ}', 
dying on the 18th of March, 1867. Father Michael Bellew died on 
the 29th of October, 1868. 

A certain man of the world was once greatly struck by hearing 
the * English Province of the Society' spoken of. He was delighted 
fcitli the idea of the world-wide Church looking down on haughty 
Kn^land as a mere province. To call Ireland a Province would not 
be judicious in a politician ; but in the Society Ireland only rose to be 
a Province in the year 1860. Every such Province has a novitiate 
and a foreign mission attached to it. The Irish novitiate was opened 
in that year at Miltown Park, near Dublin, under the holy and 
learned Father Daniel Jones ; but it had begun its great and most 
successful work as a House of Retreats in 1858, under Father 
Cdniund O'Reilly,* who deserves pre-eminently the same two epithets 
we have bestowed on Father Jones. Father Jones's successors, as 
Novice-Masters, were Father Sturzo, Father Charles McKenna, 
Father William O'Farrell, and the present Master of Novices, Fath» r 

• Father O'Reilly died November 10th, 1878. The following issue of thi». 
HsgBjdiie contained a sketch of his life, embodying some important testimonies to 
his great theological attainments, and his noble but most amiable character. '_ Our 
Mi^azine also furnished last year (ome account of Father John O'CarroU, with 
nome opinions exprenMed by experts as to his very remarkable liDgimtic aptitudes. 
Miid attainments. 

14 The Irish Monthly. 

John Colgan. On May 3rd, 1884, Feast of St. Joseph's Patronage, 
the novices were removed to Dromore, County Down, and subsequently 
to the appropriately named house of St. Stanislaus, Tullabetr, in Queen's 
County. Very numerously attended retreats for priests and lay 
gentlemen are given through the whole course of the year at 

The foreign mission assigned to the Irish Province is so congenial 
a field for the zeal of Irish hearts, that it requires some other nanje 
than foreign mission— which indeed is hardly a Jesuit word. The 
sons of St. Ignatius are at home everywhere, in quavis mundi plaga. 
A clever man has called the United States of America * Greater Britain.' 
They might well be called * Greater Ireland ; ' and Australia, also, is 
for an Irish priest only Ireland transplanted. In July, 1865, Father 
Joseph Lentaigne and Father William Kelly left Dublin on their way 
to Melbourne. The wonderful progress made in twenty years, the 
many colleges and churches founded at Melbourne and Sydney, and 
their suburbs, cannot be crushed into a paragraph. They have now 
•thirty-six priests, several scholastics and lay brothers, and a novitiate. 
The Superiors of the Mission have been Fathers Joseph Dalton and 
Father Aloysius Sturzo. 

St. Patrick's House of Residence of the Catholic University, 
Stephen's Green, Dublin, was committed by the Bishops to- the care 
of the Society in 1873, the first Superior being the Eev. Thomas 
Keating, who has since died at Sydney. Under a new arrangement, 
the Catholic University' College is conducted by the Jesuit Fathers, 
Father Delany being Vice-Rector since the 21st December, 1881, till 
he was succeeded by Father Carbery. 

Though we omniiited it at the proper place, we must not omit alto- 
gether to mention the visit of Father Roothaan, the first General of the 
4^ociety that ever sot foot on Irish soil — though St. Ignatius did the next 
best thing in sending us two of his first companions, Paschasius Brouet 
-and Alphonsus Saluieron. * 'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody good,' 
and the Italian Revolution wafted to our shores, perhaps, the greatest 
of the Generals since Claudius Aquaviva. He arrived in Dublin on 
the 19th of October, 1849, accompanied by Father Villefort of France, 
and Father Cobb of the English Province. He delighted and 
impressed everyone who came in contact with him. Of this we have 
a striking testimony in the first volume of the Irish Annual Miscelhiti/ 
(afterwards ctilled Essays, chiefly TIieoloyical\ by the Rev. Patrick 
Mun-ay, D.D., Professor of Theolog}' in Maynooth College. He devotes 
a long paper to an account of * Father Roothaan's visit to Maynooth.' 
On his part the. illustrious visitor carried away the best impressions 
. of our little island. The crowds that thronged St. Francis Xavier's 

Imh Jesuits since 1800. 15 

Church in Dublin, even on week days, and the immense number of 
Konf es8ioDS and communions delighted and edi£ed him ; and at Avignon 
ho remarked that our Church at Marseilles was the only rival 
lie knew for Gardiner Street, Dublin.* He wrote back to Ireland 
from the Continent : ' Multa ibi vidi et audivi quj© maximain mihi 
consolationem attuleruut.' 

We have reluctantly put aside our intention of giving some details 
about certain of our Fathers qui dormiunt in somno pacts ; for space 
would fail, and it is often better to leave one's self under the guilty 
consciousness of a duty undischarged than to make an utterly 
inadequate attempt at discharging it. The former course gives the 
duty a chance of being properly done hereafter. 

One of the items in this catahgm ratsomic of the Irish Province 
would have been Father John Ffrench, uncle to the present Lord 
Ffrench, who was Assistant at Rome from 1858 till his death in 1873, 
May 31st. He was a man of singular holiness, humility, patience and 
charity. Thirteen years later, his grave had for some cause to bt* 
opened, and his remains were found entire. One who had worked 
under him when he was Rector of St. Stanislaus* College, Tullabeg — 
Father John Cunningham — died in 1858, in his forty-second year, 
leaving behind him a reputation for sanctity more than ordinary. 
The country folk used to scrape away the clay of his grave. Father 
Cunningham's remains were afterwards taken up and buried in the 
1 oUege Chapel. Another who ought to be mentioned is Father Henry 
J. Rorke, the first of that name which has several representatives in 
the Society, an impressive preacher, and a man of great influence on 


Such are the facts which it has occurred to us to jot down con- 
cerning the Society of Jesus in Ireland since its restoration. Our 
motives in drawing up this yery simple sketch resemble those of tht^ 
Cistercian monk who wrote the history of the monastery of Villars in 
in Brabant, which is given in the third volume of Martone's 
JluMuria ^ovus Anecdotorum, He begins thus : — 

* Necessarium reor militaturis Deo in coenobio Villariensi diligenter 
describere qualiter ordo ibidem viguit, quamque copiosa bonedictione 
peraonie domus hujus complectsB (?; f uerint, sicut seniorum nostrorum 
relatione didicimus, quatenus ii quos in ssBCulis superventuris divina 
gratia ad monasterium ViUariense vocare dignabitur, si banc parvitatis 

* Large additions and improvementa have been made in the Kcsidence and 
Cliurch of St. Francia Xavier by one whoae name is not forgotten in the United 
States by thone whose recollectionA go back to the War— Father John Bannon. 
.[TtcrcrsLDg Dickens's title, these Irish notes were meant for ^Vmerican circulation.] 

16 En Attendant. 

nostra) paginam legere dignum duxerint, considerantes quam nobili 
i-ogum mammilla lactati sint, erubescant fill; degeneres inyeniri.* 

If this acoounfc had to he written in Latin, and if in the foregoing 
jiaragraph Provineia Hihernia were substituted for Montuterium 
niianttnse, with what more appropriate words could our sketch have- 
begun ? Let it end with them, therefore. 


^PHIS morning there were dazzling drifts of daisies in the meadows,^ 
-■- On sunny slopes the celandines were glittering like gold, 
Aernss the bright and breezy world ran shifting shine and shadow. 
The wind blew warmly from the west. Now all is changed and cold. 

JIe*fi half an hour late^ 

Wliile here I trait and wait. 

Well ! It is just my fate — 

Too plainly lean see 

He never eared for me. 

How cruel men can he / 

I wish those daffodils out there would cease their foolish flutter. 

And keep their bobbing yellow heads for just a second still. 
Mj- eyes ache so ! Would someone please to partly close the shutter^ 
And move those hateful hyacinths from off the window-sill ? 
Kfh half an hour late, 
^0 longer I shall wait. 
Hark, thereh the garden gate I 
Love^ u this you ai last ? 
Ah, do tict be downcast — 
I knew the clocks were fast, 

EEAifCEs Wynne. 




IT was a very white-cheeked, weary-looking Molly who stood on 
the deck of the Mumter^ as it slowly steamed into Kingstown 
Harbour. In obedience to many a hasty " By your leave," or " Beg 
jour pardon," from bustling sailors and excited travellers, she had 
retired to one side, and, leaning against the paddle-box, looked on 
absently at the general bustle and confusion. Why on earth was^ 
everyone in such a hurry ? she wondered ; surely they would all 
land soon enough ; what was there to make such a fuss about ? 

At last the boat was still, and people began to pour across tha 
gangway. Molly waited till the last straggler had pushed past her, 
and then, having secured the services of the ship's cook to carry hex* 
small packages, proceeded leisurely ashore. She almost fell against 
Mrs. Mackenzie, who was about to rush on board in search of 

" J5Srrtf she is ! " she cried, ecstatically. "Qracious, child, what a 
fright you gave us ! We thought you hadn't come. Mr. Burke, Mr, 
Bwie^ here she is, here's Molly.* Now, have you got your luggage ? 
Where's your ticket ? Mind you do not leave your small packages 

''Dear auntie, you are the same as ever," said Molly, kissing her 
with a sudden remorseful warmth. She herself felt so different from 
what she had been on leaving, that she almost expected to find a 
like change in everybody else. It was refreshing to find Mrs. 
Mackenzie so exactly '' herself." 

" WeU, would you tell me what else did you suppose I shoull 
be ? " cried the latter, pausing, heedless of the bustle around her, to 
interrogate Molly, her eyes opened to the fullest extent, her mouth 
sicrewed up into a little round button of astonishment. 

"Oh there! never mind, never mind," ejaculated Mr. Burko, 
with masculine exasperation. "Get into the train, and do your 
talking there." 

Molly and her aunt obeyed, the former's small baggage was put 
in, Mrs. Mackenzie subsequently hanging out of the window, heed- 
less of Mr. Burke's assurances that such a proceeding was quite 
Vol. xvni. No. 199. 61 

18 The Imh Monthly. 

unnecessary, to "make sure*' that the heavy luggage was not left 
behind. Finding that ho one heeded her frantic efforts to attract 
attention, she clutched hold of a porter who happened to be standing 
within reach of her arm, and entered into a detailed description 
of Molly's boxes, begging he would himself put them into the 

** Sure its the company manages it, ma'am," he replied, removing 
the straw which he had been chewing from his mouth, and gazing at 
her in apparent amusement. ''It's them does it intirely, and if ye 
was the Lord Liftenant himself, wid Dublin Castle at his back, ye 
musn't dar' interfere." 

**Do you mean to tell me we cannot claim our own property?" 
asked Mris. Mackenzie, somewhat daunted by this dark allusion to the 
higher powers, and puzzled by the. metaphor which suggested to her 
mind's eye a sort of vice-reg^l snail. 

" Bedad, it's the company does it," repeated the man, replacing 
his straw, and walking away. A minute later the whistle sounded^ 
and the train went off. 

"I wonder," said Mrs. Mackenzie, slowly withdrawing her head, 
" if he was speaking the truth now. There was something in his eye I 
•didn't like. Well, I suppose we must trust to chance. Now let 
Tfie look at you, Molly. Dear me! I can't say you are looking 

** Neither can I," observed Mr. Burke, in the severely dis- 
approving tone usually adopted under such circumstances; "she 
looks anything but well. What have you been doing to yourself, 

** I'm so tired," pleaded poor Molly. How can you expect me to 
look otherwise ? I shall be all right when I have rested." 

" Of course, of course," agreed her aunt. " Well, tell me Molly " — 
lowering her voice that their feUow-passengers might not overhear 
her — ** weren't you very much surprised at the turn affairs have taken ? 
What did you say when you first heard ? " 

**I was Tery much surprised," answered the girl faintly; she 
felt too much dazed and exhausted to think of a more original 

** And weren't you delighted? " continued Mrs. Mackenzie. " Cer- 
tainly you are a lucky girl. I never knew anyone so fortunate. Who 
<x)uld have supposed when you went away, and we were all so miserable, 
that everjthing would end so happily? I am so pleased, I don't 
know what to do with myself. Aren't you happy ? Isn't it delightful 
to think that all j'our drudgery is over, and that you need never go 
back to that odious chaito again ? " 

MoUy^s Fortunes. 19 

Poor Molly tried hard to say something in token of the satisfaction 
«he was 80 far from feeling, but the words stuck in her throat, and 
at last she took refuge in her former excuse of being so tired— so very 
tired : to-morrow she would be able to talk more. 

She lay back in her comer and closed her eyes, hoping to avoid 
further questioning, but she felt the while that her friends were 
exchanging anxious glances, and making telegraphic signs to each 
other, expressive of amazement and distress. After a few minutes, 
therefore, she opened her eyes again, and sat up, resolving. if possible 
to divert their attention from herself. 

*• How is Hugh ? " she asked, languidly. 

"Eh? oh, your cousin? wonderfully well, a new man in fact 
since he made that discovery. He has acted very well, hasn't Hq ? " 
Thus Mr Burke in tones of patronizing approval. 

" Very," agreed Molly, cordially. 

" He intends to call this evening, to see how you are after your 
journey," said Mrs. Mackenzie, transfixing her niece with that loving, 
eager— too eager— glance of hers. " Poor fellow, he will be shocked 
to find you such a wreck. I daresay though you will be too tired to 
see him." 

•*0h, no I shan't," returned the girl, with a sudden access of 
animation. **I wish you would ask him to stay for dinner. I should 
like to see him — he has behaved so well. I want to tell him so, and 
to say how — gratefid I am." 

She felt that the presence of the good, babbling little man would 
l>e an unspeakable relief. Before him no embarrassing questions 
would be asked, and politeness would forbid the expressions of rapture 
over her altered circumstances, which she found so hard to listen to, 
and so impossible to share. 

When Hugh arrived, therefore, he was quite flattered at the 
pressing invitation which he received from Mrs. Mackenzie, and the 
warmth with which her niece seconded it. But in spite of all 
IdoUy's efforts, and of Hugh's unfailing flow of conversation, the 
evening was melancholy enough, and the latter withdrew at an early 

Molly hastened to bid good-night to the other two also, and retired, 
telling her aunt she meant to go to bed at once : the truth being that 
she was sorely afraid the latter might follow her to her room, to 
reerome her astonished inquiries. 

"I know I am very ungrateful and imkind," she thought remoree- 
folly, " but I couldn't boar it to-night." 

lieft to thecoselves, her aunt and the lawyer stared at each other in 
blank dismay. Neither spoke for some moments, but the same thought 

20 The Irish Monthly. 

was in both, tlieir hearts : what oould he the matter with the* 

" Perhaps she is only tired," said Mrs. Mackenzie, all at once. 

** Perhaps," assented Mr. Bnrke, dubiously. 

" I'll find out to-morrow, anyhow," said Mrs. Mackenzie, endea- 
vouring to reanimate her courage. 

" I beg you'll do nothing of the sort," retorted the lawyer sharply. 
"Take my advice and leave her alone, ma'am. Don't ask any 
questions, and donH pretend to think there is anything amiss : that 
is the best chance for her. And then we must distract her thoughts^ 
as much as possible — the sooner we get her down to Castle O'Neill 
the better." 

** Mr. Burke," whispered the lady, whose eyes had been growing 
round with awestruck wonder during this speech, ** do you think — is 
it possible that Molly could be in love ? " 

"Bless my soul, how can I tell?" retorted her friend testily. 
"What do I know about love? I think I'll say good-bye now. 
Don't ask any questions, that's all— and get her out of this as soon as^ 

Two days afterwards Molly and her aunt set out for Castle 
O'Neill. The girl felt an odd mixture of pain and pleasure as she 
alighted at the railway station, being rapturously greeted by the few- 
old officials. Her own carriage was waiting for them, the fat coach- 
man turning round with a beaming face to bid her welcome. As she 
drove through the familiar country, lovely even on this dull, wintry 
day, she felt almost in a dream. How sad she had been a few short 
months before, saying good-bye to these beautiful scenes, these kindly 
people ; and now she was coming back, never, in all probability, to 
leave them for any length of time again ; and oh, how little the 
prospect elated her, how heavy was the weight dragging at her 
heart ! 

When they were at a short distance from the lodge, a queer 
medley of sounds was heard; fiddles squeaking, drums beating, a 
babel of voices, which every now and then swelled to a great 

The coachman whipped up his horses, and in another moment they 
came in sight of a dense crowd. Molly's people had flocked from far 
and near to welcome her home ; banners were waving, children were 
clappin«r their hands, triumphal arches were erected, the gateway 
being spanned by one of colossal size, on which the inscription 
■ Cead mille failthe was set forth in letters of flowers. Ever and 
anon came the hoarse shout from hundreds of throats : " Hurr.ah„ 

MolIy^B Fortunes. , 21 

When Molly's equipage was seen approaching, the enthusiasm 
knew no bounds. The temperance band from the neighbouring 
market-town struck up "Come back to Erin," which had been 
unanimously voted appropriate to the occasion, the fifes occasionally 
faltering, but the vigour of the drums leaving nothing to be desired. 
The schoolmistress led forward her little troop of rosy-faced, white- 
clad children, one of whom carried a large bouquet in her chubby 
hands. The oldest tenant on the estate placed himself in a command- 
ing position near the gate, and pompously unfolded a roll of parch- 
ment, on which a congratulatory address was blazoned. He could not 
read, but that was of no consequence ; he had learned his speech 
by heart, and the steward was at his elbow to prompt him. But the 
hubbub was so great when the carriage drew up before the entrance, 
that not a word could be distinguished ; even the fifes were drowned, 
though the faces of the players grew purple with their efforts, only 
the thump, thump, thump, of the big drum dominated the general 

" flip, hip, hurrah ! " shouted the people ; scores of hands were 
thrust out to clasp Molly's ; cauheem were tossed wildly in the air, 
many of them falling into the carriage, and being gingerly fished out 
and dropped over the side by Mrs. Mackenzie, whose face wore an ex- 
pression of intense astonishment. Meanwhile, Molly had been smiling 
and nodding, shaking hands, and trying to say a few words in token 
' of gratitude ; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes full of tears. 

Presently Mr. Burke elbowed his way through the crowd. 

"Come, come, there has been enough of this," he said, after 
A glance at her face. " Miss Mackenzie is both pleased and grate- 
f ul, and hopes to spend many happy years amongst you. Stand back 
now — stand back. Drive on, coachman ! " 

Drive on, indeed ! There was a dive at the astonished horses, a 
sudden, simultaneous unstrapping and unbuckling of harness, a vision 
of apparently endless ropes, and Molly found herself advancing at a 
rapid rate towards the Castle, drawn by about fifty of her tenants. 

" I am sure it is most gratifying, isn't it ? " said Mrs. Mackenzie, 
who had now recovered herself in some degree, leaning back in the 
carriage, and bowing right and left in a queenly manner. '^ You 
ahould be a very happy girl." 

But Molly did not answer ; she was struggling to preserve her 
composure, which was severely tried by the exuberant rapture 
around her. She was touched, grateful, fully responsive to the 
affection lavished on her, but — happy ! Oh, for a certain careworn 
face, for the clasp of somebody's strong, brown hand ! What was all 
this seeming triumph, when her heart within her felt dead ? 

22 The Irish Monthly. 

The anxiety of Molly's friends did not lessen as time wore on ; 
indeed her health threatened to suffer from her pent-up sorrow. She 
could tell no one what was troubling her; the reserve which had 
prevented her speaking her mind fully to the man she loved, cut her 
off still more effectually from other people. Many a time, looking back 
on her last interview with Raoul, she bewailed that unfortunate 

" If I could only have spoken ! " she would say to herself. " If I 
had been a little braver. When I knew he loved me, there should 
have been no false shame. To think we were there together, loving 
each other so much, and that one word would have made us both 
happy for all our lives— and I did not say it ! Both our lives ruined 
for want of one word ! Oh, it is maddening — maddening ! " 

Sometimes she would wonder dimly if he suffered as much as she 
did ; it was true she had seen the anguish in his face at the moment 
of their parting, an anguish which she could not bear to remember 
even now ; but he, at least, had no idea that he was sacrificing her ; 
he acted from a noble motive ; while she knew of his love, and sacri- 
ficed him to her girlish timidity. 

"But surely he might have known — he might have guessed how 
much I loved him too," she- said to herself once, with a sudden burst 
of piteous sobbing. " Ah, if he had only trusted me a little more, if 
he had only understood how paltry everything in the world is com- 
pared to love." 

Many a good girl suffers for a like cause ; her whole life blighted 
through the scruples of a too honourable man. His position does not 
allow him to come forward, his poverty obliges him to hide his 
feelings — as if any woman worth hor salt would weig^h such trifles 
against his honest love! I say trifles— for trifles they are when 
the affections are thoroughly engaged. What is the loss of a 
few luxuries, or what mighty sacrifice after all is entailed in the 
exchange (let us say) of the name of Vere de Vere for Smith ? and 
how much is the loneliness, the regret, the hopeless longing to which 
the punctilious lover has condemned her. He, meanwhile, amid all 
his sorrow, hugs himself at the thought of his own disinterestedness, 
is glad that he has had the strength to sacrifice himself, and does 
not wot that he has sacrificed her too. Injustice is too often perpo- 
trated under cover of this same much-lauded self-sacrifice ; in their 
own pain, people are blind to the suffering of others, or, when conscious 
of it, only appear to consider it from their own point of view, as increas- 
ing their personal misery, and rendering their struggle more hard. 
Sooth to say, even outsiders are prone to look at matters in this 
same light, and, in their sympathy with the sacrificer, to overlook 

Molly^s Fortunes. 23 

the sacrificed. In our admiration for Abraham, for instance, we 
are apt to forget that the sensations of Isaac when bound upon 
the wood must have been far from pleasant, and that sublime as was 
the courage of the father, there was no small heroism in the sub- 
misaion of the son. 

Mrs. Mackenzie and Mr. Burke, after many consultations and 
much thought, resolved that Molly must be ** roused " at any cost. 
And as life at Castle O'Neill did not seem to rouse her — conscien- 
tiously as she set about her duty, and persistently as she carried out 
her former routine — they decided that^she must go away for the re- 
mainder of the winter. 

** Where?" said Molly, drearily, when this idea was broached to 

"To London, or abroad if you prefer it ; Eome, Cannes, Paris — you 
<»n have your choice." 

"Paris!" cried the girl, with sudden animation. "Yes, I think 
I should like to go to Paris." 

She could not, of course, seek out Baoul, but to be on the same 
side of the diannel, in the same country with him, was always some- 
thing. And then who knew — is it not the property of youth to hope 
against hope? — business might take him to Paris, and if she was 
staying there they might meet. 

And so to Paris they went, Molly and her aunt, and though, to 
the latter's surprise, the girl did not seem to care for shopping, and 
was not particularly eager about si^ht-seeing, she was undoubtedly 
roused and interested. They would perambulate the principal squares 
and boulevards, till the elder lady declared she was ready to drop ; for, 
strangely enough, Molly never seemed to care about driving — and oh ! 
how hopeless it was after all ! Of course she did not see Eaoul, she 
did not e^en come in contact with Gaston, though once she thought 
she caught sight of somebody very like him driving with a lady. 

Then she proposed to her aunt to make a little tour through 
Normandy ; it was rather early in the season to be sure, but she 
was tired of Paris. 

So they wandered through certain quaint old towns, Mrs Mackenzie 
not finding much to admire in the narrow streets, and dim majestic 
c^hurches, though the picturesque charm of the former and the solemn 
beauty of the latter would have gladdened Molly's heart, had it not 
been too full of other things. She went as near as she dared toVire, 
always hoping by some extraordinary chance to meet Kaoul, but 
always hoping in vain. 

" I suppose I must make up my mind never to see him again," 
she sighed, worn out at last by long expectation and perpetually re- 

24 The Irish Monthly. 

newed disappointment. "I cannot find him, and lie will not try to 
find me." 

One day, therefore, she suddenly asked her aunt to take her home. 
She had neglected her duties too long as it was, and wanted to return 
to them at once. 

Castle O'Neill was looking very lovely on the afternoon on which 
they returned ; it was early in Spring, and everything was beginning 
to bud and blossopi. The young lambs were just at the pretty stage 
of their existence ; the birds were very busy with their nest« ; plough- 
ing, and sowing, and potato sfetting were in full force ; in fact, everj'- 
thing about the place was astir, and full of life. 

" I must take up my life too," thought the girl, as she sat down in 
her own room to rest after her arrival. " I must begin to live for 
others ; after all I am only a unit in this great big world ; my unhap- 
piness is only an unimportant item in the sum of human sorrow. 
But here I may be much ; I am the pivot on which many lives turn. 
I must remember that, and do my very best : Castle O'Neill expects 
Molly Mackenzie to do her duty." 



Presently the housemaid entered with a great bundle of letters on 
a salver. Molly's movements had been too uncertain during the past 
few weeks to admit of their being sent on. 

**This registered parcel came a fortnight ago, Miss," said the 
woman, laying a small packet on the table. 

Molly glanced at it, and the colour rushed to her face. It bore 
the Vauxmoncour postmark, and was addressed in the countess's 
cramped writing. And stay ! There were one, two letters, from her 
too. What could she have written about ? Molly had despatched a 
note to her on first arriving at Castle O'Neill ; but she had taken no 
notice of it, and the girl inferred she did not want to keep up a cor- 
respondence with her. 

As soon as the housemaid had left the room, Molly, with trembling 
fingers, broke open one of the letters, which was written on thin, 
crackling paper, and sealed with an immense coronet. 

Molly^s Ibriunes. 25 

It proved to be an appeal for help. Madame de Treilles required 
a certain sum of money at once, and knew not to whom to apply. 
For certain reasons she did not wish her brother to know of her 
necessity, and, therefore, had no choice but to sacrifice her jeweller}'. 
She was, therefore, sending by that post the few ornaments whidli 
remained to her, begging her dear Miss Mackenzie (should she not 
wish herself to become the purchaser of them), to dispose of them as 
aeon as possible, and to remit her the equivalent. There was, in par- 
ticular, a certain medallion, a miniature curiously set, by which the 
writer set great store, it having originallj' belonged to her great- 
^rrandmother, a demoiselle de Bohan, who had married a foreigner. 
This heirloom had belonged to the eldest daughter of the house for 
four successive generations, and its present owner was navree de douleur 
at the thought of its passing into the hands of strangers. Perhaps 
Miss Mackenzie, touched by her grief, would be good enough to be- 
AxanQ at least the temporary purchaser of it ; and if at any future time 
the countess found herself in a position to do so, she would hasten to 
reimburse her. 

" Poor thing," thought Molly, sorrowfully. ** I suppose her son 
has been at his old work. How much trouble he has brought on them 
all I She does not mention Eaoul, and I suppose I mustn't 
either. Of course her writing to me is to be kept a profound secret 
from him ; he would never forgive her if he knew — and yet I am so 
glad to help her." 

Sighing, she opened the other letter, which bore the date of only 
two days before, and which was conceived in a very difEorent strain. 
Madame la Comtesse weis surprised at not hearing from Molly sooner, 
her anxiety at the time of her last letter demanding a more speedy 
response — but it imported little. All her maternal solicitude was at 
an end ; her son was about to make a splendid alliance, and woidd 
now be provided for without her aid. She would confide to her deai- 
friend, that it was on his accoimt she had been so anxious to obtain a 
little money. Now there was no longer thie same urgent necessity, 
though, if Miss Mackenzie would have the gentillesse to become the tem- 
porary purchaser of the jewels already sent to her, the sum advanced 
would be very useful for current expenses. After her son's marriagt; 
Madame la Comtesse would be able to repay her. She would not 
conceal from her dear, sympathetic young friend that she was '' au 
oomble de sa joie." It was such a marriage as she had scarcely 
dared to hope for. Everything was perfect : fortune, rank, relations. 
She had made enquiries about the young lady, and ascertained that 
her health was good, that she was of an amiable disposition, and was 
in appearance quite presentable. Gaston was aux anges, not, as he 

26 The IHsh Monthly. 

had written to his mother, on account of his fiancee's colossal fortune^ 
but because on that account his union with her became possible. Had 
she been poor, as he said, his own poverty would have forbidden him 
to address her, but, thanks to her dot^ he was enabled to do so ; he only 
valued it on that account. He had loved her long, and love equalised 
all things : "a true man's heart was worth all the money in tho 

Here Mollj suddenly laid down the letter, and laughed till she 
almost cried. Gaston was impayable. Certainly he knew how to make 
his stock plirases serve him on every occasion. There was much 
more to the same effect ; a postcript, begging Molly to be so good as to 
return the medallion mentioned in a former letter, as the writer did 
not wish it to be included in the trinkets which were to pass for the 
time being out of her hands. 

Molly was unfeignedly glad at ,the countess's news. She trusted 
that "the colossal fortune," of which, with the trifling addition of 
the healthy, amiable, and quite presentable young lady, the count was 
soon to become the owner, would in some degree ameliorate the condition 
of things at La Pepiniere. Raoul would at least be free from constant 
anxiety about his nephew, his purse would no longer be drained, and 
it was to be presumed, that Gaston would supply ** the mother whom 
he adored " with the little luxuries which were now provided at so 
great a cost. In the meantime, Molly was delighted, for the countess's 
sake, to transact a little amateur pawnbroking, for to such the latter's 
request that she would become the ** temporary purchaser" of her 
trinkets, virtually amounted. However, the little formula saved 
Madame de Treilles' self-respect, which would have shrunk from 
openly asking her to lend her money, and the girl was only too glad 
to keep it up. 

She drew the parcel towarde her, and opened it tenderly and 
compassionately ; it must have been hard for poor Madame la Com- 
tesse to part with her little treasures. There they lay, carefully packed 
in a sandal- wood box ; a few rings, a bracelet or two, an old fashioned 
pair of fine diamond earrings— not very much to represent a fine lady's 
jewellery. Probably the rest had been already disposed of. At the 
bottom, in a little case of its own, was the much talked of pendant. A 
really beautiful miniature, set in a sort of scroll, very finely worked 
with alternate trefoils of emeralds and diamonds. The painting re- 
presented a young man; his dress," as much of it as could be seen, 
being apparently of the last century. The expression of the face, in- 
deed the whole thing was strangely familiar to Molly. Where had she 
seen it before ? Had the countess over worn it during her stay at the 
chateau ? Never— of that she was sure ; it was Madame de Treilles'' 

Molly's Fortunes. 27 

eostom to eschew ornaments of every kind. Where, then, could she 
hare Been it ? 

She turned it over curiouslj. On the back was a quaintly designed 
monogram, surmounted by fanciful arabesques, with, underneath, 
some words engraved in extremely small characters. What a strange 
business it was ; somehow Molly seemed to recognise the monogram, 
and to expect the arabesques to be there ! 

8he carried the locket to the light, and slowly deciphered the tiny 
words : — 

** A. S. de R. Gage d'amour." 

The monogram in the middle was formed of the letters E. O. N., 
perhaps R. G^N. Was that little flourish meant for an apostrophe, 
or was it merely an appendage to the central letter ? R. 0*N. !" 
MoDy's hand shook so much that she well-nigh dropped the precious 
trinket. She rushed across the room, and taking a jewel-case out of 
her wardrobe, began hurriedly to search among its contents. A suddon 
idea had struck her — ^a mad and ridiculous idea of course— that she 
mi^ht have seen such an ornament with l^Iiss O'Neill. Was not that 
bracelet, for instance, which she used to wear sometimes, set with some- 
what similar medallions ? Now that she thought of it, was not one of 
the miniatures missing, and had not Miss O'Neill said once that if it 
were ever found in the possession of anyone calling himself O'Neill, 
she would deem it likely that he belonged to her family. And this 
had originally been the property of a de Rohan, who had married a 
foreigner — perhaps an Irishman, an O'Neill. E, G'N, — why thoso 
initials might stand for Roderick O'Neill I Most of the male O'Neills 
of the elder line were Rodericks, just as the scions of the younger wero 
Hughs. And in that case Madame de Treilles would be descend ei I 

from the O'Neills, and Raoul would be **0h, I am a goose t* 

dream of it! It is absurd, impossible f Still I may as well couvincD 
myself that I am wrong." 

The jewel-case contained poor Miss O'Neill's favourite ornaments, 
which Molly had put away carefully after her death, and which had 
not been touched since. She unlocked it tremulously, and took <iiit 
its contents one by one. Here was the bracelet. Her fingers bimgleJ 
curiously over the spring, but the velvet case was open at last, and. 
Molly could place Madame de Treilles' miniature between the otlior 
two. A beautiful rosy colour — the flush of intense joy — overspre^ul 
her hitherto pale face. The central medallion represented a youn<^ 
man, and the others contained girlish heads, but in other respects thf) 
three were precisely alike. The paintings were evidontl}' by the sanu 
hand, the style being identical ; moreover, there was a strong family 
likeness in the three young faces, and the self-same simper sat on all 

28 The Irish Monthly. 

the painted lips ; the setting was similar in every particular, and the 
fanciful monogram on the back altered only in a single letter of each — 
J. O'N., M. O'N., and now R. O'N. 

"What does it mean?" said Molly to herself; "let me think — 
what can it mean ?" 

This was the missing miniature, of that there could be no doubt ; 
it had been in the possession of the Sauvignys for four generations, 
having been originally brought into the family by Mcidemoiselle 
Sophie de Eohan, who had married a foreigner. Suppose a certain 
Roderick O'Neill had left his country about the end of the last cen- 
tury, had joined one of the Irish brigades — as Miss O'Neill said so many 
of her family had done — and had had chanced to be that identical 
foreigner ? What more likely than that he should present }x\& fiancee 
with his own portrait, yielded up for the purpose (it may be unwil- 
lingly) by his mother or some of his feminine belongings ? If this 
were the case, why Raoul could prove his descent from the O'Neills 
of Castle O'Neill, his grandmother being doubtless the daughter of 
Roderick of that ilk. Raoul would have the right to claim everything 
at present in Molly's possession, the right to claim Molly Herself, if he 
were so minded —Raoul was the heir ! 

Suddenly she fell on her knees, sobbing out a broken prayer of 
thanksgiving, and covering the little miniature with kisses ; a slender 
link indeed on which to hang so great a chain of evidence, but Molly 
felt it all-sufficient. Gage d* amour / Oh, blessed words ! did they say 
half as much to that pretty prim young demoiselle long ago, as they 
did to this Irish nineteenth century maiden ? Did she ever weep such 
passionate tears over them, or repeat them with such rapturous joy ? 
Gage d^anumr — a love-token indeed, a pledge that the barrier which 
had so long separated her and Raoul must now perforce be done 
away with, that the silence which both deemed themselves bound to 
observe must be broken at last. 

Oh, dear, clever, good Miss O'Neill, how inspired she had been to 
make such a will ! how wonderfully wise to word it in just such a man- 
ner ! Raoul, as a man of honour, would have been almost bound to 
give Molly the option of refusing him, even had he never hitherto seen 
her ; but under present circumstances — " Oh, thank God, thank God," 
she sobbed over and over again ; and presently Mrs Mackenzie was 
surprised out of something very like a nap, by a rushing figure burst- 
ing into her room, and an ecstatic cry : — 

" Oh, auntie, I aw bo happy ! I haven't a penny in the world that 
I can call my own." 

Air. Burke, hastily summoned on the following day, heard Molly's 
story with anything but rapture, and advised her, testily enough, to 
put her ridiculous theories out of her head. 

Molly^a Fariunes, 29' 

**Let your count or baron, or whatever he is, hunt up his inherit- 
ance for himself if he wants it. I never heard anything so absurd in 
my Kfe ; I am certainly not going to allow you to he disturbed on the 
eridenoe of a trumpery bauble that may have changed hands a dozen 
times after it left possession of the O'Neills." 

" Yes but it hasn't, dear Mr Burke," urged Molly eagerly; " it has 
been in Monsieur de Sauvigny's family for generations ; I feel — I know 
he can prove his rights. Oh, I do so want him to be the heir," she 
cried, clasping her hands. 

" Do you, indeed," said Mr Burke, softening a little, but still very 
mach put out. 

" Yes, and I want you to prove it for him," pleaded Molly very 

'* Upon my word I'll do no such thing," declared the lawyer, red- 
dening with indignation. *' One would think I had nothing else to do 
but hunt up people's grandmothers. First there was yours — no, I 
believe yours was a grandfather, that makes it a little more respect- 
able ; then two, no less, for Hugh, one spurious and one real ; and now 
due Frenchman's. I tell you what it is, Molly, I draw the line here ; 
a French grandmother is a little too strong — the last straw breaks the 
camel's back, you know." 

•* Oh, please, dear Mr Burke," petitioned Molly, half laughing and 
half crying, " just this cme more. You shall never, never be asked to 
find another." 

" And who do you suppose I shall find to send to Franco ? " ho 
grumbled. "It is not everyone who would be equal to this 

** I want you to go yourself," said the girl simply. " Don't think 
me very eicacting, but really I would trust no one but you. It is a 
very delicate matter, and must be carefully dealt with. I want you 
to spare no pains, to leave no stone unturned — oh," cried Molly, in a 
n>ioe trembling with earnestness, " I can't tell you how much I have 
this business, at heart." 

** Well, well." sighed Mr Burke, a sudden moisture dimming for 
a moment his sharp little eyes, " a wilful woman must have her way, 
I sappose. I'll go and examine this gentleman, and see if he has a 
mole on the small of his back, and a strawberry mark on his left 
:i2in — the infallible means of identifying the rightful heir to a pro- 
perty, I believe, when he chances to be mislaid, as at present. Having 
the antique ornament ready to hand is a great point — only it should 
have a secret spring in it to be quite correct. Now all we want is a 
*caaket^'"— emphasizing the word with withering scorn — **and a 
aeore or two of letters, for the romance to be complete." 

30 The IfHsh Monthly. 

"I daresay you will find letters enough at La Pepini^re. I wish 
you wouldn't laugh like that — it looks as if you did not believe in 
in)" theory, and yet everything is so clear.'* 

** Why didn't your Frenchman recognise the name of O'Neill, and 
realise that you were a connection of his family, I should like to 
know ? " grumbled the lawyer, turning a little testy again as MoUy 
waxed more and more eager. 

" Because I never had occasion to speak of it. I only alluded to 
Miss O'Neill once, and then it did not occur to me to mention her 

After a little more parleying, and many hints from Molly as to 
the best manner of carrying out his difficult task, Mr Burke consented 
to set out at once for Chateau de la Pepiniere, there to make enquiries, 
to overhaul the family papers, and, if Molly's theory proved correct, 
to announce to Eaoul that an inheritance awaited him. 

"You will be sure to make him understand everything ^ won't 
you ? " said Molly diffidently, as he rose to go — ** I mean, all about 
Miss O'Neill's will, and — and the conditions, you know." 

" Don't be afraid," returned her friend drily, " Pll make him 
understand. Am I to infer, then, that you for your part are not un- 
willing ? Ah, the little hussy ! she's gone." 



The result of Mr Burke's researches was eminently satisfactory to 
Molly. The bridegroom who had some six score years before led 
Mademoiselle Sophie de Bohan to the altar, proved in truth to be 
Roderick O'Neill, Lieutenant in the Irish Brigade, which fought so 
bravely under Lord Clare. Raoul's grandmother, on the mother's 
side, was the only daughter of this couple, a posthumous child, born 
after her father was slain in battle. Documentary evidence of these 
facts was found amongst the papers which Baoul put at the lawyer's 
disposition, and there was also, as Molly had suggested, a consider- 
able number of letters, which would have furnished additional proof 
had such been required. 

The girl's inferences were, therefore, entirely correct, and that 

MolhfH Fortunes. 31 

wLicli she so ardently desired turned out to be the case : Eaoul 
de Sauvigny was the heir of Castle O'Neill. 

Apparently Mr. Burke succeeded in making him understand his 
poeition vezy thoroughly, for a long letter soon found its way to 
MoUy, a letter which she read on her knees, and which was carried 
about all day next her heart, and at night laid under her pillow. 
Innocent, tender, foolish young love ! of what extrayagances is it not 
capable I Very shyly, very happily, did she set about her answer to 
this nussiye, and after writing and tearing up about a dozen, she des- 
patched one which only contained a single word : C&me / 

And 80 he came. Partly in remembrance of her girlish dream 
and partly to secure undisturbed privacy, Molly awaited him in the 
old garden, leaving directions that on his arrival he was to be sent to 
find her there. 

It was then mid- April, the loveliest time of the lovely spring. A 
thousand delicate, pale-hued flowers, brightened the terraces and 
tilled the hoUow beneath ; lilac trees, white and colouied, bent beneath 
their load of bloom, a few little pink buds of the monthly roses 
already shone out amid the vivid green that hung over the arched 
gateway, and yonder, foaming up behind the ruined castle, was an 
ocean of exquisite fruit blossom, white, and creamy, and tenderest 
sheU-pink. MoUy's favourites, the birds, were piping a jubilant 
bridal-song, each doubtless celebrating his own particular rapture, 
vet apparently casting in his mite of ecstacy to swell the sum of 
her immeasurable joy. The leaves were dancing in a gleeful 
breeze ; the sun was shining, over all. Oh, this ancient world of ours, 
how it blossoms still! oh, spring, how ever fresh, how ever new, 
how ever welcome is it, even after a thousand winters ! oh love, the 
dd, old story, will it ever paU on us, though countless times retold ! 
And, oh love, and youth, and spring-time altogether, what an Eden 
do ye make of this work-a-day world ! 

80 Molly watched and waited at the gilded gate, and at last she 
heard Baoul's footfall in the distance. Too shy to run to meet him, she 
btood clasping the topmost bars, her blushing, expectant face peer- 
ing down. How wonderful was the fulfilment of that former day- 
dream of hers : tlus was the wayfarer coming, the worn and weary 
wayfarer, who here was to find rest and comfort for evermore. 

Now his figure was discerned rapidly approaching under the stately 
colonnade of yews ; on he came, awhile in shadow, now in light, step- 
ping* forth at last into the full blaze of sunshine. 

But stay ! was this her wayfarer ? A great rush of wondering 
delight swept over Molly's heart, so transformed, so transfigured was 
the face upturned to meet hers. He paused for a moment, looking 

'42 The Irish M&>ithly. 

at her. The feathered orchestra piped louder, and louder, and tha 
breeze tossed the lilac blossoms hither and thither, and waves of 
the sweet spring scents were wafted to tliem from the garden be- 
low — but Raoul was only conscious of Molly. 

** Child," he said breathlessly, ** is it a dream ? Tell me, is it a 

"Yes, it is a dream," answered J Molly, with sweet, tremulou^i 
laughter. " This is a dream-world. Do you not know ? — it is Ar- 
cadia, Raoul." 

And then — "oh, love!" he cried, with swift impetuous, stride* 
lessening the distance between them, — "love, let me in! " 

M. E. Fbancis. 




THE stars sent forth a holy light. 
The bells were chiming clear, — 
Back swung the portals of the Night 
And showed the fair New Year. 

In midst of snowy rays, the pure 

All-spotless youth delayed, 
As of his present home secure — 

Of coming half -afraid. 

With timid eyes to pierce he strove 

The mystery of the glooms. 
His hand still lingered, with his love, 

'Mid paradisal blooms. 

One beauteous foot the threshold pressed. 

One loitered in the bower, 
When there was laid upon his breast, 

Of flowers the fairest flower. 

Cmnrades. ' 33 

A little Babe, dove-innocent, 

A star its brow above, 
Blue-eyed, with loving looks intent, 

And arms outstretched for love. 

His hands forgot the Eden- blooms— 

No bloom like this was there ; 
His eyes gave o'er to search the glooms 

Before a sight so fair. 

His heart leaped up ; with joy suffused 

His radiajQt visage shone — 
As dove o'er dovelets bowed, he mused, 

Then, fearless, glided on. 

The stars shot forth a holier light, 

The bells sang loud and clear. 
As through the portals of the night 

Came forth the glad New Year ! 


The leaves went from the withered trees 

As summer birds take flight ; 
The church-bell swung T the moaning breeze 

With dismal knells at night. 

From hill to hill a heavy cloud 

Trailed, splashing o*er the mere ; 
The vaporous mists arose to shroud 

The face of the dying year. 

As monarch weary and sad and old 

Who doffs his rich array, 
The year resigns his rod and gold 

For penitential gray. 

With pilgrim foot he paces forth, 

His breath comes chill and slow ; 
Dim-eyed, he knows not south nor north 

Amid the drifting snow. 

And, as he moves, a rosy child 

Beside his pathway stands, 
Blue-eyed and beautiful and mild 
Who played with happy hands. 
Vol. xvm. No. 199. 52 

34 The Irish Monthly. 

He looted down on the sunny head : 
"Thine eyes," he said, " are clear ; 

'* I cannot g^ alone he said, 
" The way is dim and drear." 

He caught the child up to his breast, 
Who smiled in sweet amaze, 

And then as with one fear oppressed, 
Sent back a homeward gaze. 

His gold hair mingled with the gray. 
His hand waved, onward borne, 

The snow closed round them on their way — 
And I was left forlorn. 


NOW it is Christmas week, and Christmas Day falls on a 
Wednesday, which, in the opinion of the city clerk and 
others of his kind, is the next best thing to falling on a Tuesday ; 
for what tyrant, commercial or otherwise, would compel his 
retainers to work on the ensuing Friday and Saturday P 

Well, then, now are the city offices voiceless and dusty ; now 
are four-wheelers rumbling and jolting, and hansoms dashing and 
swaying, and all their summits are overloaded with hampers and 
baskets, with lids bulging and straining against doubtful knots 
and anything but infallible string. Now are cab-drivers jolly and 
frosty, or they are jolly and foggy, for they are like the weather, 
and inseparable from it, and they take their fares without 
grumbling (that is to say, to any appreciable extent), for times 
are looking up, and fares are tumbling in. 

Now do old gentlemen buy new woollen wrappers, and young 
ones new white kid gloves ; and both of them purchase innumerable 
Christmas cards covered with angels, and robins, and holly ; they 
also spend fortunes in postage stamps, and feel bored with 
addressing so many envelopes. 

Now does the baked-potato-man, near the theatre door, order a 
double supply of .cold stock, and perhaps laments in the morning 

• The form and title of this paper are suggested by Leigh Hunt, whose subject^ 
however, is " A Hot Day." 

A Note Descriptive of Christmastide. 35 

that he did not invest further ; and his red- hot rival, the roasted- 
chestnut-vendor, pokes his fire, and seems regardless of economy 
in general and profit in particular, as he piles up anew the 
fragments pf coke. 

Now do oranges remind one of pits and amphitheatres, and the 
Ali Baba and Puss in Boots of our youth; and wdnuts are 
captivating to the eye, and almonds and raisins a glimpse of 

Now is some favomite nook in each Catholic church trans- 
formed by devout hands into a representation of the Crib of 
Bethlehem, and much pious ingenuity is lavished on every detail^ 
from the straw-bestrewn floor, and the soft-eyed, dappled oxen, 
to the glittering stars above ; and thousands visit these cribs and 
exclaim : " How natural ! " and some among them gaze with wet 
eyes, and yet withal a joy in them ; and children'ask to be allowed 
to stop a few moments longer to look at the Child Jesus and the 
Mother of Divine Love. 

Now are public halls and private homes decorated with a 
profusion of evergreens and flags, mottoes and seasonable proverbs ; 
and people in them walk about laughing and singing (at least in 
their homes), and even the dyspeptic seem glad, for no other reason, 
we suppose, than that other people are glad : and it does not 
surprise tib very much when we detect them, despite coughs and 
colds and other additional ailments, beating time on the window 
panes with their fingers and purring " Glorias." 

Now are schoolboys, red-cheeked and impudent, fresh home 
from school. Now do thej levy blackmail on near relatives of the 
masculine order, under the delusive plea of Christmas boxes ; and 
they are allowed greater freedom, especially at the table and in 
bed in the morning, for now does not the school-bell bring their 
chubby little noses to the surface of the blankets, but their sisters 
knock gently at their doors and wish them everything good, the 
morning included ; and trust they slept well, and will they come 
aaross to the lake after breakfast and see if the ice will bear ? To 
which they make what answer they please, and no one is annoyed, 
and the whole world seems created for healthy schoolboys and 
generous^ foolish old fathers. 

Now dp soldiers in barracks draw their pay and obtain leave 
lor a week ; and they may be seen in railway-carriages and steam- 
hoaiSf with their great coats on and their kits under their arms. 

36 The Irish Monthly. 

Now do the canteen receipts increase immeasurably, though the 
harracks are more than half-empty ; but many there are who remain 
behind, not, maybe for choice, but that the barrack-room is their 
home, and the canteen then: relaxation ; and each mess has been 
• saving and frugal during the long autumn months, that Christmas, 
when it comes, may be fully honoured. 

Now are sailors arriving at country railway stations, and 
exchanging greetings with porters and station-masters ; and their 
trousers are wider and their blue shirt-arms shorter than usual, 
although the weather is bitterly cold — for they wear their holiday 
rig, and desire to emulate a personified freedom and a general 
looseness of structure — not to mention exhibiting to the rustics the 
tatooed anchors and crossed flags conspicuous on the brown wrist 
reddening in the cold, wintry wind. 

Now are their hardy colleagues aboard ships far away at sea, 
hovering around the galley door, whilst the dusky cook, in a snowy 
cap and bare arms, hands forth steaming " dough-boys" and 
** plum-dufE," whilst the spray is drenching the weather bulwarks, 
aud the green water is hissing under the lee channels as the 
heeling, canvas bedecked bark rushes nearer — still nearer home ! 

Now are the theatres crammed, from the regiment of footlights 
below to the blinding lustre-decorated gasalier at the roof ; and 
orchestras play medleys composed of all the catch-tunes of the 
past year, and choruses are taken up by the " gods," and echoed 
from the pit, to be joined in again in eiEEervescing, reckless jollity 
by the greater part of the " house ; " the few exceptions chatting 
in the stalls, or quizzing from the boxes ; their aristocratic blood 
or immaculate shirt-fronts being some impediment perhaps — but 
their hearts are sound, and many among them hum to themselves 
or beat time with their patent-leathered feet. 

Now does the pretty little ballet-girl and her mangling mother 
(excuse the epithet, dear reader) eat substantial suppers, and order 
the best of porter, and drink tea at three shillings a pound ; and 
pay off old-standing debts, and contract new ones, and otherwise 
make the most of the season. Not forgetful, of course, of the poor 
little dwarf sister who stays at home all day and works at mantle- 
making. She is clothed afresh from the second-hand wardrobe at 
the comer of the street (the one with a dark side-entrance), and 
the monthly hire of her sewing-machine is paid up to date. Now 
all is rosy, therefore, and the ballet-girl sings all the way down 

A Now BeMripUve of Christmaatide, 37 

stairs going to rehearsal, and all the wa^ again at midnight (although 
HieA and limp after the evening's pirouetting), sheltered under 
her mother's shawl, in lieu, we suppose, of wings. 

Now does h^r shady father, the " super," drink a little more 
than is customary, but contributes the greater part of his increased 
mite to the general fund, and, on the whole, is not so bad as he 
might be at this time of the year ; and his erstwhile greasy cap is 
replaced by a felt hat of indubitable respectabilty, and his paper 
collar is again bedight with a necktie wealthy in colour. He 
sheds fewer tears in his beer than ever, despite the increased 
potations, and talks less of the old home in Hampshire, and the 
birdfi-nesting and squirrel-hunting days of his youth, ere he came 
to the great metropolis, and was swallowed up in the gaping maw 
of this huge London — ^this panting minotaur among cities ; now 
his laughter is more genuine ; and domestic brawls seem things of 
the past. 

Now are poets writing cheerful lyrics about snow, and bells, 
and hynms of peace, and kindred subjects ; and few people care to 
read them, because, we suppose, they have read such things a 
hundred times before, or they prefer the real, practical Christmas 
to the ideal fancies of a rhymer. But they (the poems) fill up 
odd comers of weekly journals, and help to make things generally 

Now are postmen, dustmen, lamplighters and news-boys 
extraordinarily civil ; for to-morrow or the next day is Boxing-day, 
and they have an eye to the main chance — or yesterday was the 
day, and their stock of gratitude has not yet quite evaporated. 

Now, lastly, the weather is seasonable and frosty, and the 
grocers' shops look cheerful and homely, or it is unseasonable and 
foggy, and the grocers' shops still look homely and cheerful, and so 
do red curtains on parlour windows. And people in 'busses and 
tramcars are not so cross and morbid-minded as they might be, 
considering everything that happens to people nowadays; and 
things generally are as joUy as ever, and everybody forgives 
everybody else ; and all but priests and milkmen rise late in the 
morning and go to bed later at night. 

And, now, I think, that is about all ; and you, dear reader, are 
tired and conmienoe to fidget with the page wearily, and long to 
turn it over ; so, now, pray do, with our best Christmas wishes for 
the whole year— -old wishes, indeed, but yet ever new ! 

E. E. 

38 The Irish Monthly. 


AT night what things will etalk abroad 
What veiled shapes, and eyes of dread ! 
"With phantoms in a lonely road 
And visions of the dead. 

The kindly room when day is here, 
At night takes ghostly terrors on ; 

And every shadow hath its fear, 
And every wind its moan. 

Lord Jesus, Day- Star of the world, 
Eise Thou, and bid this dark depart, 

And all the east, a rose uncurled, 
Grow golden at the heart ! 

Lord, in the watches of the night, 

Keep Thou my soul ! a trembling thing 

As any moth that in daylight 
Will spread a rainbow wing. 

Kathahine Tynan. 


^ ^ 1\ yTAT Jesus Christ be praised ! " said Francesco 
-L^^ Bandinelli. And a chorus of children's voices 
answered : " For ever and for ever. Amen." 

" Tou come, dear children/' said the o[A.pUtor€^ as his habitual 
smile grew sunnier, and his ever cheerful voice became more 
animated — " you come in the train of all things holy, bright, and 
beautiful. How good is God ! An hour before the morning Ave 
an angel whispered, and I woke. The gay, glad sun had anticipated 
me. The birds had reached the third nocturn of their matins. 
Yonder mass of blue and scarlet anemone bent in adoration as the 
wind of Heaven swept by, bearing on its bosom the angels of the 
city. The mignonette sent forth a breath of sweetest incense as 
the birds reached their Benedictus. I knelt and prayed." 

Told in a Florentine Studio, 39 

The old man bent lovingly over a fold of St. Francesco's brown 
habit, touching it caressingly with the point of his brush. He was 
painting the seraphic one on Mount Alverno. The children stood 
in an orderly group around the easel. An aureole of sunlight 
flamed about the head qf the Saint, and the glorious light of early 
morning lit up the little oratory near the door, and played upon 
the bold bands of colour that gleamed here and there in that long 
garret, which was at once the studio salon and bed-chamber of 
Signor Bandinelli. 

Such an odd little rabble of child-life in this Florentine 
chamber. Such a quaint, genial, benignant maestro in the tall, 
thin figure at the easel. Sixty-five years had bleached the once 
jet black hair and beard ; deep wrinkles had fallen upon the 
sunny face. But the smile of perfect gladness with which nature, 
aided by grace, had endowed him, was one of the greatest gifts the 
pifiore possessed. 

A rising artist at the time Cornelius and Overbech were at the 
height of their fame — a husband at the age of twenty-two, and a 
widower at thirity- -Bandinelli had given up the brilliant prospects 
then opening out to him in the Eternal City, to live an obscure, 
but useful and happy life in the Florence where he was bom. 
Here, within earshot of the bells of Santa Maria del Fiore, he 
prayed and worked, esteemed by all, hved by the children and the 

Scarcely a day passed but a troop of " earth's angels" invaded 
the privacy of his studio ; never a gloaming fell but, in the court 
below, the representatives of Christ were consoled and relieved. 
Never a morning came that did not find the painter at the altar of 
his God ; never an hour passed in that upper room without its act 
of homage to the Queen of Heaven. 

But this early morning hour was the children's, and they knew 
it. Yet neither for romps nor bon-bons did they gather, though 
the former would not have been frowned upon, while the latter were 
plentifully bestowed on fea^t-days — and oh, how many patron 
saints and special feasts the maestro had ! T/ie attraction, however, 
was Signor Bandinelli himself. 

" Everywhere," began the old man, " it is Heaven outside ; 
how, then, could my bambini leavc» the sunshine P " 

"You promised the story of little Alessandro," sang tb 

40 The Irish Monthly. ^ 

" Only it is too sad. It would dash your cherry cheeks with 

" But the maestro's stories are never too sad." 

" And a promise is the most sacred thing," added the pUtore, 
laying down his hrush, and beginning to patch the slopes of 
Alvemo with his palette-knife. 

This was the invariable preliminary. The children clapped 
tiieir handF, and drew a Uttle closer to the easel, as the artist began. 

" The little Alessandro was the only son of my elder brother. 
Only God and the Madonna know how I loved the shy little child. 
I call him shy — ^it does not express it. So precocious, yet so simple, 
so loving, yet so bashful ; so old-fashioned, yet so beautifully child- 

" One day, when he was little more than five years old, I took 
him to the Uuarant' Ore at S. Maria del Fiore. Children, you know 
the scene : it is supernal ! It is more than a shadow of the Eternal 
Paradise. ITe Himself i^ there : seraphs sing the latidi of the blessed. 
A thousand golden stars twinkle about Ilis throne. All is light, 
colour, beauty, and sweet song. 

" My darling was entranced — wrapt in the saoredness of a 
child's unspoken prayer. Once or twice I glanced at his pale, 
sweet face. He knelt reverently, conscious of nought but the 
Adorable One. 

" Half an hour sped quickly. I arose, inwardly chiding myself 
for neglecting the baby so long. I touched his arm, but he did 
not stir. I bent down and whispered in his ear. He looked u p 
pleadingly, and said softly : — 


" * yes, oarissimo,' I said, ' it is time.' 

" * To the Bambino Santissimo ? zio* He is so lovely, and 
He wants me to go.' 

" I took the laddie into my arms, reproving mjrself severely 
for allowing him, as 1 thought, to sleep through weariness. 

" * Lie still, child of my heart, and sleep ; you are so tired' — ^I 
said, as we stepped out into the cool air of early spring. 

" * But I have not slept — ^I am not sleepy : I wish only to play 
with Him and the other pretty children among the stars and 
flowers.' • 

" * You have had bright dreams, my sweet one ; but tell me 


Told in a Florentine Studio. 4f. 

what you saw/ I added, as the tears gathered iii his big daik 

" * Zio, mio ! but you are cruel. A moment ago I saw tlie 
Bambino Santissimo, bright and pretty, high up among th^ 
flowers in a house of gold, many, many little children flying all 
about, playing, oh ! such pretty games And once the Samtissimo 
flew down from His golden room. He looked at me, and said : 
* You wiU oome' — ^and then He smiled, and I knew He wanted me. 
2o ! I should like to go. Only when you touched me He flew 

" I put my hand to his head : it was burning hot. 

" Hastening home, I gave the child to its mother. She thouglit 
he had caught a chill ; but she did not reproach me. She knew 
how tenderly I loved him. 

** ' That great Chiesa has terrible draughts,' she said ; * my 
Alessandro is feverish.' 

** I assented, and remarked upon the unusual flickering of the 
candles on and about the altar. It was then the darling — lying 
now with eyes unnaturally bright, and cheeks more scarlet than 
the geranium — ^looked up quickly into his mother's face, and 
said : — 

" * Ah, but it was not the wind that made the stars to twinkle ; 
that was the wings of the angel-children as they flew in and out 
among the lights, and played with the Santissimo.' 

" That night Alessandro lay in his little cot in the agony of a 
burning fever. In the morning he had passed beyond the flowers — 
higher than the stars, and was plajang with the Bambino Santissimo 
in the garden of Heaven." 

The pittore looked round upon his little guests, smiling through 
his tears. He had told the story so gaily and briefly, they scarcely 
realised its almost tragic ending. They were silent for a moment, 
and then one little lad, with an old-world face and grave tone, 
added — 

** But yom* bfunbino was right. I know that, when the candles 
flicker, it is always that the angels are flying around. They never 
leave the Santissimo. Only perhaps at Exposition there are more 
angels than at other times." 

Francesco Bandinelli was making an act of thanksgiving for 

42 The Irish Monthlf/. 

the ohild's simple faith when a bell in the near distance rang out 
for morning school. In a moment the chamber was cleared. A 
fresh flood of sunlight poured itself into the room, as though to 
console its occupant for the departed " angels." A gush of bird 
music came through the open window. The painter resumed his 
task. The labour of the day went on unbrokenly in a place where 
work was prayer, and prayer was work. 

David Bearne. 


T^HERE is a warlike music in the blast ; 
-*- The rebel winds have risen and discrowned 
The aged Year, and strewn upon the ground 
The gold and crimson of his splendours past. 

Poor monarch ! he hath cast his honours down, 
Shaken with storms and pierced with frosty spears, 
And fled to sanctuary, and now wears 

In lieu of kingly state the friar's brown. 

Death hath enrolled him in his house of gloom, 
Who first stole summer from the flowering lea. 
Nor much, I think, he cares for life since she 

"Was laid with all her roses in the tomb. 

But now kind Heaven doth avenge his woes, 

Confounding those who called him Fortune's fool : 
For, where he dying lies, comes holy Yule 

To blanch his memory with saintly snows. 



YI. — ^Fkmkjine Noma de Plume in Current Literature. 

T HT! care taken to make HazeU's Annual worthy of its second 
name, " A Cyclopedic Record of Men and Topics of the 
Day," is shown in the additions made in 1889 to information 
given in 1888 on such a small matter as literary pseudonyms. 
The person responsible for this item has not overlooked the 
controversy which has established that the proper French term is 
iiom de guerre^ and that the more common form has only at most 
been adopted from without among French writers. Many also are 
added to the three hundred pen-names explained in the 1888 
edition. This list might very well have confined itself to modern 
writers, as it purports to do ; but it includes Swift and Addison. 
Is it right to give "Clio," as Addison's signature ? He marked 
his contributions to Tlie Spectator by one of the letters which make 

Hazell includes the maiden names used in authorship by some 
married ladies. Let us select a few of these, representing both 
art and literature. Miss Dorothea Gerard, one of the authors of 
that fine tale, '• Reata," is now Madame de Lazouski. The artist 
who is still known as " Mary Ellen Edwards " (to be distinguished 
from Miss Betham Edwards) married twenty years ago Mr. Freer, 
and after his death she became Mrs. J. C. Staples. Another artist, 
whose illustrations in the magazines, &c., are credited to " Adelaide 
Claxton," has been for several years Mrs. Turner. Miss Alice 
Havers, the artist, is now Mrs. Morgan ; and her noveHst-sister, 
Miss Dora Havers, is Mrs. Boulger, though both her maiden and 
married names are disguised under the curious pseudonjrm of 
** Theo Gift " — which probably alludes to the Greek meaning of 
the second half of her full baptismal name, " Theodora," as the 
** Basil" of Mr. Richard Ashe King certainly refers to his 
surname. Miss Braddon is Mrs. John Maxwell ; Miss Florence 
Harryat has borne two other names in private life; and Miss 
Mabel Collins is married. The communicative paragraphs * * Mainly 
About People," in The Star, give us these particulars, but not the 
married names of these two last. The privation is not very trying. 

44 The Irish Monthly. 

Let us cull from Heusell's latest list* (which contains some four 
himdred names), and from other miscellaneous sources, some lite- 
rary names of women, chosen more or less arbitrarily. To secure 
some degree of method in our madness, we group together, first, the 
ladies who have taken masculine names. George Sand (Madame 
Dudevant) was, perhaps, the first to set this exemple ; and she and 
her namesake George Eliot (Mrs. Cross, n^e Marian Evans) are the 
most famous. Another feminine George is Miss Julia Fletcher, 
who, under the name of George Fleming, did some fine literary work. 
The three Bronte sisters took such names as would have the same 
initials as their real names, Catherine, Anne, and Emily becoming 
Currer, Acton, and Ellis Bell. The first of these is hard to 
recognise as Mrs. Nichols. Ireland has some claim upon her ; for 
her father was originally Patrick Prunty, a native of county 
Down — ^name supposed' to be civilized by the change, just as the- 
father of Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan) was once McKeown,. 
then Mac Owen, and, as Mac means " Son," finally Owenson, in 
the same way that certain McShanes have become Johnsons. 

Feman Caballero is the masculine-looking name of a true and 
gifted woman, Cecilia Bohl de Faber, the Maria Edgeworth of 
Spain, and perhaps something more. Bagul de Navery, an 
edifying writer of safe tales of no high order of merit, was a French 
lady, not long dead, whose name we forget. Edward Garrett is^ 
it seems, Mrs. Isabella Mayo {nee Fivey). We have read none of 
her writings ; but we have read, with keen pleasure, some of the 
American tales of Charles Egbert Craddock, who is in reality Miss 
Mary Murfree (not a variation, we fear, of Murphy, for we should 
be glad to claim for the Irish race some share in " The Prophet of 
the Smoky Mountains"). Ennis Graham has been sometimes 
used as a name by Mrs. Molesworth, but she is known best by her 
real name, whereas " Holme Lee " is much better known than 
Miss Harriet Parr. " Lucas Malet " is Mrs. Harrison. Another 
v^ry gifted woman who has chosen to write under a masculine, or- 

* No, not the latest. The new edition for 1890 appeared on December 6th^ 
1889, and yet chronicles facts which occurred on December 3rd. The sketch of 
Martin Farquhar Tupper in the body of the work, mentions his death, which only 
occurred on November 26th. The Pall MaU Gazette^ of December 3rd, reports an 
interview with the Rev. E. G. Price, F.G.S., who has edited all the volumes sine© 
1886, and it obligingly informs us that he is six feet four inches in height, and forty 
years of age. He refers with special complacency to the article on which our 
present paper draws with (we hope) suf&ciently explicit acknowledgment. 

Ationymities Unveiled. 45 

not openly feminine, name is " Leader Scott " — ^Miss Lucy Barnes 
(now Mrs. Baxter), daughter of the famous Dorsetshire pbet, the 
Eev. William Barnes. 

Of Irish literary women. Lady Wilde is, perhaps, more widely 
known as "Speranza" than as th^ mother of Oscar Wilde. 
Amongst the name-disguises caused *hy marriage is the change of 
Miss Maiy LafFan into Mrs. Hartley. " E. Owens Blackburne " is 
known in private life as Miss Casey. Our readers have long been 
aware that " Mary " of The Nation was Ellen Downing, of Cork. 
The credit of some of Miss Bosa Mulholland's early stories was 
given to an imaginary " Euth Murray." " Melusine " is Miss 
Skeffington Thompson. Almost the only notm de plume among 
the contributors to Thk Irish Monthly are " M. E. Francis," 
** Evelyn Pyne," and "Alice Esmonde." The first two wish to 
maintain their pseudonymity ; but the recent publication of 
** Songs of liemembrance," allows us to recognise " Alice Esmonde" 
as Miss Margaret Ryan. However, a key to the signatures of 
writers in this Magazine, as far as its general policy of signed 
aitieles has left an opening for the services of a key, will be 
furnished in some special instalment of the present series ; and the 
subject need not now be pursued further. Yet we cannot refrain 
from interpreting the initials of two other gifted women, an Eng- 
lish woman and an Irish woman. " B. N.," the author of an ex- 
cellent History of the Jesuits, is Miss Barbara Neave, now married 
to a French gentleman ; and Mrs. Atkinson is the ** S. A.," to 
whom we owe " The Life of Mary Aikenhead," and a great dofil 
more of admirable literary work. 

Vn. — Noma de Plume op Litkraky Men. 

In the preceding section we mentioned many women who 
thought fit to write under the disguise of masculine names. We 
do not recall, on the other hand, any prominent instance of a 
literary man choosing to write under the cloak of supposed femi- 

One of our latest discoveries in this department concerns the 
author of " A Poet's Praise," which we commended warmly before 
we bad any idea that our homage was offered to a Catholic bishop. 
The following paragraph in The Ave Maria was a siu-prise to us : — 

46 Tlte Msh Monthhj. 

'* * Henry Hamilton " has just brought out through his publishers, Messrs. G- 
P. Putnam Sons, New York, a metrical translation of the first four books of the 
^neid. It is no longer a secret, we believe, that Henry Hamilton is the pen-name 
of the Right Bev. Bishop Spalding, of Peoriflb, who has published also two yolumes- 
of original verse — "America *' and ** A Poet's Praise.'* His latest work has been 
more favourably received by the critics. He has not aimed at literalness, but rather 
to bring out the spirit of Virgil's immortal poem in English form, and to this end 
he has wisely chosen different verse-forms." 

Of some two or three hundred false names and initials which 
can be translated into the full names of the authors in question^ 
the following may be taken as sufficiently numerous samples. 
Anstey, author of Vice Versa, is Mr. Ghithrie ; " B" (of The Timei>)^ 
Lord BramweU ; " Cuthbert Bede" (author of " Verdant (Ireen")^ 
Eev. Edward Bradley; "Lewis Carroll" ("Alice in Wonderland"), 
Eev. C. L. Dodgson ; " Hugh Conway" was Mr. F. J. Fergus; 
" Arthur Locker," it seems, is in reality Mr. J. H. Forbes ; " Owen 
Meredith" is of course the present Lord Lytton ; " Shirley" is John 
Skelton ; " Toby, M.P.," in Punch, is Mr. Henry W. Lucy ; 
" Patricius Walker" was the prose signature of the poet, William 
Allingham, who has just died. It is hardly worth while picking out 
any others of these pseudonyms. Most writers who are worth 
knowing, make themselves known under every disguise. 

Yin. — Eeal Names of American Humourists. 

The Philadelphia Press gives the following list, from which we 
have blotted out two that had got into it by some very stupid mis- 
take : — " Peter PI jTnley" [Sydney Smith], and "James Yellow- 
plush" [Thackeray] . Perhaps the American paper intended to fur- 
nish a list of all the best humourous writers, and thought they all 
belonged to the United States except these two. Any such list 
should include " Emmanuel Kink," an early signature of Eiohard 
Dowling, the novelist, who began by being an admirable humour- 
ist ; and also " Arthur Sketchley," namely, Mr. Oeorge Eose, who> 
with all his waggery, was serious enough to sacrifice Anglican 
ecclesiastical preferment to become a Catholic : — 

" Josh Billings," Henry W. Shaw. 

" Andrew Jack Downing," Seba E. Smith. 

" Artemus Ward," Charles Farrar Browne. 

" Bill Arp," Charles H. Smith. 

" Gath," George Alfred Townsend. 

Anonymities Unveiled^ 47 

" Fat Contributor," A. Miner Ghriswold. 

" Hawkeye Man," Eobert J. Burdette. 

" Howadjii," George William Curtis. 

-' Ike Marvel," Donald Grant MiteheU. 

" John Paul," Charles H. Webb. 

" John Phoenix," Captain George H. Derby. 

" Mark Twain," Samuel L. Clemens. 

" Max Adeler," Charles Heber Clark. 

" EU Perkins," Melville D. Landon. 

" Petroleum V. Nasby," David Locke. 

" BiU Nye," William E. Nye. 

" Nym Crynkle," Andrew C. Wheeler. 

" Old Si," Samuel W. Small. 

'' Orpheus C. Kerr," Eobert H. Newell. 

" Pelig Wales," William A. Croffut. 

" The Danbury Newsman," J. M. Bailey. 

" Miles O'Reilly," Charles G. Halpin. 

" Peter Parley," Samuel G. Goodrich. 

" Ned Buntline," Colonel Judson. 

" Brick Pomeroy," M. M. Pomeroy. 

" Josiah Allen's Wife," Marietta HoUey. 

" 0. K. Philander Doesticks," Mortimer Thompson. 

" Mrs. Partington," Benjamin P. Shellabar. 

" Spoopendyke," Stanley Huntley. 

" Uncle Remus," Joel Chandler Harris. 

" Hosea Bigelow," James Russell Lowell. 

" Fanny Fern," Sarah Payson Willis. 

" Gtrandfather Lickshingle," Robert W. Criswell. '. 

" M. Quad," Charles B. Lewis. 

" Hans Breitman," Charles G. Leland. 

Only a dozen of these can, we think, be said to have more than 
an American reputation. The first of them, Mr. Henry Shaw, 
is not only " Josh Billings," but also " Uncle Esek," whose very 
wise and grave sayings we have occasionally honoured with a place 
among the " Winged Words" which this Magazine has uttered 
at dose intervals during the last eighteen years. 



OF my friends it were folly to tell 
Which is dearest, if dearest there be ; 
Of the birds of the air, I know well 

That the Eedbreast is dearest to me. 
Sweeter music I never have heard 

TJian theHobin's miraculous powers; 
I feel like the Monk with the Bird, 

When a hundred years seemed a few hours. 

Nearly all other birds only sing 

While the sunshine enlivens the earth : 
Joyous minstrels, they follow their king — 

Mine alone has no music for mirth. 
So he sighs and sings sorrowful strains, 

When the lilies and roses are fled. 
And the lavender only remains. 

Lending Autumn her scents for the dead. 

AVhen the golden leaves drop one by one, 

Or are swept by the wind off the spray, — 
When the fruit that waa hid from the sun 

Hangs unripe or shrunk up from decay — 
When the mist, cold and gray, like a shroud, 

Clings in folds round each skeleton tree. 
And the whole sky is one dismal cloud. 

Until dusk settles down on the lea — 

"When our spirits, in Summer so high. 

Are depressed by these sad Autumn days — 
When the brightest grow grave, and a sigh 

The foreboding of sorrow betrays, — 
Let us find out the favourite haunts 

Where the notes of the Robin are heard, 
For the heart gets the comfort it wants 

From the voice of that innocent bird. 

There's the blackbird pipes boldly in Spring, 
And the thrush bravely seconds his song ; 

Then the lark mounts and sings on the wing, 
And the swallow, Avhile darting along^- 

The Redbreast. , 49 

Next, we hear the low voice of the dove 

That diffuses deep peace through the glades, 

Till the nightingales, sleepless with love, 
Thrill the groves with their sweet serenades. 

They delight us — they make us feel brave, 

And they gladden our spirits awhile— 
But at length arrive griefs far too grave 

To be cured with a song or a smile. 
Oft they come with that last fragrant scent 

Given forth, ere they fade, by the plants — 
And 'tis then that the Eobin is sent 

To console us with soft, plaintive chants 1 

Ah ! the death-room is darkened and dim, 

Only meanings of anguish are heard — 
But there steals in a human-like hymn, 

'Tis the song of this sorrowing bird. 
And you hear it again at the grave. 

At the tomb of the friend whom you weep. 
'Twas a sigh — yet what solace it gave ! 

'Twas a dirge — yet it lulled grief to sleep. 

Who, then, guides him to houses of grief ? 

Who directs him to lone, silent graves ? 
Ah ! who sends him with liidden relief. 

Unseen alms of a pity that saves ? 
It is God. For all creatures of earth. 

And of heaven above, serve our God ; 
Who reveres all He made, and gives worth 

To the least blade of grass on the sod ; — 

And a charge unto each is assigned — 

To the angels, to saints, to the skies, 
To the mountains, the waves and the wind, 

To the beasts with their half-human cries — 
*Ti8 to tell of Gx)d's glory and might, 

Of his beautiful kingdom above : 
And they fill us with purest delight, 

Eor they speak of an Infinite Love. 
Vol. xvm. No. 199. 63 

50 The Irish Monthly. 

But, wlien trials and sorrows come down, 

When the dearest and best must depart, 
And our life never more will wear crown — 

Oh, how lonely they leave the poor heart ! 
Sorrow-laden, we wearily wend, 

Bent with sadness, to hide in the woods, — 
For we dread our most intimate friend 

When oppressed with these terrible moods. 

When the heart breaks, its fountains are dried. 

And the worn eyes demand tears in vain — 
God alone knows the grief we would hide. 

He has felt the heart's bitterest pain — 
He, who hid to ber sad and to pray, 

Marks the place of our anguish and prayer, 
And He will not reprove, if we say 

It is He bids the Kedbreast sing there. 

Eobin Redbreast, thy song makes us fit 

To^return to our wearisome strife ; 
At thy voice we resolve to submit 

To the bitter-sweet chalice of life. 
There are mercies and pity divine, 

There are tender compassions unseen, 
And to sing of these mercies is thine, 

At the season when sorrows are keen. 

I have loved thee, tame bird, from the first, 

From the time I strewed crumbs for thy food ; 
Though a rough, cruel child, at the worst. 

Unto thee I was gentle and good. 
my mother's dear, favourite bird. 

With the blood of the Cross on thy breast 
Little friend, all thy plainings were heard. 

As we watched her departure to rest. 

<3^entle bird, it is well thou hast sighs, 
For thou bringest to mind the dark bier. 

And the holiest memories rise. 

Still bedewed with the heart's saddest tear. 

Notes on New Books. 51 

Cease ! Cease ! No repiner am I, 

And the time for such grief is long o*er ; 

GK)d, who died, let His own mother die, 
And above there are partings no more ! 

Sweetest songster, sing on — pay no heed 

To my murmurs : for peace comes at last ; 
Thou hast sighs, and thy breast seems to bleed 

For the pains of the present and past. 
Every mourner who hears thee can tell 

How thy song, while its melody flows, 
Soothes the heart with divine mercy's spell. 

With a message from Heaven's repose. 

D. B. 


1. Precedence must be given this month to a little book «rhich 
cannot be criticised but only announced in this Magazine, as it is 
written by the Editor. It is not a large or profound work, being 
merely a prayerbook in verse, which has ttiken the too daring name of 
The Murp of Jesus from the anagram which turns the word 
'^ Eucharistia" into the words "Cithara lesu." It is the first of its 
exact kind, as tax as we are aware. There are books of hymns and 
meditations in verse ; but a regular prayerbook, giving morning 
oblation. Pater, Ave, Creed, Confiteor ; Acts of Contrition, Faith, 
Hope and Charity ; Prayers before and after Confession and Com- 
panion ; the Rosary, the Stations of the Cross, etc. etc. — this has at 
least the merit of novelty. The writer, of course, never attempted th& 
▼e»ification of the prayerbook as a set task ; but the various prayers,. 
fur the most part, found themselves composed for other purposes, and 
many of them have already been widely used. They have been 
grouped together in their present form by an afterthought, whicli 
might have been suggested (but was not) by the following character- 
istically kind note received from Lady Georgiana Fullerton after the 
nublication of the writer's earliest book of verse, Emmanuel : — 

" 27 Chapel Street 
" Fark Lane, JF. 
* Deab Faxhxb RnssExx, 

" I have just reoeiyed the little volume you have kindly sent me. The contents 
teem likely to prove a treasure to many devout worshippers. I have already met 

52 The Irish Monthly. 

in it with prajers easy to learn and that will be very helpful to devotion. With 
many grateful thanks for this welcome grift, 

*' I remain 

"Tours sinoerely 


June 1th [1878.] 

Four days later, Bjithleen O'Meara wrote from Paris : " Your 
* Stations' have been copied into three prayerbooks — one for each 
member of the family— as answering a want that we were expressing 
only a day or two ago : some short epitome of the Way of the Cross, 
which would save one's having to carry a large book in one's Visit in 
the afternoon." The prayers here referred to by those two gifted and 
saintly souls may be found with many others in The Harp of Jem%^ 
which is published in a cheap, neat, and convenient form by Messrs. 
M. H. Gill and Son, Dublin. 

2. We agree with Funch that the best Christmas-book of the 
season, the one that chimes in best with the true Christian Christmas 
spirit, is " The Poor Sisters of Nazareth, an Illustrated E^cord of 
Life at Nazareth House, Hammersmith, London," drawn by Greorge 
Lambert, written by Alice Meynell, and " dedicated to my little 
daughter, Monica." The publishers are Burns and Gates, who 
famish a half-crown and a half-guinea edition. The former is a 
marvel of cheapness, but the latter is well worth the extra eight 
shillings. The illustrations are worthy of their good fortime in being 
expounded in Mrs Meynell's prose. They set every phase and incident 
of convent life before us as it is lived at Nazareth House — choir and 
kitchen and infirmary and work-room, washing day and ironing day, 
coal-skuttle and collecting van. How many good thoughts this beauti- 
ful book will put into hearts for whom the holy Sisterhoods of the 
Catholic Church are not commoDplace through a blessed familiarity. 

3. Another dainty volume is ** A Book of Gold, and other 
Sonnets," by John James Piatt (London : Elliot Stock). The cover 
adds as a sub-title, " A Quarter Century of Sonnets," and the self- 
denial that refuses to go beyond so small a nimiber as twenty-five is 
a good omen for the perfection of the chosen few. The earlier ones, 
in subject and tone, might remind us of the "Sonnets from the 
Portuguese." Purity and refinement breathe in every line. But our 
favourite out of all is, we think, the tenth, though probably few will 
agree with us. That " book of dual authorship" referred to could 
hardly be sent forth more gracefully. 

4. " Christian Eeid" is the pen-name of an American lady. Miss 
Fisher, who, if our recollection of sundry paragraphs in Americ6Ui 

Notes on New Books. 53 

newspapers does not play us false, has lately cbanged that name also 
for another in real life. She ranks very high among the Catholic 
writers of fiction' in the United States ; and, though she does not hide 
lier Catholic principles in the development of her plots, her stories are 
real stories, with lifelike characters well worked out. One of the latest 
of these is " Phihp's Eestitution," which will make many friends for 
its auth<ir in these countries in the excellent type and paper with 
which M. H. Gill and Sons have produced this Dublin edition. 

5. Worth many dozens of new books thrown together is the 
second, enlarged and revised edition of Lady Ferguson's " Story of 
the Irish Before the Conquest" (Dublin : Sealy, Bryors, and Walker). 
The work itself is admirable in its conception and execution, tracing 
Irish history from the mythical period to the invasion under Strong- 
bow, giving the best of the legends in vivid prose or in the metrical 
form in which they have been clothed by the poets, such as D'Arcy 
M'Gee, Aubrey de Vere, and especially the writer's illustrious 
hufiband, Sir Samuel Ferguson, whose ** Congal" holds the highest 
rank in the poetry of our nation. The new edition has been produced 
exceedingly well by its Dublin printers. Several maps of ancient 
Ireland enable us to follow the battles and to identify the churches 
and monasteries. Lady Ferguson ends the preface to this new edition 
with the words : "1 desire to dedicate this book to the beloved 
memory of my husband." The man who did so much for Irish 
literature since he wrote ** The Forging of the Anchor" when little 
more than a boy would desire no better memorial. It is a work of 
immense research, deep enthusiasm, true eloquence and poeiic feeling ; 
and the writer has deserved well of her country. 

6. " Irish Fairy Tales" by Edmund Leamy, M.P. (Dublin : M. H. 
Gill and Son) consists of seven stories, illustrated l»y about twice as 
many pictures, telling us all about the Princess Finola and the 
Dwarf, ihe House in the Lake, the Little White Cat, the Golden 
Sjiears, the Feiry Tree of Dooros, the Enchanted Cave, and the 
Huntsman's Son. A few notes at the end refer to the ** Old Celtic 
Bomances" of Dr. P, W. Joyce, and to Eugene O'Curry's " Manners 
and Customs of the Ancient Irish;" but these authorities afford a 
very scanty portion of the materials which Mr Leamy has woven into 
these thrilling narratives. His fancy is inexhaustible, and he seems 
to have in perfection the knack of story-telling. One peculiarity of 
his style is the directness and rapidity of the narrative, which do not 
allow digressions and descriptions, and which make the substantives 
describe themselves without the aid of a set of adjectives. The literary 
merit of this children's book is very considerable ; but in our day 

64 The Irish Monthly. 

some of the best of our literature is that which is intended for th& 
joung. As far as we know, this is the first title page which has borne 
the name of Mr. Edmund Leamy, M.P. It will not be the last. 

7. We must group together three books, which have this in 
common, that they are translated tales. Sister Mary Fidelis, an 
English nun, who has already given us an excellent translation of a 
course of meditations entitled " Growth in the Knowledge of our Lord," 
translates -from the French " Linda's Task, or the Debt of Honour" 
(London : Burns and Gates). Why not mention the French author ? 
The translation is no doubt well done, and the tale is eminently 
moral ; but we have not been much caught by it, though we have 
given it a fair chance. Printer and binder both deserve a special 
vote of thanks. Mr. Henry J. Gill, M.A., translates from the German 
of Wilhelm Herchenbach two tales, " The Armourer of Solingen" and 
'* Wrongfully Accused" (Dublin : M. H. and Son). The stories are 
full of incident, of a kind that catches the attention of the youthful 
reader. In this version they read pleasantly and naturally, without 
any unpleasant reminders of the aphorism which identifies traditore 
fiuid traduttore. Large type and ample margin help to make out of 
this Irish edition quite a portly volume, which, we suspect, would 
throw the German original into the shade, even without the eight 
illustrations with which ** W. CM.'* has embellished it. Yet many 
young people will prefer — and we are inclined to agree with them — a 
smaller volume bearing on the title page the names of the sam*) 
translator, and the same publishers ; and indeed we iventure to add 
that this is a case of the old story, ** the two Maguires is one" — the 
same gentleman is translator and publisher, namely the ex-M.P. for 
Limerick. The second volume from his pen is " Chased by Wolves, 
and other instructive Stories, chiefly translated from the French, 
German, and Italian." The stories are thirty four in number, which 
proves that each does not claim a large share of the three hundred 
pages. This variety will make the book more popular, we are sure, 
and its popularity ought not to pass away with the Christmas-box 
season. Does the adverb *^ chiefly" on the title-page imply that some 
of these pretty little stories are original ? " May's Christmas Tree" 
has probably come straight from an Irish heart. We end this 
paragraph with " Christmas Legends," translated from the German 
by 0. S. B. (London : Washbourne). There are seven of them, very 
pious and very pretty, and brought out with the good taste that we 
have learned to expect from 18 Paternoster Row. But, after ending, 
we must add still another story-book — " The Jolly Harper and his 
good fortime, and other amusing tales" (Dublin : M. H. Gill and 

Notes on New Books. 55 

Son). There are thirty-seven of them, with plenty of amusement for 
the readers for whom they are intended. We are not told anything 
about the miscellaneous authorship of this pleasant Christmas book. 

8. Since sending the first of these book-notes to the printer, we 
have received " The Life of Dom Bosco, Founder of the Salesian 
Society," translated from the French of J. M. ViUefranohe by Lady 
Martin (London : Bums and Gates). • A few words of preface dated 
from Merrion Square, Dublin, would not have been out of place. The 
name of another Lady Martin has quitQ lately figured on a title page ; 
but indeed the publishers and the theme of the present work show 
that it is not written by the wife of the Queen's literary adviser, Sir 
Theodore Martin, but by the wife of an Irish CathoHc baronet, Sir 
Hichard Martin. One knows enough already of this holy Italian 
priest, who did so much for the young, to be anxious for the full in- 
formatdon given in this well written and well arranged biography. 
Nothing could be more satisfactory than the get-up of the volume. 
The chapters read very naturally and pleasantly, with nothing to re- 
mind you that they are translated from the French, except an 
occasional name which that tyrannical language turns into French, but 
which ought here to be given in the Italian form. The Seraphic 
Saint is for us Francis of Assisi (not ** d* Assise"). Can Chateimneuf 
be near Turin ? Nay, we doubt if outside France Bam be anything 
bat a Benedictine prefix. / Promessi Sposi has made us all familiar 
with Don Abbondio ; and we think that the subject of Lady Martin's 
excellent work was Don Bosco. 

9. An exceedingly interesting little book of sixty pages is " A 
Shrine and a Story" by the author of "Tyborne," "Irish Hearts 
and Irish Homes," etc. (London : Catholic Truth Society). The 
five terse and brightly written chapters are full of interesting names, 
famiHar especially to Dublin Catholics : Dr. Blake, of Dromore, 
Father Henry Young, Mr James Murphy, Lady Georgiana Fuilertou, 
and Miss Ellen Kerr. A great many interesting and edifying par- 
ticulars are given about most of these, whose bond of union was their 
connection with St. Joseph*s Asylum for Virtuous Single Females, in 
Portland Row, Dublin. This is the ** shrine" in question, and its 
story is charmingly told by the Author of ** Ty borne," who in another 
sphere of labour is known to her children as Mother Magdeden 

10. The largest and, in its own way, the best book that has pre- 
sented itself before our tribunal this Christmas is one published by 
the Catholic Publication Society of New York, and calling itself, with 
perfect truth, "Good Things for Catholic Readers: a Miscellany of 
Catholic Biography, Travel, etc., containing portraits and sketches of 

56 The Iri^h Monthly. 

eminent persons, and eng^vings representing the church and th& 
cloister, the state and home, remarkable places connected with reli- 
gion, and famous events in all lands and times.'' The leaves are so 
ample, that even this lengthy enumeration does not overcrowd the 
title-page. It is called ** second series," and it will provoke many de- 
mands for the first series. The present volume, though printed in a 
round, readable type, contains a vast number of articles, profusely 
illustrated. Biography is only one of the many it^ms, but we may 
name some of the biographical sketches : Mrs. Aikenhead, St. Thomas 
Aquinas, Mrs. Ball, Balmes, Madame Barat, Baronius, Bayard, 
Father Beckx, Cardinal Beton, Bossuet, Father Thomas Burke, James 
Bums, the publisher, Calderon, Cartier, Archbishop Oorrigan, Cardi- 
nal Cullen, Aubrey de Vere, Kenelm Digby, Eichard Doyle, Father 
Faber, Lady G. FuU^rton, Mother. Hallahan, Archbishop Hannan, 
Dr. Lingard, Denis Florence MacCarthy, Lord O'Hagan, Eev. C. W. 
Bussell, D.D., Louis Veuillot, Dr. Walsh, Archbishop of Dublin. We 
have reached the end of the alphabet, but we have done so by jump- 
ing over many times. The portraits which illustrate these sketches 
are, in the five or six instances in which we are qualified to judge, ex- 
tremely successful. " Good Things" furnishes also information on a 
great variety of interesting topics. It is a valuable and interesting 
addition to a family library. 

11. From the United States also come Volumes 13 and 14 of the 
Centenary Edition of the Ascetical Works of St. Alphonsus Liguori, 
admirably edited and admirably printed and bound. The same in- 
defatiga>jle publishers, the Benzigers, have sent us the second volume- 
of the Sermons of Father Julius Pottgeisser, S.J., translated from the 
German by Father James Conway, S.J. This volume contains sermons 
for festivals, for Lent, and for the Quarant' Ore. These discourses are 
f uU of solid matter, proposed with great vigour. Benziger has also 
published miniature treatises on " The Golden Prayer" and on ** The 
Power of the Memorare." Another pretty little booklet is " St. 
Thomas Aquinas" by Francis C. P. Hays (London : E. Washboume). 
]^Ir Washbourne is also the publisher of " All Souls' Forget-me-not," 
a pra}'er and meditation book for the solace of the sOuls in purgatory^ 
translated from the German by Canon Moser. We must speak again 
of two very difEerent books : Father Albert Barry's *'Life of Blessed 
Margaret Mary'* (London : Bums and Gates), and ** Songs in a Minor 
Key" by W. C. Hall, B.A. (Dublin : Sealy, Bryers, and Walker). 
They have one point in common — ^namely; that they are produced 
with excellent taste. 

FEBRUARY, 1890. 

A Stoey in Two Parts. 


"13 OUGH ! do you know what this letter means ? Finish your 
-L V breakfast, old dog, and come for a walk up the glen to 
Bracken Hollow : for the old place shall be brightened up, the 
shutters shall be flung open, the chimneys shall smoke, and the 
trees &hall move away from before the doors and windows. Youth, 
the fairy prince, is coming on tip-toe from beyond summer seas, to 
tread the paths green again, to spread sunshine on the threshold, and 
to wake the sleeper, Joy, who has so long lain dead in the dark 
chambers waiting his voice to arise and All the place with light. 
And when our glad errand is done, we will visit the valley church- 

So the day passes, and it is evening. Bough and I have been to 
see a grave. It is a lorn place, and the wind has grown shrill, and 
we come home feeling rather desolate. Clouds are gathering for a 
wild night. The old dog has curled in by the fender, and I have 
bronght my arm-chair to his side, and dragged forth an old desk, 
and tamed over its contents — packages of old letters, and loose 
leaves of an irregular journal. 

Bough, we have set ourselves a hard task. To reach, with feeble 
voice, the ears of our city friends across the sea, and to make them turn 
on their bu«y road, and gaze over their shoulder down some slant sun- 
path to the steeps and tangles of our GlenarifPe. To make them see, 
with their distant eyes, dimmed with gold and dust, our bay, as now, 
lor instance, moonlit ; with its stretch of pale sands, like a white pro* 
Vol. xvni. No. 200. W 

5§ The Irish Monthly. 

jecting arm, curved round the margin of the dark water, with its 
lullaby music murmuring patiently from the Bar, its lapping wares 
flinging diamond circlets perpetually at the feet of the rocks, and 
with its uncertain glimpses into the soft gloom of silent glens, 
sheltered for many a mile under the strong arms of the moun- 

There ! draw the curtain. Go back to your rug, old dog. What 
do you know about it ? The sea is nothing to you but a broad 
shining fascination, towards which your lazy speculating eyes turn 
and return. You know nothing of spirits crossing, of the fatal 
hollows between waves, of the white curl of a squall spreading, like 
a plague-spot, on the breast of a fair ocean. Neither do you know 
anything of the unsoimded depths of the human heart, of the shoals 
and wrecks in that sea, of the treacherous rocks and dizzy maelstroms, 
which, at every breath we draw, beat out, and suck in, mortal and 
alas ! immortal life. And so, though you sit there, looking through 
me, with the almost human sympathy of your eyes, you are only a 
dog, old friend, and the old man must patch his story, and say his say 

Margaret Avon and I were old man and old woman together, and 
yet when she was the wedded mistress of Bracken Hollow, I was but 
a young lad going to school, and used in vacation times to ride my 
pony over the hills and hollows of Glenariff e for a cup of sweet tea at 
Mistress Avon's roimd tea-table, and a generous share of the cakes 
and marmalade with which that hospitable board was wont to be 
spread for my delectation. But at least half my errand there was 
to get a glimpse of tiny Mary Avon's sleeping face, so fair and 
plump, under the blue canopy of her cot. For baby Mary Avon 
was then to me the mystery of mysteries, as she was in years after- 
wards the pearl, the very sunbeam, the blush-rose of woman- 

I will tread lightly, and but a few stfeps of this solitary fcy-path of 
my story. Let the roses moulder there where they fell, snapt from 
their stems so many years ago, and the passion-flowers shrivel into 
dust, and the dead leaves lie in shifting mounds, stirred only by the 
whisper of melancholy winds, undisturbed by the fall of even the 
holiest foot. Mary Avon fled from her home to be the wife of one 
who broke her heart and deserted her child. There are days upon 
which many of the aged can look back, when words and scenes which 
are burned into memory were first branded there. Such old soars still 
sting, when these dulled eyes glance again to the hour when, a strong 
and bearded man, I almost knelt to Margaret Avon in that old red 
drawing-room at Bracken Hollow, and sued for Mary's memory and 

Bracken Holhw. 59 

Maiy^a child. But the crags of Liirgedon are not to be toppled into 
the valley by pecking birds, nor was the wedge of stem resolve to be 
wrenched from Margaret Avon's soul by prayers. Mary was gone, 
and, as though she had never been, the existence of her child was to 
remain unrecognised. I took the little orphan home, and if Hugh, 
was wronged, I at least was a gainer by his loss. 

Up to this date I had known Margaret Avon as a large, comely 
matron, with prosperity lying smooth on her broad forehead, and a 
helpful magic lurking in the palm of her strong, white hand ; with 
all her actions, impulses of charity, of pride, or of anger ; but that 
blow struck to the root of her life. The tree did not fall, nor totter ; 
it stood on, but the sap was gone. Years went by, and brought deatlx 
twice again to the threshold of the old house, making her a widow, 
and bereft of her only son. Then the strong lines had hardened, the 
vAi curves tightened, the good-humom*ed eyes grown cold, and the 
firm mouth hard. She became a gaunt woman, with a bent masculine 
figure, and a harsh countenance. As such I knew 'her, still as a 
friend, and often as patient, about the time when, a middle-aged 
bachelor, I found myself settled down under this roof, with the 
physician's practice of the glens and village for my work, and with 
MaiVs child for something to love, something to keep my heart 
green. For Margaret Avon, sitting sternly in that red drawing-room 
at Bracken Hollow, with her face from the world, and her eyes fixed 
perpetually on her desolate hearth, would not forgive the dead. The 
only tie she recognised was the child of her dead son. The little girl 
had been bom in Italy, where her father had passed all the later 
years of his life. In this grandchild, whom she had never seen, all 
the woman's sympathies with life were bound up. The child was 
said to be delicate, and lest she should inherit her father's disease, 
consumption, the anxious grandmother had decreed, with bold self- 
denial, that she should remain abroad with the English lady to vp^iose 
care her father had entrusted her education, — should be sunned and 
ripened by Italian skies, till the dawn of her womanhood, and that 
then, and then only, should Glenariffe be her home. And yet the old 
woman's yearning to see the child was piteous, and I knew that she 
dreaded lest death might seal her eyes before they could be satis- 

Years passed. I was grey.* Hugh was a man, and would soon be 
a doctor. A naval life would suit him. I felt that he would go ofE 
in a sliip one day and leave me. He had been studying too closely. 
I had sent for him, insisting on a holiday. We were chatting together 
in the garden. It was a bright May evening, the hawthorn blossoms 
were not yet done, the lilacs were in bloom. The sun was red on his 

60 The Irish Mmthly. 

face, and the lad was as glad as a child at his new freedom. 
Observing him with pride, I thought him more remarkable for an aiir 
of inherent power and a dash of frankness, than for mere handsome^ 
looks. I thought I saw his character in his bearing and countenance, 
pure honour ennobling the brow, fidelity to truth well-opening the 
eye, the hot generous temperament lighting the whole face with 
electric glows and sparkles ; and the careless gaiety of youth dancing 
in lights and shadows on the tossing brown curls under his straw hat. 
Some one spoke to me at the gate. It was a messenger from Bracken 
HoUow, requesting me to visit Mrs Avon. I left Hugh amusing him- 
self with Bome little fellows on the beach, and went. Margaret had a 
request to make. Grace was on her way home, was in England. 
Friends returning from Italy had brought her as far as their home in 
London. Would I go and fetch her to Bracken Hollow ? 

I thought, Margaret Avon forgets that I am not still the boy who 
used to eat her marmalade at yonder table forty years since, and 
carry her footstool, and go on her errands whithersoever she pleased. 
But the next moment I felt this to be a churlish thought for one old 
friend to harbour towards another, and I promised to go. 

Next day I went. A few words made Hugh understand the 
purpose of my journey. Beyond those few words nothing was said 
between us on the matter. Of course the lad knew all the details of 
his own story, but his position was a subject which he never 
approached, nor did I wish to hear him speak of it. I was sure of his fast 
affection ; he was even too grateful for anything I had done for him ; 
but I knew that the pride of the Avons smouldered in the depths of 
his nature. I saw it when he courteously uncovered his head to his- 
grandmother on Sundays as she came forth from the village church to 
her carriage, with her eyes fixed on the ground lest she should see 
him. I detected it in the gnawing of the lip and contracting of 
the brows when we stood to admire some rich bit of wooded land with 
a tradition of the Avon family scrawled over the gnarled trunk of 
every old tree. And even more forcibly have I seen it when, by 
chance, he has heard himself alluded to by the kindly peasants 
who compassionated him as ** poor Mr Hugh." I knew he felt the 
sting of the ^q himself, and dreaded the occasion which might 
Btir it to a blaze. I knew that he wijshed all the world to recognise 
him 88 one who felt himself sufficient to carve his own fortune, 
and was too high-spirited to claim any relationship which was so 
cruelly ignored. 

I went upon my mission. I made my way to a gay house in a 
fashionable part of London. I arrived there in the midst of a brilliant 
entertainment. I was exj)Gcted, and welcomed. It was aU out of my 

Bracken JSolloiv, 61 

vay, and I should have yielded to the inclinatioii of fatigue and re- 
tired quietly and at once, but that my curiosity to see Grace would 
not rest till morning. When I made my appearance among the 
guests, I found them engaged in witnessing the performance of 
charades. I took my place as a spectator, and quickly had Miss 
Grace Avon pointed out to me among the performers. Thus, for the 
first time, I saw her in whom afterwards I had so strange an interest. 

Memory has odd whims in her dealings with the materials 
furnished to her. Some she lays by in dim scrolls, seldom to be 
opened and with difficulty. Others are spread, faultless charts, per- 
petually visible, and yet marked out in such dull ink that they are 
httle better than blanks. While, again, some trivial chance becomes 
at once a picture, painted in imperishable colours, glowing with unfad- 
ing life, refusing to grow pale with time, or to be darkened by 

I see her now distinctly. It was a thoroughly Italian face, dark 
and clear, with bright lips and a rich cheek. I had never seen anything 
so sombre yet so lustrous as the eyes. Some brilliant drapery was 
folded round her head like a turban, giving an oriental efPect. I do 
not know what the charade was ; I never thought of asking. The 
idea must have been something about a slave ; a slave loaded with 
splendour, and yet chafing under a sense of degradation and captivity. 
At least so she, in her acting, seemed to render it. She went through 
a strange pantomime, wrenching at the gilded chains tliat shackled 
her wrists, flinging her jewels passionately on the ground, and speak- 
ing forth shame and despair from her dumb face with terrible reality! 
1 felt it unaccountably strange to see her thus for the first time, acting 
with such a piteous mimicry of truth in this gay crowd, dressed with 
such magnificence, and expressing so vividly her hatred of herself, 
her beauty, and her adornments. I said, how can this girl act so 
unless she feels it 1 What troubles her ? Why is she so >vretched ? 
And then I smiled at myself for a foolish old man of the mountains, 
who was behind the age, and knew nothing of the cunning of such 
clever displays. But, my beautiful Miss Grace, I said, how will these 
fantastic accomplishments thrive at Bracken Hollow ? 

I saw her next at a distance in the ballroom, after the performance 
had ended. She was the centre of a group of evident admirers, and 
was laughing and sparkling all over with merriment. Her dress was 
a robe of something white, which flashed about her as she moved ; 
and I remember that her hair was bound with something blood-red, 
like coral. I saw our hostess, move towards her, for the purpose, I 
knew, of acquainting her with the fact of my arrival. Her cheeks 
had been flushing, her lips smiling, but all at once flush and smile 

62 The IHsh Monthly. 

Tanished, leaving her pale and still. She turned abruptly away front 
the disappointed g^oup, and slowly followed the lady messenger from 
the room. A minute afterwards I was introduced to her in a dim 
ante-room, where the softly- shed light was yet sufficient to show mo 
the shrinking step, the pained lip, the white cheek, and the one rapid 
terrified glance from eyes that were instantly averted and obstinately 
refused to meet mine again. 

What was it ! Conscience winced. It was true that I had in- 
dulged an unwarrantable prejudice against this girl ; and could it be 
also true that there may arise, without the communication of a word, 
with scarce that of a look, some swift subtle instinct, passing from 
one spirit to another, warning of the existence of dislike or distrust, 
even as such an instinct is said in other instances to herald the 
approach of faith or of love ? 

Our greeting was short and embarrassed. I had long since for- 
gotten the more poHshed forms of address between ladies and 
gentlemen of the world. I could have spoken a kind word to this 
frightened child had I met her at home among the mountains, but 
here in these courtly chambers the mere spontaneous good-wilj of 
nature seemed out of place. I saw her glide back to the ball-room 
with a blanched, cowed aspect, but with a something of proud reserve 
that forebade observation. She seated herself at a distant table and 
affected to turn over some drawings, but her face was often averted 
to the shuttered window beside her, as though she studied some 
record of absorbing interest written on the blank of the painted 
wood. And so, despite my former determined indifference to every- 
thing concerning Miss Grace Avon, I retired that night filled with a 
troubled perplexity, and strangely interested in the owner of the cold, 
damp, little hand that had for a moment touched mine, and the 
sombre eyes that had shunned me with an expression so much like 
pain and fear scarcely hidden under their lids. 

We accomplished our journey in safety, but without effecting 
much more progress towards friendship than we had made on the 
evening of our first acquaintance. An impenetrable reserve sheathed 
the girl. Once or twice I detected her studying my face with a wist- 
ful, questioning expression in her eye, as though some burdensome 
secret hovered on her tongue, and she tried, unseen, to sound me, to 
discover whether or not I might be trustworthy to receive that which 
she had to tell. This was the idea which impressed me at the time, 
and from which I could not free my thoughts. It seemed an absurd 
fancy, for what trouble could she have ? And yet' the impression 
would not be shaken off, but clung to me with annoying tenacity. 

I assured myself that she was only timid, and shy of appearing. 

Bracken Hollow. 63 

among new friends. It will wear away, I said ; and I tried to win 
her confidence and to be as kindly towards her as the thought of 
Hugh would softer me to be. 

I thought the wondrous vision of our glens will wake her up, for 
I feel that she has a sOul : and who has ever seen our Glenariffe 
without enthusiasm, with its mists and breakers, its heathery crags 
and mossy knolls, its vivid rainbows and thundering falls ? — even 
in its winter aspect, when every mountain that searches its sky 
is white from base to crown, when every pure peak stands like 
a sinless soul expecting its palm, and when the cry of hunted 
iraters leaps from crag to crag, and is lost in the appalling gusts 
blown landward from the lips of implacable sea storms. And how 
much more in summer, when the golden sheaves stand upon the 
emmy slopes, leaning their hot shoulders against one another, and 
waiting for the harvest-home ; when the cunning blackbird scarce 
knows his way through the labyrinths of foliage, and when there is a 
ludden paradise in every far nook where the young ashes bend to the 
water under their secret, and drip, drip their mysterious whispers all 
day, till the sun gets tired searching for them among the thickets, and 
the moon sends a silver token floating down the beck, on the crest of 
a riplet. 

As we entered the glens in the fading sunset, the hills smiled 
serenely, and the sea ^vis a stretch of pale gold. The cry of the 
mountaineer, as he passed from height to height skyward, searching 
for stray lambs, fell in dreamy echoes through the ether, and we 
could hear at intervals the answering bleat of a sheep from some 
penlous ledge aloft, where it looked to our upturned eyes like a snow- 
flake drifted white upon the brilliant herbage. It was to me a 
moment of exquisite beauty and peace ; but then in my ear the horses' 
f**€t were trotting to the music of ** Home, sweet home !" whereas 
^liss Grace Avon had been nursed under Italian skies, and beheld 
owwild highland scenery with a* stranger's eyes. So I forebore to 
disturb her meditation as she sat, quite still, her veil just folded 
above her brows, her pale lips fast shut, and her heavy dark eyes fixed 
blindly on the dimming horizon. 

Arrived at Bracken Hollow a touching picture met our eyes. Out 
in the purple twilight, sown with blazing stars, growing from the 
heavier shadows behind, and framed by the frowning doorway, a tall 
bent figure stood. A shaking, withered hand grasping a stick, a 
rugged face softened with yearning love, a hard-lined mouth un- 
wontedly relaxed and quivering, and frozen eyes melting with foreign 
moiiiture. So I saw Margaret Avon, and in spite of fidelity to Hugh, 
I waa touched to compassion for the woman who, having within her 

64 The Irish Monthly. 

rills of tenderness so warm, could have suffered pride to petrify her 
life, and turn her to the thing of stone I had known her for the many 
past years. 

So she stood with her one shrivelled hand stretched forth in eager 
greeting. I felt Grace's fingers slip from my arm, and before I could 
prevent her the strange girl had sunk upon her knees at her grand- 
mother's feet, with her face to the flags on the threshold. 

" My child, my dear, my darling ! what is this ?" quavered forth 
the poor old rusty voice, while the shaking hand tried to drag upward 
the bent dusky head from which the bonnet and veil had fallen. ** Be 
not frightened, my love, but welcome, a thousand times welcome, to 
your poor old grandmother's home, — your poor old grandmother, your 
poor old lonely grandmother !" she kept on repeating, while Grace, 
creeping to her at last with a sob, suffered herself to be gathered to 
the old woman's heart. I left them sitting on the hearth in the red 
drawing-room, Grace with her face buried in Margaret's gown, and 
the old hand passing fondly over the thick curls. 

Two mornings afterwards I was sitting by the open window in the 
sun, reading the Lancet, Hugh was standing at the bookcase, 
poring into a book. The parli)ur door was ajar, and the hall door 
wide open, as it is the fashion for Glen's hall doors to stand during 
the day. I saw a phaeton, which I knew, draw up a few perches 
away, and in it I saw two figures, which*! also recognised. The 
younger sprang from the step, and came quickly toward the cottage. 
She passed in at the gate, in at the open door ; a tap came on the 
panel outside, and there she stood before us— Gra<5e Avon. 

Never had anything so bright gladdened our sober little parlour. 
The white dress, the black gossamer shawl hanging from her arms, 
the slouched hat, with its rose-coloured ribbon, crowning the ripe face 
and cloudy curls, all made up a picture whose rich sweetness was a 
feast to the eye. A glamour of enchantment seemed to enter the room 
with her, a southern breeze stirred in the motion of her gown, a 
streak of Italian sunshine seemed to follow in her wake through the 
door. I thought " Mary's hair was just one shade darker than the 
laburnum blossoms, and Mary's eyes were the colour of forget-me- 
nots ; but this is a beautiful woman." As she entered, Hugh started, 
and looked up with a hasty glance of honest and ardent admiration, 
whose warmth surprise forbade him to moderate. The young lady 
seemed to resent this involuntary homage of poor Hugh's ; she flushed, 
returned his bow stiffly, and having delivered her message, followed 
me from the room. 

" Who is he ?" she asked, abruptly, in the Hall. 

I was angry for Hugh, and felt harshly towards' her at the 
moment. I answered brusquely : 

Bracken Hollow. 65 

" He is your cousin, Miss Avon, who has at least as good a claim, 
to jour grandmother's favour as you. Were he righted, you would 
not be the wealthy heiress you now are." 

She fell back as though stunned by my words, and I passed her to 
speak to Margaret at the carriage. She wished me to spend the 
evening with them. Margaret did not know of Hugh's presence at 
the cottage ; but I think, even had he been absent, I should not have 
ffone to them that night. Grace gave me a pleading word and look, 
but I was firm. I said : 

" I am going to visit a patient up the Glen, but I shall not have 
time to call." 

At twilight that evening I passed near the gates of Bracken 
Hollow at a part where the wall that separates the place from the 
Glen road runs very low, and a stream stumbles its way through the 
wild briai-s and the tall reeds and brackens from whose luxuriance the 
house takes its name. I was startled by a jB.gure rising up like a 
ghost from among the ferns and moss-grown stones beside me. It 
was Grace. She had watched and waited for me there. She wanted 
to know the meaning of my words spoken in the hall that morning 
about her cousin. "Was he her cousin ? Why had he been wronged ? 
Who had wronged him ? 

I considered a little, and then thought it best to tell her all. She 
would be sure to hear the story, and it was right she should. I told 
her all Hugh's history ; not, I am sure, without a dash of the 
bitterness which would always escape me when I spoke on the subject. 
As I went on, she flushed deeper and deeper, till the crimson blood 
burned under her hair, and even coloured her throat. When I had 
finished speaking, it had ebbed away, leaving her unusually pale. She 
stood before me, straight and white and scared looking, with the breeze 
blowing the dark hair from her forehead. I moved to go on, but she 
stayed me ag^in imploringly, and commenced asking rapid passionate 
questions. If she had never been born, or if — if she had died as a 
child, would Hugh's grandmother have been forced to give him her 
a£Eection, to make him her heir ? 

I answered as my^conscience dictated ; 

" I believe she would. Your grandmother can be stern, but she 
must have something to love. If there had been no one else, I think 
it is likely that she would have relented towards Hugh." 

She opened her lips, and cried vehemently, with a strain of high- 
wrought suffering : 

" Doctor ! I — " She stopped short, her lips whitened, blue 
shadows gathered under her eyes. I thought she was going to swoon. 

'^ My dear child 1" I cried, in surprise and alarm, taking her cold 

66 7%f Irish Monthfy. 

hand and placing it firmly on my own arm, **my dear child, you must 
not disti;e88 yourself so deeply about this, it is not your fault." 

She gave me a piteous glance, bent down her head, and burst into 
a passion of tears, sobbing violently, with her forehead against m^- 

" It is a strange, wayward, and I believe generous nature," I 
thought, as I went on my way, having sent her back to the house. 

Returning past the gates, and finding myself in a different mood 
from that in which I had refused Margaret Avon's invitation, I turned 
into the avenue, and walked along by the soft, noiseless turf. Soon I 
was startled for the second time that night by seeing a slight figuro 
moving among the trees. It was passing to and fro, to and fro upon 
the grass quite near me. I stopped where a tree hid me from the 
danger of being seen. Heaven knows I did not mean to be a spy 
upon the poor girl, but I was deeply interested in her. The moon 
shone large and clear down through the branches on the mossy roots 
and trunks, and on the rich wilderness of the underwood, throwing 
dim flitting shadows over the impatient white figure that paced and 
paced, and would not weary nor rest. While I stood, with a fear and 
a; foreboding of I knew not what stealing upon me and mingling with 
the sympathy which had been keenly awakened, the figure suddenly 
paused in its walk, the arms were flung above the head in an attitude 
of abandonment, and a loud groaning whisper reached me through 
the clear still air — 

" Not my fault— Dot my fault ! God, pity me !" 

I went home. 


The next time that Grace came to the cottage she gave her hand to 
Hugh with an eagerness that made the brave fellow blush and 
tremble like a girl. Her voice was very sweet that day, and her 
manner very soft and subdued. After she had gone, Madge, my old 
servant, gave it as her emphatic opinion (delivered to the cat on the 
kitchen hearth) that "Miss Grace's smile would coax the birds off the 
bush." That evening Hugh sat for a long, long time staring out at 
the bay with an expression on his face which I had never seen there 
before. And I thought—" Oh, Hugh, Hugh, my dear lad ! is it fated 
that this womau shall bring even yet more trouble upon us ?" 

About this time Margaret Avon had a slight iUness, and Grace 

Bracken HoUow, 67 

had an errand to the village on her horse almost everj^ day — for 
books, for medicine, or for the g^^atification of some whim of her 
grandmother, who insisted on the girl's riding every morning, le^t her 
health should suffer from the close attendance upon her which Grace 
YBS disposed to give. But Margaret did not know that Hugh was at 
the cottage, or she would assuredly never have sent Grace cantering 
op to its porch morning after morning, with cheeks glowing, lipa 
scarlet, and eyes sparkling with the healthful exercise. I should have 
spoken of his being there, only for the fear of agitating her 
dangerously Ly mentioning a name which for so many long years had 
been a forbidden one between us. And so Grace came and went, and 
I 80on saw how Hugh's eyes flashed when the clatter of the well- 
known hoois sounded in our ears through the open window, and how 
eagerly he hurried to the gate to help her from her saddle. 

At last I said to him one day : 

" Hugh, my lad ! I think you had better go back to your work." 

He, knowing very well what I meant, met my eyes frankly, and 
aud : 

"Y€«; I think I had." 

And he went. 

On Margaret's recovery her first care was to invite visitors to 
Bracken Hollow. The house was soon filled, and balls and pic-nics 
and boating parties passed the summer days and nights gaily for its 
inmates. I never joined in their amusements, but I looked in now 
and a<^n, just to see how our young Italian rose bloomed on the 
mountain-side ; and, finding her pale and weary-looking, and subjec t 
to her old strange moods, I ordered her to renew her exercise on horse- 
back. But her gay guests from town did not care for riding, they 
found the Glen roads too rough. 

"WeH then." I said, "you must ride alone. We cannot have 
grandmamma breaking her heart about those pale cheeks." 

And after that I had many an early visit from Grace, who would 
arrive at my door of moynings when I was sitting down to my eight 
o'clock breakfeust, and flash into the room, crying : 

" Will you give me a cup of your tea, doctor ? Those lazy people at 
the Hollow will not have breakfast for two hours to come." 

She had some suitors among her gay visitors. On one of these — 
a handsome, wealthy fellow — I thought Margaret Avon looked with 
fiiTour, though 1 scarcely imagined that she could contemplate part- 
ing with her precious child so soon. But all these fine people seemod 
only to weary Grace, and she evidently regarded as so many boons 
the stray hours spent with me and Madge and Eough. 

Hugh had been gone two months, when one morning I had a noio 

<68 The Irish Mmthly. 

to say that be had taken a dislike to his work, had got headfuihes, 
and must have a day — if only a day — in the Glens to refresh him. I 
shook my head over the letter. Never had Hugh taken a whim like 
this before. I lifted a vase of flowers arranged by Grace yesterday 
morning, lifted them, breathed their sweetness, and shook my head 
again. *' Dangerous," I said ; " dangerous !" Butj feeling that I 
-could do nothing, I wob fain to apply myself to the Lancet, and try to 
forget my perplexities. 

Late that evening, in the midst of the first shower of a thunder- 
storm, Grace's steed flew to the door, and Grace herself cried witli 
comical distress : 

** Doctor ! doctor ! will you take me in and dry me ?" 

I lifted her, laughing, from the saddle, and carried her in all 
dripping with rain. Madge, with many " Mercy me-s !*' and "Heart- 
alives !" helped to fi'ee her from her drenched habit, and after she 
had re- appeared to me, arrayed in a wrapper of pink print belongings 
to Madge's daughter, with her limp hair brushed wet from her fore- 
head, and her face as fresh as a newly-washed rose, after this I said : 

** Now, my dear, you are storm-stayed for the night. I have sent 
back the servant to say so to your grandmother. Let Madge set forth 
her best tea-cups and prepare her most delectable griddle-cakes, and 
let us make ourselves aa sociable as possible. Your gay friends must 
spare you to us till to-morrow." 

She laughed, and tears flashed into her eyes, which April-like 
contradiction of mood was a trick of hers when much pleased. The 
next minute she said abruptly : 

" Doctor, if I were to be turned out by my grandmother, and to 
-come to 3'ou a beggar, would you call me * my dear,' and give me a 
night's lodging till I should find somewhere to go to ?" 

"Yes," said I, laughing at her earnestness ; " and perhaps a cup 
of tea, too, if you were a good girl. Aud who knows but I might 
send you to fetch my slippers, and instal you behind my tea-pot as 
housekeeper and stocking-darner to a single old gentleman ?" 

She said, eagerly, " Would you ?" and then turned away and 
went out of the room. Not long afterwards I heard her putting much 
the same question to Madge, in the kitchen. 

" Madge, if I were a beggar and came to the back door, would 
you give me a bit of that cake, and call me * Miss Grace, darling,' and 
let me sit here and nurse pussy on my knee ?" 

And then I heard Madge's startled rejoinder, 

" For the Lord's sake. Miss Grace ! To be sure I would, with a 
Jieart an' a-half !" 

What can fill her brain with such fancies ? I thought. How could 

Bracken Hollow. 6& 

lier g^nd mother ever turn against her ? Unless, indeed — and then 
my thoughts wandered away to things possible in connection with 
Hugh. But, no ; her own two grandchildren — 

Here my reflections were interrupted by a knocking at the door. I 
ctarted to my feet, and flung away my paper. It was Hugh's knock. 
I saw their meeting that night on the bright sanded hearth of 
Mad^6*a kitchen, whither Hugh had rushed to shake off his wet 
greatcoat, and from that hour I made up my mind to one thing 
as ineritable, Grace made our tea that night and buttered our cakes, 
and afterwards they two read poetry together at the table, like a pair 
of young fools (I give the name in all tenderness), a pair of wise, 
happy foolish children. 

But the next day brought the cavalier before-mentioned to conduct 
Hiss Avon home. He treated me and Hugh with the air of a superior 
being, and I could not but smile as Hugh, having conducted himself' 
towards the visitor with much dignified hauteur, finally flung the 
gate, and muttered something fierce between his teeth which I could 
not hear. 

After that little adventure there was an end of Grace's visits to the 
cottage. Her grandmother heard of Hugh incidentally from the 
esTalier, and Grace was ordered to turn her horse's head in a different 
direction from the village when she went on hor rides. So we saw no 
more of her for some time ; but Hugh had his consolation in hearing 
of the dismissal of the cavalier, who, followed by the rest of the 
Tisitora, took his way from Bracken Hollow soon after. 

Hugh's ** day" lengthened into some weeks, and he had never 
once seen Grace since that night. Margaret was growing very weakly, 
and I was obliged to visit the Hollow regularly. On these occasions 
H struck me that Grace was looking ill and dejected, I invariably 
found her seated patiently by her grandmother's side. Poor Margaret 
said her child was the best of nurses. One evening she accompanied 
me to the hall-door. Autumn was waning fast, the sunset glared upon 
the mountains with a frosty fire, the air was disturbed by the constant 
rustling of dead leaves haunting the earth in search of a grave. Grace 
wore a pale grey dress, and the bright colour was gone from her 
cheeks and lips as she stood on the threshold gazing towards the 
horizon, with dull dark eyes just lit by a red reflection from the 
western sky. Although not of a poetic temperament, I could not but 
think she looked more like a spirit than anything else ; much too like 
a spirit to please my professional eyes. 

I thought it right to tell her that hor grandmother's disease was 
such as might extinguish life suddenly at any time. I thought it only 
natural that she should cry, but we had no scene. The trouble was 

70 The Irish Motithly. 

strong and genuine, but controlled. As she gave me her Land at 
parting, she said : 

** Doctor, if she were gone, might I not do as I pleased with the 
property which she says wiU be mine ?'* 
I said I believed she might. 

*' And if I chose to give it to some one who has a better right to it 
than I*have, would you help me to return to Ital^ ? I believe I could 
earn my bread there on the stage." 

I told her she was a foolish child, and had been moped too much 
in the sick room. I made her promise to take a long walk on the 

Nelt evening I found Margaret on her couch in the drawing-room 
alone, fci'he had sent the dear child for a ramble, she said. She her- 
self felt much better. I sat a long time by her sofa. The poor old 
lady was in a good humour and communicative. She discussed with 
me the afPair of the cavalier, in which, as I had guessed, Qrace had 
proved unmanageable. 

" Do not wonder," she said, '*at my anxiety about it. I am very 
old. I may go any day. I should like to see the dear child happily 
settled before I close my eyes. He is a fine young fellow, and it would 
be a suitable connection for the Avon family. But he will come again, 
he will come again. She will soon tire of this dull life. It must 
come right. I have set my heart on it. And then — " 

" Ay !" I thought, " and then ?" But that " then" the future was 
destined never to bring forth. 

" Give me your arm, dear friend," she said, ** and take me to the 
door. I long for a breath of the fresh air." 

We went together to the door, and stood quietly looking out into 
the mild fresh dusk, the deeply tinted shades of a highland twilight. 
I mpalpable echoes floated dreamily in the air, stray notes from drowsy 
birds dropped down from startled nooks aloft ; the trees seemed 
whispering an audible hush one to another, and now and again a 
brown leaf hovered reluctantly to the ground. 

My eyes were better than Margaret's, and I was the first to see 
two figures coming slowly from among the trees. I passed my hand 
over my eyes, and looked again. Yes, they were surely coming, Grace 
and Hugh. Quickly I saw that he was almost carrying her, and that 
her arm hung helplessly by her side. As they approached the house, 
I saw what was the matter. The girl's left arm was broken. I 
believe that surprise at seeing Hugh at first prevented Margaret (from 
observing Grace's accident. In my own anxiety I did not^notehow 
her face greeted her grandson, but presently I heard her say in a 
husky voice — that pitiful, quavering voice which always will betray 

Bracken Hollmv. 71 

the emotion of the aged, no matter how strong or stern may be the 
spirit : 

** May I ask, sir, who are you ?" 

I glanced at Hugh. His eyes were wide and bright, his mouth 
pale and firm. Never had he looked nobler ; never had he looked 
more like his mother.* Some touching echo in the old lady's voice 
bade me hope, despite the hard uncourteousness of her wordsf How 
'would Hugh behave ? 

He uncovered his head deferentially, and announced himself as 
Hugh Desmond. 

At the name her mouth twitched ominously. Poor old Margaret ! 
she had a struggle before she answered. 

** Then, sir, 1 will trouble you to come][no further ; you are not re- 
quired here !" 

" He saved me," moaned Grace; *' but for him, I should have 
been brought dead to your door." 

** Dead ! dead !" Margaret repeated in a hurried, terrified voice, 
and I thought she glanced wistfully at Hugh. But the lad looked 
defiant, and the old spirit woidd not be so easily quenched. I think 
it drew an accession of bitterness and strength from Hughes careless 
independence of bearing. She said grimly : " You have done well, 
irir, but you have done enough. We will trouble you no more. You 
may go." 

** I wiU fir^t place my cousin Grace in a less painful position," said 
the boy, boldly, and at the same time he carried the girl past her into 
the parlour, and laid her on the sofa. 

** And now I will obey your hospitable commands, madam," he 
^aid, bowing to her with the same slightly scornful deference, where 
^e 4stood trembling by, with the frown gathering blacker on her 
brows each second. 

'* GK) !" she whispered hoarsely, pointing to the door with her 
shaking finger. 

** Oh r wait, wait !" moaned Grace. But he was gone. 
She raised her head. She sat up, leaning upon her sound arm. 
Her hand, white and damp with the dew of agony, grasped the 
cushions with fierce effort. Her sufferings must have been almost 
intolerable, but there was something in the wild, dark eyes looking 
from her pallid face, that told of mental pain to which mere physical 
torture was little. 

** What have you done ?" she cried in a kind of passionate wail. 
'* You have driven away the only creature who has a right to rest 
under your roof, your only grandchild. For me, I am nothing to you ; 
nothing, nothing ! I solenmly swear that I am not Grace Avon. Grace 
Avon died twelve years ago 1" 

72 The Irish Monthltj. 

She got up with her white wet face, and broken arm ; she waved 
me ojff ; she shrank away, and crawled rather than walked from the 
room. I led Margaret to a chair. She did not speak, but her face 
worked piteously. She had got a sore, sore blow. I rang for a trusty 
servant, and followed Grace. At the bottom of the stairs I found my 
poor child, stretched stiff and insensible, with her face buried in the 
mat. 1 carried her up to bed. It was long before that swoon gave 
way.- "Wlien it did, there was violent illness and much danger. Late 
that night I stood by Margaret's bedside. It shook me with trouble 
to see how my poor old friend had aged and altered during the past 
few hours. From that bed I knew she would never rise again. 

•* Don't send her away V she whispered. ** Not yet. I would not 
turn out a dog with a broken leg. Let her get well. But take her 
away when she is better. I cannot see her. My heart is broken." 

And she turned her poor face to the wall. Oh, stern soul ! Oh, 
inexorable will ! the retribution had come. 

1 found myself wondering much just then that Margaret should 
have so quickly admitted and comprehended Grace's strange confession, 
that she had not received it slowly and understood it with difficulty. 
But I afterwards knew that she had long suspected the girl of having 
some secret trouble, something that pressed heavily on her conscience, 
which she, Margaret, could not and dared not divine. Therefore it 
was that Grace's short veliement declaration came upon her, as upon 
me, with all the crushing weight of truth. 

I went back to Grace, and there, in the dead of the night, with 
the lamp between Us burnin<:^ dim, and the shadows lurking black in 
the comers of the big old-fashioned room, I heard all the tale of this 
poor girl's life and suffering, and unwilling wrong-doing. The pain 
could not force her to keep silent till to-morrow; she must speak, she 
would confess. She writhed upon her pillow, she bit her poor lip, but 
she would go on. 

" I was a poor little hungry, wretched, half-naked child," she said, 
•' begging in the streets. A kind-looking English lady took me by 
the hand and brought me home to her house. She clothed and fed me, 
and kept me with her. iShe taught me, and I loved to learn, and I 
was very happy. She always spoke of my kind grandmother who paid 
her for taking care of me, and who supplied all my pretty frocks, and 
toys, and sweetmeats ; and told me that one day I should go across 
the sea, and live with that good grandmother. She seemed very 
anxious that I should forget all about my childhood before coming to 
her, and about that day when she first found me in the street amd 
brought me home. But I could not forget. I remembered it all 
distinctly, and, as I grew older, the memory of that part of my life 

Brdcken Hollqw. 73 

puzzled me greatly. Hints from a servaat first made me suspect 
tomething wrong. I spoke to the lady, but she was very angry, and 
would tell me nothing. At last, when the time arrived for me to leave 
her she became frightened, I believe, acknowledged the deceit, which 
she had practised on my supposed grandmother, and conjured me to 
keep the secret, which she said was now mine much more than hers. 
The child left in her care, for whose education and maintenance she 
htd been handsomely paid, had died at seven years of age, and her 
selfish dread of losing so good an income had induced her to conceive 
the cruel plan of concealing the death, and substituting another for 
the poor little girl who was gone. I was the imhappy creature on 
whom she fixed for the carrying out of her purpose, choosing me, she 
said, because she thought my face would please my supposed grand- 

" She told me all this just before my dep?irture for Ireland. My 
trunks were packed, and strangers were to bring me home. I im- 
plored her to write and confess to my — to Mrs Avon, all that she had 
done ; but she only laughed, and called me a fool. She said if I kept 
my secret no one need ever know that I was not Grace Avon. She 
feaid, * What would you do, reared and educated as you have been, if 
you were turned adrift on tiie world, friendless and penniless? Besides, 
how could you prove your story ? Who would believe you ? They 
will perhaps place you in a madhouse. I can easily hint that your 
hrain is unsound.' 

** When she found that I was not afraid for myself, she reminded 
me of the poor old lady who expected me, who would be so enraptured 
to see me, and whom the shock of my confession would probably kill. 
1 died all through the nights. 1 prayed for strength to do what was 
right. I thought I would tell the friends who came to fetch me, and 
ask their advice. But when they arrived, they were gay, fine people 
and I could not find courage to speak. I fancied how they would stare, 
itnd shrink away from me 

" Then I resolved to wait, and tell my — tell Mrs Avon herself 
^^^ul8t travelling here I longed to confide in you, for your kindness 
enoouraged me ; but still my voice failed me. I could not do it. 
Arrived here, I found it still more impossible to confess to the old 
lady, who was so good to me and loved me so well, that I was only an 
impostor, and that she had no grandchild. And then — when I learned 
Hugh's story— oh ! what I have suffered since that day ! Every hour 
that passed made it more terrible to confess, and every day that rolled 
over my head was another sin added to the mountain of wrong which 
was choking up my life. At times I have thought, she cannot live a 
great many years ; I'will try to make her happy during her life. 1 
Vol. zTta. No. 200. 55 

74 Th^ Irish Monthly, 

will cling to her faithf ullj, and nurse her and love her ; and when hhe- 
is gone I will give up every penny which she betjueaths me to the 
rightful heir, and go away and try to earn my bread upon the stage ; 
and perhaps the doctor will pity and forgive me, and help me to carry- 
out the plan of my new life. 

^' I was thinking over all this to-night on the rocks. I was sitting^ 
on the edge of a bank ; it gave way, and I f eU from a good height 
down upon the stones. I must have fainted from the shock and pain. 
When I recovered I thought myself dying, and I was not sorry. I 
had QufPered so much, and I thought, now my troubles must end, and 
that God would pardon me for the wrong I had so unwillingly done. 
And just then I saw Hugh's face. My eyes and senses were both dim, 
and I thought it was looking at me down from the sky, and then it 
came hovering nearer and plainer, and at last I saw it beside me. He 
lifted me up ; I scarcely know how we got here. You know the rest. 
It was very wrong to speak so suddenly ; but I could not keep silent 
when I saw him treated so." 

This was her pitiful story. 

For long I scarcely left the house, passing conlinually from one 
sick room to the other. At last one day I carried Grace down to the 
phaeton, and drove her quietly to the cottage, where Hugh arid Madge 
watched for us. And then Grace lay for many days on our little 
parlour sofa, with her bandaged arm and her white cheeks, and all 
her thoughts filled with the puor old lonely lady Ij^ng ill at Bracken 
Hollow. And Hugh went about the room like a woman, and mended 
the fire, without noise, and read his book quietly in the corner, and 
when she was able to enjoy it, read it aloud to Grace. And Grace 
said to me one day, " Doctor, Hu«^h does not know all, or he would 
not be so good to me. I had rather j-ou would tell him." And I said, 
** My dear, Hugh knows every word that you told me. Here he is ; 
I will let him speak for himself." 

i\jid as Hugh came in I went out, calling Rough from his lazy 
haunt beside the sofa. As I put on my great-coat, and turned my 
face towards the glen, I knew very well what would happen before I 
came back. On my return Madge met me at the door with a warning 
** Whisht, sir !" and on entering the parlour I found it filled with 
deep red light from the peat fire, the curtains drawn, the sofa arranged 
by a tender hand, and Grace sleeping softly, with a look upon her face 
which caused me to congratulate myself upon my gift of prophecy. 

Not very long afterwards Hugh and Grace were wed, and a day 
was fixed for their departure for India, B ugh having got an appoint- 
ment there. Margaret Avon lay expecting her death ; but she would 
neither see nor forgive her grandchildren. She would not even yet 

In the Hospice for the Dying, 75 

relent. Grace stole in one day whilst she slept, and kissed her withered 
cheek ; and the next day they left me alone. 

They had been gone some weeks when one evening Margaret sent 
for me. She was very weak and very gentle. 

"Dear friend," she said, "I have been dreaming much about 
Mary. 1 feel death coming, and I want to see those children. Send 
them to me." 

Alas, and alas ! they were far away, and I had to tell her so. 
**It is my punishment," she said. " My life has been all wrong. 
God forgive me !" and she turned her face to the wall. 

« • « « « « 

Her grave is green. For two years the old house has been dark 
and desolate, and now it will again be filled with life. That letter is 
not a dream ; it is there with its seal and its many post-marks. They 
are coming home. 

I have scribbled away the night. I draw the curtain. Darkness 
wanes, and the sea grows visible. Bed lights are struggling in the 
east. God be with the past ! It is another day. 

[We are glad of the opportunity which an accident affords to us of re»- 
cning' from the pages of a forgotten Magazine one of the earlietut tales of a noTelis 
with whose mature work our readers are happily familiar. — Ed. /.if.] 


THO Mary's Hostel come strange travellers, 

-^ Out of the night, out of the night and rain, 

Stumbling and faint, and sick to death with pain; 
Each bringeth here his cross that no one shares ; 
And rests him here so sweet, and forthwith faros 

Out in the night, the starless night again. 

Only, I think, His Face makes daylight plain 
Who travels down beside these wayfarers. 

Jesus, Life, it is the time of Birth ! 

Thy Star is in the House of Birth for Thee ; 
Thy Mother's Expectation draweth nigh. 
Slay Thou this death that slayeth all the earth, 
Or open Gates of Heaven, that we may see 
How Death is Birth, and those new-born who die I 

Katharine Tynak. 
December 13th, 1889. 

76 The Irish Monthly, 


IT was some months since I had seen or heard of her. The 
report of her ilness, and then, a few days after, the news of 
her death oame upon me as a shock. She was about the lost 
person with whom I associated the idea of death. 

I met the funeral at the cemetery. Unless when closely 
related to the deceased, or where I can be of some use to the 
family,'! have a repugnance to attending funerals in a carriage. 
The quiet of one's own thoughts is most fitting on such occasions. 
In a carriage, often with those one does not know, the conversation 
quickly falls from a few commonplaces regarding the character, 
property, and family of the deceased, into general topics — 
business or politics ; and laughing and joking often supervene, or 
the newspapers are produced and read. 

The morning was harsh and cold. "We warmed ourselves at 
the stoves in the waiting room at the cemetery gate, and looked at 
the photographs of monuments that hung on the walls. We were 
a mixed company ; several of the Hospital nurses (some of whoni 
had wreaths to lay on the coffin), a few of the committee, two 
Catholic clergymen, although she was a Protestant, and it a 
Protestant cemetery, several gentlemen I did not know. With 
the funeral came more of the committee and some of the doctors. 

There was something awful to me about funerals, when first, as 
a bo}'', I attended them. Now, unless where my feelings are closely 
concerned, I fear they have become terribly commonplace. I have 
now walked behind such an army of relatives and friends to their 
last bodily resting places, yet through all they have not lost their 
solemnity, and the conversation that goes on at them grates upon 
me. I do not understand why it is upon such occasions that people 
cannot keep their mouths shut, if even only for a few minutes. If 
it is conversation they want, and not thoughts about the deceased, 
why do they attend ? Emmet's words constantly recur to me on 
such times : " Ghrant me the charity of your silence." Yes, ought 
we not at least to grant the dead the charity of our silence ? Silence 
is on most of the solemn occasions of life the expression of the 
deepcHt feeling. 

A Sketch from Life. 77 

The morning was, as I have said, harsh and cold. As the 
dfirgjman read the service, we sheltered ourselves from the bitter 
wind as best we could behind the tombstones round the grave. 
She had died of typhus, canght in the discharge of her duty, and 
it was not thought safe to have the ceremony in the chapel. 
What a reverence we should have for all those rites, however 
direrse they may be, by which people of different creeds, and in 
different tongues, and of different races, and different nationalities, 
console and support themselves as they lay thekr loved ones in 
the ground. 

The service was soon over, the grave filled in, such of us as 
were intimate enough said a few words to the bereaved relatives, 
and we hurried off to our daily life. 

However, it is not this funeral I desire to dwell upon, but the 
fresh, bright personality of the person who had been taken from 
08. " 38 " was on the coffin : she must have been about 26 when 
first I knew her. She was Lady Superintendent of a hospital in 
which I had been one of the committee. 

I think I see her now — with her fresh bright complexion, blue 
eyes, golden hair, the pleasant expression of her face, the at times 
saacy toss of her head. She dressed simply and in good taste ; on 
the hospital premises invariably in some neat washing material, 
spotlessly clean. She was a pleasing picture as, in answer to our 
summons, she came into the boardroom for a few minutes' conver- 
sation and counsel at the close of each of our meetings. 

How her eyes would dilate, what a surprised turn she would 
give her head, if we bad anything to suggest in the direction that 
it was just possible something might be going not altogether to 
our mind in her department. Busty old fogies, and married men 
as we were for the most part, it was impossible entirely to steel our 
hearts and preserve q. Spartan fimmess, if, as at times it was 
perceptible that the blue eyes were getting moist. Must I confess 
that at times it is just possible that she managed us as much as we 
managed her ? 

Yet, upon the whole, her management was everything that 
could be desired, and, upon her death, the uppermost f eehng was — 
how difficult it would be to fill her place. "Wards, laundry, store- 
rooms, kitchen, everything was kept in the best of order. Indeed, 
we often had to complain that, in her desire for completeness, 
she led us into unnecessary expense. Her control over the 

78 The Irish Monthly. 

nurses, if at times arbitrary and wayward, was complete and 

She was excellent in her treatment of the cases of poor girls 
that had gone astray, which inevitably came before her in such a 
mixed institution. One sweet, attractive, foolish creature, I 
remember, who was wheedled into a " marriage," which turned out 
to be no marriage at all, and who was then deserted. How our 
Lady Superintendent stood by that girl, and tried to shield her, 
and looked after the child, and then took her into her service. 

It was in the wards, and amongst the sick and dying, that she 
shone most — more particularly with children, for whom she occa- 
sionally bought toys out of her own pocket. Her fresh, bright, 
cheery presence was in itself enough to work a cure in the 
patients — ^that is, when some neglect by a nurse, or provoking act 
of insubordination did not call out her quick temper. 

And she was absolutely fearless — now tucking the clothes round 
a patient lying in small-pox or typhus ; again, lifting the head of 
a child tossing in scarlatina and settling the pillows under it. I 
have seen a stray lock from her hair falling on the fevered face of 
one as she bent over it. 

In the patients she had often a provoking enough set to deal 

" Sure, what do you mean ? Only for the likes of us you 
would'nt be here," was the rejoinder of one to her remonstrance 
regarding the unnecessary trouble being given. 

"Wretched, dissolute women, men broken down after debauches, 
rickety children, the ofPspring of vice, — a life of misery before 
them, and the probability that they were, perhaps, more likely to 
hand on their idios3mcrasies than to bring up virtuous children, — 
such were those with whom she had too often to deal, and for 
whom some of the most valuable lives in the* community are neces- 
sarily being staked. It was in the preserving of such lives, in 
cases of typhus, that she lost her own. 

How had she ever come to immure herself in hospital life ? 
She professed to scorn the ordinary seeking of women after 
spheres, and used jokingly to declare, that to be courted and married 
was woman's only true place. Reforms and social questions, were 
entirely outside the circle of her sympathies. She did not trouble 
herself about doctrinal matters; and as for politics, she knew 
nothing about them. At heart, I imagine, she was a conservative. 

A Sketch from Life. 79 

She visited England often, and once the Continent, and even 
the Antipodes, partly for business purposes. I certainly never 
expected to see her back from these longer excursions. I felt sure 
die would captivate someone. But back she always came, and 
settled down quietly to the dull routine of her duties. 

She was fond of the theatre and music. Her parlours were 
models of dainty, refined comfort. Her salary was good. I once 
ui^ed her to look forward to the future, and to save. ** Indeed, 
I have no notion of it," she said. " 1 will enjoy myself while I 
can; and then, you may depend, I'll get someone to take care 
of me." 

Yet she did save several hundred pounds, I was told ; but she 
left no will, and I believe it went away from those nearest to her, 
to relatives who cared, perhaps, little about her. 

She spent more than one evening at our house. She was plea- 
sant company, a good talker, and played the piano in an ojBE-hand 
oianner — ^not very deep music, but lively waltzes and the like. 

I will not soon forget one of her anecdotes, of an encounter 
with a cabman. He demurred after she had entered the cab and 
told him where to drive ; he was sorry, but the truth was, he was 
engaged. She told him not to be foolish ; positively declined to 
leave, and told him to drive on. Whereat he sulkily shut the 
door with a bang, and grumblingly exclaimed : " Oh, I see you 
are one of the clever ones," and drove off. 

She had appeared so completely proof against infection all her 
life, that it appeared almost unnatural that she should succumb to 
it at length. 

I ofton think of her ; when I do, it is not in connection with 
lUness or funerals. I like to think of her in her best days, as she 
Kt up the fever-stricken wards of the hospital with her presence, 
as she leaned over children and smoothed their pillows. 

In summer evenings, long before I knew her, sounds of musio 
and sin^liig used to come pleasantly from the open windows of a 
house on our road, I afterwards learned that it was she and her 
brothers and sisters that were the musicians. They resided there 
with their mother. The troubles of life had not yet scattered the 
family. I like to think of her when I hear musio wafted out of 
open windows on summer evenings. 

Alfred Webb. 

80 The Iriah Monthly. 



IZING Connor made an edict old : 
■^^ " A royal palace I will build ; 
Tribute I order of the gold, 

From every clan and craftsman's guild, 

" Titbings of scarlet and of silk, 

Curtain and screen of regal woof^ 
Deep-uddered heifers, rich in milk, 

And bronze and timber for the roof. 

," From Leyney's lord, in token due 

Of fealty, I will ordain 
A hundred masts of ash and yew, 

A hundred oaks of pithy grain." 

" Saint Atty, keep us safe from scath^ 

And shield us in the battle crash ! 
For roof of royal house or rath 

We will not render oak or ash ! " 

Thus lowly prayed the Leyney clan, 
While sang the birds in bush and brake. 

As fast they mustered, horse and man, 
To face the foe by Qara's lake. 

For, wroth' at heart, came Connor's clan ; 

Ah, Christ ! they made a horrid front, 
With red spears bristling in the van. 

And shields to brave the battle-brunt. 

From wing to wing in wrnth they rolled, 

Crested with helmets all afire. 
Of burnished bronze or burning gold. 

To martial measures of the lyre. 

♦ Saint Atty is tho loving name of the people of Achonry for Saint Attracta,. 
the patroness of the diocese. 

The Prayer of St. Afiy, 81 

A dreadful war ! the blessed saints 

Defend to-day the Leyuey clan ! 
For they must reel before the steel 

Of such a hosting, horse and man. 

From sounding sheaths the swords flamed out, 
The clattering quivers echoed loud, 

From their dark ranks the battle shout 
Broke out, as thimder from the cloud. 

** Saint Atty, keep us safe from scath ! '* 
Thus made the Leyney men their prayer ; 

When lo! adown the forest path 
Trooped, lily-white, a herd of deer ! 

Broke from the branching thicket green, 
While mute the watching warriors stood ; 

Such gracious deer were never seen 
In Irish fern or Irish wood ; 

And, mighty marvel, on their backs. 
Bound by a maiden's tresses gold. 

Clean-hewn as if by woodman's axe. 
The tribute of the wood behold ! 

Nor paused the sylvan creatures sweet, 
But gliding onward, like to ghosts. 

Cast ofiE the wood at Connor's feet 
In wondrous wise betwixt the hosts ; 

Then vanished in the forest green. 

While mused amaze the king and kern ; 

And nevermore from then were seen 
In Irish wood or Irish fern. 

Down dropped the sword to thigh and hip, 
** God's will be done, let hatred cease ! '* 

Bose up the cry from every lip. 

And harps attuned a chord of peace. 

82 The Irish Monthly, 

Yea, "blessings broke from every lip, 
To Gk)d and to His saints above. 

And hands that came for deadly grip 
Were mingled in fraternal love. 

" 'Gainst scath or scar our battle-shield 
Is Atty, saint of Leyney's clan ! *' 

They sang, as homeward from the field 
They hied, unscathed, horse and man. 

For in her chapel in the wood 

The boding war had Atty seen, 
And for the people of her blood 

Made prayer amid the forest green. 

And men do say that on that day 
She saved the Leyney clan from scath, 

Such power there is when lowly pray 
The pure of heart and keen of faith. 

And still when autumn gilds the lea, 
And scythes are shrill in meadows ripe, 

The rural pageant you may see 

Sporting with jocund dance and pipe. 

The village women you may mark 

In Leyney, at Saint Atty's well. 
Ere yet hath trilled the risen lark 

In golden mead or dewy dell. 





THERE is hardly any editorial sanctum where the intelligent 
scissors department is such a complete blank as that from 
'which our Magazine issues. This independence of borrowed 
matter is due, partly to the limited number of its pnges, and partly 
to the unlimited number of its friends. Nevertheless, we have 
ooeasionally condescended to rescue from oblivion observations 
that seemed to us sufficiently noteworthy for such a distinction, 
even though they might have previously been in print in the 
ephemeral columns of some local newspaper. Such an exception 
must be made in favour of a letter and a speech in connection with 
the distribution of prizes last December, at the Crawford Municipal 
School of Art., in Cork. The Head Master, Mr. W. A. Mulligan, 
had invited Mr. Walter Crane, and, when the latter was unable to 
come from London, Mr. Mulligan suggested that a letter from his 
pen would be the next best encouragement in place of the words of 
his lips. Mr. Crane complied with the request. After explaining 
these circumstances, and expressing his belief tbat the works that 
won prizes in the Cork School of Art were of a high standard, Mr. 
Crane proceeds : — 

" Now, I am not one of those who are at all satisfied (as possibly 
you may be aware) wdth the present state of things, eitlier in Art, 
Politics, (»r Society, and if, as regards Art, I were Jiskod wliat was 
the best way to learn something about Art, I should say in the 
workshop of a good craftsman, or in the studio of a good artist ; 
for Art of any kind requires actual demonstration ; it cannot be 
taught by rule or precept — it is not a matter of invariable and 
ahflolute principle — there is always room for individual choice, and 
for the development of individual thought and feeling. Nature 
is not a fixed quantity. People often say such and such a work is 
* like nature ; ' but nature is always changing ; if it were not so I 
•doubt if there would be any art. But, as the seasons roll by, and 
with them the pageant of life with all its intense human interest. 

84 The Irish Mmthly. 

thoughts and ideas are kindled in the mind ; so we would oast 
them in some graphic or plastic-shape before they fade. Nature ia 
impartial ; indifferently she gives you noble and base, tragedy and 
comedy, significance and insignificance. It is for the artist to put 
the puzzle together, to bring harmony out of discord, order out of 
chaos, and to transfigure with the light of beauty and poesy the 
commonest things. 

" It was said (I think by John Ruskin) of Rembrandt, that he 
had qualities by which he could make a hay bam sublime. It is 
very much a question of treatment. In fact, in treatment and 
aelection may be said to lie the whole secret of Art, 1 look upon 
Art, in its true sense, as a language which is capable of expressing 
the higher life, thoughts, and aspirations of a people, as well as 
its familiar joys and sorrows. Nor is this power of expression 
limited to certain forms, such as painting and sculpture, but may 
be associated with the things of daily use and circumstances — the^ 
feeling for home and our household goods — the sacredness of our 
hearths — which, alas, has been so rudely and ruthlessly ignored of 
late in so many cases by the powers that be — which, in fact, our 
modem economical system can find but little room for anywhere, 
it appears to me. 

"Now Ireland has a great future before her. My friend 
"William Morris has well said that times of good Art have been 
* times of hope ; ' and, bearing in mind that neither natures nor 
men live by bread alone, and that the highest expression of 
individual life — as of social and national life — must be finally 
sought in Art, we shall see how important a matter it is, what is 
life without beauty and refinement ? And how can we have beauty 
and refinement without security of living and some leisure and 
freedom ? Even amid the anxious and feverish existence of the 
present, those of us who have ever knocked at the golden gate of the 
House of Alt know what a sanctuary is there. Having regard to 
the training of eye, hand, and mind, which the practice of any 
form of Art necessitates, and the qualities of patience, of foresight^ 
of method, of care, and of perseverance, which it calls forth in 
dealing with design or material of any kind ; or even in the many 
problems that have to be solved in the process of simply and 
honestly drawing from nature ; having regard to its moral and 
intellectual effect, and to its bearing on the happiness and social 
welfare of individuals or peoples, I do not hesitate to say that an 
education in Art is the best of educations." 

Art Education. 85 

Mr. Crane's letter ended with some graceful expressions of 
good ^-ill, and then Mr. Denny Lane proposed a well deserved vote 
of thanks in the following appropriate terms, of which we are glad 
to make our own, were it onlj for the sake of giving his high 
opinion of the Irish sculptor, Mr. Lawlor, of whom many of his 
<>oiintrymen hear now for the first time. But, besides, the author 
of "Kate of Araglen" has the knack of making such things 
literature : — 

" You have heard to-night the words in which Mr. Crane has 
«ent us a greeting across the sea, and I cannot refuse the request of 
your master to thank him for his kind thought of us, and, in 
return, in the old-fashioned way, which he loves so well, to wish 
him * A ^ merry Christmas and a happy New Year.' Although I 
have never met Mr. Crane, I have long known his works, and 
spent many an hour with them — with his Pan Pfprs^ and his 
ilaique of FlowerSy with his Fairy Tales, and even with his Babt/s 
Opera, Perhaps it may he that a second childhood resembles the 
first, for I know it is very pleasant, though you may have lost your 
admiration of bread and jam, that you can still retain your 
love of picture books — a love which has never waned with me, and 
of these books none have given me greater^ pleasure tlian those , 
which have sprung from the fertile fancy of him who has wished us 
**God speed " to-night. If humour which is fantastic without ever 
hring forced, if grace of form and charm of motion, if an old world 
sentiment, which has lost nothing of its sentiment because it is clad 
in a garb of antique quaintness, if harmony of hue and simi»le 
schemes of colour, woven together into a harmonious tapestry, are 
to be valued, where are we to find these qualities better united than 
in the works of Walter Crane ? Again and again have I gone 
back to his books, which I bought years ago for my children, and 
every time I swallow draughts from that Fontaine de Jouvence, that 
perennial fountain of youth, which, I trust, bubbles up yet amongst 
the oldest of us. And, turning my eyes away from these, my 
memory flies back to the picture books of sixty years ago. I 
oongratulate, and I almost envy the cliildren of the present day, 
who have prepared for them such a grateful feast, in place of the 
meagre and unwholesome fare provided for them at the time I 
«peak of. 

" Perhaps in some collection of antiquities, you might still find 

86 The Irish MonihJy. 

copies of the chap-books of three score years ago — ^the three- 
penny plain, and sixpenny coloured ' histories of Obi^ or Three^ 
Fingered Jack, or oi Bamft/lde Moore Caren; the Miser ^ or, mayhnp, 
the Hintonj of Brennan, the Robber, or Napoleon\ Book of Fdte, hy 
which you could foretell with certainty what was going to happen — 
an art which even stockbrokers have lost, and by which a mau 
might secure a fortune out of water-gas or electric sugar. One 
long folding plate, coloured by a hand that wandered unconfined, 
and occjisionally let the blue of the coat stray into the apex of the 
nose, And the red of the pelisse rise as far as the pupil of beauty's 
eye. Boldness and breadth were not wanting in the touch of the- 
artist, who revelled in the primary colours ; but they are gone ! and 
never again can I weep over the sorrows of a Black-eyed Susan 
who was principally yellow ochre, as she parted from a Sweet 
William who was all Prussian blue, and who was regarded with 
envy and jealousy by an Admiral of the Red, who, regardless of 
expense, was all vermilion. Alas ! they are gone ! but in our 
sorrow for their loss let us be consoled by the thought that all 
picture-books are not gone, and that our well-wisher to-night has 
furnished our children and ourselves with a panorama wherein a 
long procession passes along. Our old friends, the Sleeping Beauty 
dances along with Blue Beard, and the Three Bears gallantly 
escort Cinderella and Goody Two Shoes. 

*' One remark of Mr. Crane's has struck me much — one which 
to a certain extent gains my assent, and, to a certain extent 
provokes my dissent. He says the ' best way to learn something 
about Art is in the workshop of a good craftsman, or the studio of 
a good artist.' It may be the best way, but it would be unfor- 
tunate for us if it were the only way. Good Art craftsmen can 
hardly remain among us ; when they become capable they are 
attracted away to the great centres of work and wealth, and so it is 
with nearly all our painters and sculptors. One of the latter has 
come back amongst us, and I am proud that I have been instru- 
mental in wooing back to his native land my friend Mr. Lawlor, 
who stands in the front rank of modern sculptors, and who has 
generously promised to aid us in our school ; but, as a general 
nde, the magic magnetism of wealth draws towards its centre 
talent of every kind. 

" In other times it was not always so. A great artist went to 
reside at a convent, where he received little more than bare- 

Art Education. 87 

fubsistence, and enjoyed the privilege of decorating the Church 
with works which have remained a possession for ever. Many 
such works have I seen, for instance, in Nuremberg, where 
Adam Krafft and his three companions, * for the love of God and 
St. Laurence,^ devoted seven years to carving that wonderful 
Sacraments Haus, an edifice of stone which seems to grow like 
a beantifol plant until its topmost frond expands its leaflets amidst 
the groining of the roof. Or in the same city where Peter Vischer 
and his five eons wrought for eleven years at that bronze and silver 
shrine of St. Sebald, a' work which had remained unsurpassed for 
centuries. So, in the Campo Santo, at Pisa, did Benozzo Gozzoli 
work for sixteen years to produce the twenty-four wall pictures, for 
each of which he received 66 lire, or £2 15s. So, in an earlier 
day, did Duocio paint the front of the great altar-piece of Siena, 
receiving wages of 16 soldi, or 8d. a day, until his employers put 
him on piece work, and, wishing to save material, got him to 
paint thirty-eight pictures on the back of the panel, for which he 
received the princely price of 2^ gold florins, or eight shillings 
apiece. How different from the painters of this time, who build 
palaces, and are paid for a picture by so many strata of gold pieces 
laid on its surface, and when the highest artist, at the instigation 
of Mr. Pears, blows opalescent bubbles more costly than the 
genuine moonstones of the mine. 

" Yet, although our city can seldom retain a first-rate craftsman 
in the sense used by Mr. Crane, our school can teach many of the 
principles which underlie all arts and crafts, and can protect us 
from some of the dangerous examples of worthless and unlovely 
crafts. I need not go back even so far as the period of sixpenny 
coloured chap-books to refer to one art on which many an hour of 
precious time and many an ounce of more precious wool was 
wasted — ^I mean Berlin wool-work. I shudder as I think of the 
penalties which I suffered when I saw, and the vnrongs 1 did to my 
conscience when I had to praise, the works of an amiable daughter 
presented for my admiration by an adoring mamma. In those days 
I was more or less of a diner-out, and I had to praise, or else I 
woidd never be asked again. * No song, no supper.' To this day 
there remain deeply graven in my memory those wondrous pro- 
ductions of patient ineptitude. The troubadour with a serrated 
nose who serenaded a lovely maiden, while he accompanied himself 
on an instrument of music which puzzled the beholder. One could 

88 The InU Monthly. , 

never make up liis mind as to whether it was a stringed instru- 
ment or a wind instrument, for it was certainly either a guitar — 
or a bellows. And the lovely maiden herself, with a chevelure 
that outrivalled, though it certainly did not outstrip^ that lady 
whom we see on all the hoardings, and who has fertilized her hair 
with Mrs. Allen's hair restorer. That lovely maiden I can never 
forget ! as she displayed from her balcony a cheek deeply pitted 
with madder-lake and an eye like the ace of clubs. I can never 
forget her ! She haunts my memory still ! Let us hope that the 
principles we teach in our school, and the examples which we can 
show, will for the future protect the eyes of beholders and the 
consciences of corrupt critics from the spotted fever of coloured 

" You are all aware, as indeed Mr. Crane confesses, that he and 
his friend Mr. William Morris, are almost social democrats ; but I 
must say that in their * Arts and Crafts Exhibition' last year I 
saw little within the reach of shallow purses. Nearly everything 
was designed for the rich, and, with the exception of some books, 
most of the works were meant for the wealthy. I must confess I 
was disappointed at this, for I had hoped that in their hands, at 
least, art would have come down from the raised dais of rank, and 
have placed below the salt many a form in which beauty was com- 
bined with use, wrought in pewter and not in gold. But I suppose 
it is only another instance of the truth that * extremes touch.' 
Mr. Crane has spoken of our era in Ireland £is an era of hope. God 
grant his omen may be true ! We are passing through what, 
if not deeply troubled, are at best turbid times. We are in fact 
passing through a revolution, and let us hope that the turbidity 
we see is only that which always accomjjanies fermentation, through 
which the juice of the purple grape has to pass before the troubled 
must clarifies into the ruby wine. Of the capacity of our people 
for art I have no doubt ; of their patience and devotion I have 
much. These are qualities which are formed, and could not have 
grown up amongst our forefathers, vexed with persecution, xmable 
to reap where they had sown. Generations, with whom religion 
was trammelled and education proscribed, leave behind them 
traces of the evils from which they have suffered. Let us hope 
that a new day is dawning, that the shadows are passing away, 
and that as with others, in the words of Mr. Morris, * the era of 
hope may also be the era of art.' " 

Tico Unpublished Letters of Di\ Livingstone, 89 


O WEET cMld, the sunlight on thy face is dark 
*^ With no forecasting shadows of the end, 

As in thy childish glee I see thee wend 
Among the sheep-tracks, where the soaring lark, 
At early dawn, like to a holy clerk, 

Sings orisons. Already dost thou tend 

The sheep — an earthly charge, nor apprehend 
The heavenly, that thou "press towards the mark" 
Of thy high calling in the distant land 

Of Molokai. And on thy boyish face 
The flush of health, unmarred by leprous hand, 

Is spread, until it be by heavenly grace 
Beplaced, at sunset when the earthly strife 
Has reached the awful mystery of life. 

W. G. 


THOSE who are not already acquainted with the character and 
career of David Livingstone, the great African explorer, 
ou^ht to read the excellent account of him given by Mr. Thomas 
Hughes, Q.C, in the English Men of Action series, published last 
year by Messrs. Macraillan. The first of these letters was written 
in his 49th year, for he lived from 1813 to 1873. "We found those 
letters among tlie papers of Dr. C. "W*. Eussell, President of May- 
nooth. Curiously enough, both letters, with an interval of tliree 
years between them, are addressed to the " Kev. James Eussell, 

** Iliver Zambezi, Af)i( ii, 

*• 29tli Dec'., 18C2. 
*• Tjue Rkv. Jajcj:8 Russell, B.D. 
*' Deak Siu, 

*• If jou allow me, fii*8t, to explain my roasomj for writing, I 
think you may the more readily excuse the liberty I take in ti-oubling- you. 
Vol. xthi. No. 200. oG 

90 The Irish Month/f/. 

** I have a strong impression that the Jesuit misHionaries who laboored in this 
country previous to their expulsion by the Marquis of Pombal, had translated books 
into the language of l^enna and Tette, for I find that among some of the oldest 
natives portions of prayers — the Creed, &c. — are remembered in their own tongue ; 
and these are always referred to the teaching of the Jesuits— not to the priests who 
sut^cceded them. I tried to induce the priest at Tette to search for any books that 
may exist at Groa, but something prevented him from visiting his natire place. I 
then engaged a merchant of Goa to try and procure the loan of any books, and 
offered to be at all the expense of copying them ; but in tliis case too I have been 
disappointed. I feel anxious to possess some memorials of these devoted pioneers 
of Christianity in this land. This is one reason for my search ; another is, to im- 
prove myself in the language. I am now on my way up to Lake Nyassa, and hope 
to place a steamer on it, and do somewhat to stop a stream of 20,000 slaves that 
annually flows from that region towards the Red Sea and Persian Gulph. 

** You can scarcely conceive what difference in influence it makes whether one 
Hpeaks the native language well or not. And the help of a book in mastering the 
particles is very great. It has often occurred to me that, probably, what I failed 
to reach in Goa may be in existence in the Library of the Vatican, if I only knew 
how to get at it. I daresay you will smile at the idea of my writing to you on 
buch a subject ; and, to tell the truth, I have thought of writing to you again and 
again, and as often put the thought aside. Now I do it at last, with something of 
** just to ease my conscience," and possibly you may be able to give me a clue to 
obtaining what I want. Anything printed in the languages of Tette, Senna, or the 
Maravi would be a great boon, and I would take good care to print it, and render 
all honour to them to whom it may be due. The mission of the English LTniversities 
is working at the language, but it takes a long series of years to reduce a dialect 
accurately, it took Mr. Moffatt, of Kuruman, at least seven years of liard labour ; 
but now tho§e who possess his books can speak fluently in seven months. 

** should it be inconvenient, pray do not trouble yourself to write any answer, 
and, in any case, excuse the liberty I have ttiken in addressing you. 

'* Anything sent to Mr. Lennox Couyngham, Foreign Office, Downing Street, 
London, will be forwarded. . . 

"I am, dear Sir, 

** Your humble Servant, 

'* David Livinostonk." 

The other letter is dated from- Lord Byron's old home, where 
Dr. Livingstone lived for eight months, writing his second account 
of his travels, the guest of Mr. Webb, the African hunter : — 

** Newstead Abbey, 

** Mansfield, Notts., 8th January, 1865. 
*' Mt deah Sib, 

" You were kind enough to make some enquiries respecting translations 
made by Catholic missionaries in East Africa, and, fearing tliat you may have been 
unsuccessful, I take the liberty of enclosing part of a proof sheet, which can yet be 
altered if you think that I had better not s;iy what I have advanced. I tried a 
Monsignor who visited Goa, through a member of the family with which I am 
living, and he, thinking that the Portuguese had destroyed any manuscripts they 
may have found, gave me no hope of success. I think that the unblushing state- 

To a Sea-Shell. 91 

mes&tH of the Portugese ought to be noticed, on the scoro of justice to the memo- 
ries of the earlier mitksio&arios. I fear that the Portuguese themselves wero 
vortlileifiA. Not a vestige of memorial or tradition could I discover at Mozambique 
of St. Francis Xavier ; and their own deficiencies may have induced them to vilify 
better men. But if you think that 1 may do more harm than good by noticing 
the matter as I do, I shall esteem it a favour if you kindly mark offensive parts. 

** You will, I trust, excuse my troubling you thus; and if you can return 
tike proof at an early period, I shall esteem it a favour to 

" Yours most sincerely, 

"David Livinqstonk. 

** The proof is part of another book like my last ; and I do not for a moment 
ask you to endorse anything, but only to sa}** if my statements are likely to l^o 
4»ffenMVY$ to Catholics here at home.*^ 



BY thy Hps kissed mine ear doth list 
To spirits of the sea 
That lonely dwell, beauteous shell, 

Far from their kin — in tliee ! 

Their voices sweet, secrets repeat, 

Secrets 'twixt them and me. 

Long buried things their whisper brings 

Back from the tomb, things I 
Have heard and seen in their demesne 

In blissful hours gone by, 
On moonlit waves, in dim sea-cav6s, 

By shores 'neath Norway's sk}'. 

Me it delights to hear these sprites, 

The while they love to tell 
Of that old time in their dear clime ; 

It saddens both as well ; 
My bright dream's o'er, they'll see no more 

Their home and tliine, sea-shell ! 


92 TJie Irish Monthly. 


I "WAS staying a few weeks «go with my friend, Mr. Russell, 
near Dublin. Among those who were staging in the house 
were several thoughtful, cultivated people, so that I heard many 
interesting suhjects discussed. One evening the conversation 
turned on social questions. I happened to be sitting near Mr. 
Talbot, an English Member of Parliament. " What a munificent 
gift this is of Sir Edward Guinness !" T said to him. " It seems 
to me to show that people are getting out of the way of thinking 
Tvith the Manchester School. Thirty years ago, in the good old 
days of lamez-faire^ this woul.d have been rank heresy." 

" Oh, of course, we are all becoming more socialistic,'/ said 
Talbot. " But, you see, he is not going to pauperize the people ; 
the fund. is to be laid out and the lodgings hired on strictly busi- 
ness principles." 

" I don't like the thing at all," said Hume. " There was a 
great deal of truth in those doctrines of laissez-faire. As you say 
tnAy^ Talbot, we are rapidly becoming State Socialists, and we 
are forfeiting our commercial supremacy at tlie same time. What 
made us great was honest energy and independence, and it is 
through effeminate, sentimental philanthropy that we are losing 
our greatness. • There is a Russia waiting to conquer us, which 
has none of this sickly sentiment about it. Of course, I must ad- 
mire Sir Edward Guinness's generosity ; but I cannot help con- 
necting the gift in my mind with that silly fiasco of the dockmen's 
strikes. It seems to me like a propitiatory sacrifice to appease an 
insatiable democracy." 

" If you call it conscience-money too late paid for gain gott-en 
from the misery and drunkenness of the poor, you would be nearer 
the mark," said Woulfe, a young, pale-looking man, who sat a 
little way off — at which ferocious remark the ladies near shrank in 
horror, as though from an escaped convict. 

" My dear Hume," said Russell, *' you are quite a pagan in 
your views. Surely society is constituted for the good of all. 
Energy and independence are admirable qualities, but they ai^e 
the gifts of the strong ; the weak have a place in society as well. 
The fortunate and successful in life's struggle really have duties 

A Modern Conversation. 93 

towards their weaker brethren. Sir Edward Guinness has shown 
that he feels this duty, and he has made an attempt to fulfil it 
which is truly magnificent." 

*' DonH you think also, Mr. Russell," said Miss Moore, " that 
this help to the poorer classes can be better given by individual 
effort than tlu^ough the agency of the State ?" 

" I think there is a great deal in that," said llussell. " For, 
of course, the State has duties towards its citizens even more im- 
portant than the duties of the citizens to one another. But then 
the State is an impersonal entity, and I don't think it at all sees 
its way to performing its duties. That is, perhaps, the reason why 
Mr. Hume thinks it has no duties to perform. The whole ques- 
tiou is ft very interesting one to me. I was for several years in 
l*arliament, — for I was elected when rather young, — and mthout 
lieing a strong party man, I supported many movements for the 
improvement of the condition of the poor. I believed that we 
should see great changes as the results. I have been much dis- 
appointed. Of course, I have not ceased to believe that their con- 
tiition can be improved, but I think we must look for the means 
of improvement in new directions." 

" One must not be too impatient," said Talbot. " Eesults only 
show themselves slowly. And yet what wonderful achievements 
there have been in late years ! Think of the Factory Acts ; tlie 
movement for the Housing of the Poor ; the People's Palace in 
£ast London ; all the good work connected with Toynbee Hall 
and the Oxford Missions in the East End. Surely these things 
point to a sinking of class interests for the good of the whole State. 
For myself, I will confess to be a little sceptical as to the leavening 
of the masses by cultivated and enthusiastic Oxford under- 
gradimtes. But yet it shows that all classes are honestly facing 
the problems of society, and are determined to second the efforts 
of the Legislature. And with one or two million new votes, both 
poUtical parties will be forced more and more into social legisla- 
tion ; — witness all the speeches and resolutions at the late ]/axty 
conventions, and John Morley's speech at the Eighty Club, '^hich 
provoked so much criticism." 

" I wonder we never think of these things in Ireland," said 
Miss Moore. " Either we have none of these problems in this 
country, or else we entirely put them aside, for we nev^'r hqar of 
them or read of them." 

94 . The Irish Moidhly. 

" No one ever reads in Ireland," said Hume; "it would be 
l>eneath our dignity to be indebted for oar ideas to others. But is 
not jour Laud League taken up with such problems, Miss 
Moore ?" 

" Oh, yes, politicians and land leaguers doubtless have prob- 
lems ; but I mean, we do not seem to have any like what you have 
in London, which interest everyone. I think we manage things 
better here." 

"You arc quite right, Miss Moore," said Ilussell. "Apart 
from the land question, our social condition is much more simple, 
and I think more healthy, than England's. You see there are not 
the huge masses of population in the towns — an agricultural com- 
munity is always much less complex than a commercial one." 

" I often think," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, *' how much hapirier, as 
far as these things are concerned, people were in the middle ages. 
Then, of course, there were not these huge towns, and life was in 
the main rustic and agricultural." 

" Still," said Talbot, " you could hardly put back the dial now. 
However much you might wish it, you could not turn Birmingham 
into ploughland and Sheffield into meadow." 

" Thorold Rogers proves," said Woulfe, " by calculation of the 
rate of wages and the price of food, that in the fourteenth centmy 
the labourers were far better off than they are now." 

" 1 always have my doubts about these statistics, Ciileidated so 
long afterwards," said Talbot. " I don't know much about the 
matter ; but I have the same doubts about the happiness of the 
mediaeval artificer that I have as to whether he intended all the 
symbolism we are taught to see in his stained glass windows and 
metal work." 

" You are a sceptic, Mr. Talbot, I see," said Mrs. Fitzgerald. 

" For my part," siiid Hume, who had seemed very impatient 
of the last remarks, " I am sure that a state of war, like that 
which lasted right through the fourteenth century, and indeed 
during the whole middle ages, could not be a good or natural 
thing for any class of the community. Commerce and agriculture 
were at a stand-still, and no one benefitted but the Free Companies 
and such robbers. For myself, I am grateful to civilization for 
few things so much as for the security we all now enjoy." 

" I suppose all these things are true," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, 
who seemed distressed at Hume's impetuosity; "but I was reading 

A Modern Conversation. 95 

the other day sucli a charming book on Jack Cade's Rebellion, by 
TV^illiam Morris. His picture is very different from yours, Mr. 
Hume. And then there were the monasteries, which did so much 
good to the poor. They were a sad loss. It seems as tliough 
people realized in tho3e times what Mr. Russell said just now about 
both the State and the rich having duties to the poor. For the 
kings and the great nobles endowed and supported the monasteries, 
which acted, as it were, as trustees for the poor. In this way, tlie 
charity, however largely, or even improvidently, given by the rich, 
was not imprudently spent." 

" I wish I could believe that," muttered Hume to Talbot. 

" I almost think," said Eassell, '* that we might learn two 
lessons from the middle ages. First, that everyone should recog- 
nise his duty towards his fellow-citizens, and try to fulfil it him- 
self, and not leave it over to the State to do ; and, secondly, that 
<?liarity will be best carried out by organizations of men who make 
it their vocation, and not by random individual effort, or even di- 
rectly by the State. Thank you, Mrs. Fitzgerald, 1 never thought 
of that before. But I see you are an enthusiast about the monas- 
teries. Does not your friend, Mr. Buskin, hold your views too i^" 

" Oh, yes, indeed he does. He used to say he hoped to die a 
Franciscan friar at Assisi." 

•' I always think Ruskin is like a modem Plato," said Eussell, 
*' preaching high ideals to a materialistic, sophistical world. Plato 
puts these things we are talking about, so well. Only, he had not 
the same difficult jiroblems. Most of the labouring classes in his 
day were slaves ; that saved so much trouble. I was just reading 
the * Republic' when you came," he added, turning to me. 

" Iiu:»sell always puzzles me," said Hume to Talbot, — " a man 
of his sense quoting Plato, and a man of his age reading Greek ! 
But, seriously, Mr. Russell," he continued, "you don't accept 
liuskin's Political Economy, do you ? It is so puzzle-headed. He 
takes a science tliat can be made almost mathematical in its accu- 
racy, and twists it about with quite poetic disregard of facts and 
figures. 'And his fundamental assumptions and definitions are 
simply absurd." 

" There is something in what you say," said Russell, " though 
not so much as you think, as Plato says. I quite admit that 
Raskin may be a poor mathematician, and that, as a system, liis 
|K>Iitical economy is weak. I look upon him as a prophet, — with-^ 

96 The Irish Monthly, 

out honour, as It seems, in his own country, — ^who, through various 
figures and allegories, as I think them, or as you may say, with 
all his exaggeration and hyperbole, still sees an ideal to which he 
tries to lead us. Surely it is a great thing in these days of mate- 
rialism to have such a man, whose face is not bent down to earth 
like the face of the brute beasts, but is raised up to heaven, to the^ 
region of pure ideals. You must not quarrel with his method,, 
but rather consider the truths he tells us of, though only half 
seen: — 

* Mighty Prophet \ Seer West \ 
On whom those truths do rest, 
"Which we are toiling* all our lives to find/ ** 

" I am sure you are right, Mr. Eussell," said Mrs. Fitzgerald 
eagerly ; " that is the impression he always gives me when he 
talks. It is very curious that, in all his work in Art and such 
things, he seems to be, like Wordsworth, 

* hearinjjf oftentimes 
The still, sad music of humanity, 
Not harah nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue.* 

He really thinks his vocation is to speak to the world on these- 
social matters." 

" Yes," said Eussell, " it is * the still, sad music of humanity ^ 
that troubles him. There he is different from Plato, — indeed all 
modems are so different from the Greeks. They have not that 
perfectly natural, childlike delight in all things around them which 
the Greeks had. But we can't go back in these things ; the world 
has been growing older, and its childish joys no longer satisfy it. 
We feel our increased responsibilities, and I am glad to think that 
we try in some way to meet them." 

As this conversation went on, I, notwithstanding that I was- 
keenly interested in it, felt more and more weary from constant 
travelling for several days. Although I heard what was said, I 
could not keep my attention fixed, and many things I have since 
forgotten. About this time, too, someone began to play the piano,, 
and Nocturnes of Chopin and Sonatas of Beethoven alternately 
mingled with the voices of the speakers. 

" One thing I am sure of," said Eussell, " that 

A Modern Concermtion. 97 

an jthing to be done for the poor in future must be in the direction 
of showing them how they can help themselves, and not how we 
can help them. As Hume would say, — and there is niueli truth 
in it, — ^the feudal system is a thing of the past. Men in future 
must work out their own destinies, and not look for protection or 
assistance to anything else, — lord, monastery, or even the State. 
The State will disappoint its votaries surely and bitterly. Buddha, 
if we may believe Sir Edwin Arnold, taught that misery was the 
fruit of sin, and that happiness sprang from virtue and benevo- 
lence. I am sure this is true ; but we cannot now preach this 
gospel to the world ; they would pay no attention to it. This 
much, however, we may tell the workers, — ^that their happiness 
depends on themselves, that it is nothing external or adventitious, 
but a result of self-improvement. Education will do much, — but 
I do not mean a purely technical education. Children are open 
to so many influences, and these should be used for good.- llow 
much might be done for the very poorest children by a liberal 
education in the best sense of the word ; — one that should open 
the mind to the pleasures of thought and reading, literature and 
history, that should inculcate the teachings of religion, and de- 
velop the body by healthy exercise and the practice of useful 
trades. This is not impossible. The means might be found by 
the rich ; and see the result on the poor ! What resoiu'ces they can 
now find in themselves ! They will be intellectually on a level 
with their masters, and so independent in spirit that these will 
meet them on more equal terms. Ever^'thing points nowadays to 
a system of hard work and short hours. The increased leisure 
may be put to various uses. If education such as I have described 
has served its purpose, it will have accomplished two ends. It will 
make the home more attractive by the society of a cultivated wife ; 
and it will have taught the labourer to use his leisure to better 
purpose, and shown him -what his sphere of life is. It munf show 
him that happiness cannot be found in drink, and that it does not 
consist in selfish idleness." 

" Biit do you trust to education to do all this ?" said Mrs. 
Fitzgerald. " Philosophy herself ha« not yet taught us to bear 
the toothache patiently, ^on in dialect wd complacuit Deo scikinu 
facere popuhim suttm.^^ 

*• The education is not to be simply intellectual," said Russell. 
** I want to bring children, quite young and open-minded, under 

1)8 Thii Jrl^h Monfhhj, 

the iiifluencf^ of * fair sights and sounds,' as Plato says. Children 
are all so much alike, that I thiiik if we could ward off all bad 
iufluencos from them, the cliildren of the poor might easily be 
turned into gentlemen — ^gentlemen in their ideas and feelings, I 
mean, as many of the ]>easaiits in the country parts of Ireland are 
alread}'. I have seen countrymen in Gal way whose eoaversation 
is refined enough for a court." 

'* But does that make them happy ? " said Miss Moore. " I 
expect for most of them ignorance is bliss ; while I am sure there 
are some who would put this ednoation you are giving them to 
very bad use. It is a dangerous weapon to forge, ready for their 
hands. And as for their refinement, you may put a veneer of 
culture over them, but the only effect . will be to destroy their 
simplicity, and make tliem awkwiu'd instead of interesting." 

"JJut do you really think," said Itussell, "that they were 
made to pass their lives in thoughtless ignorance ? There are few 
things to me more terrible than to see an English labourer with 
the shape, and presumably the intellect of a man, leading the life 
of an animal. Man is too noble a creature to be degraded in that 
way. It is not the work that is degrading, but that when work 
is over he should have nothing left to do. At least he might 
know that he has a mind and soul. Everyone need not be a 
l)hilosoj)lier, but everyone is the better for thinking at times ; and 
for any improvement in the labouring classes, I am sure it is 
<issential. When they begin to think, they can begin to improve 
themselves, and sm-h an improvement will be lasting. You 
und«rsiand, of course, that I mean by education, not a cramming 
with knowledge, not much book-learning, but good moral and 
intellectual infiuences. I want the children to think well, and 
thought is to be drawn out of them, not forced into them. All 
will depend on tlie character of the teachers, and the work of 
teaching would not be too humble for Socrates himself. I am so 
convinced that good influences will do everything with children, 
that I should like to take some of them, those of the criminal 
classes at any rate, bodily out of the slums of the cities, and to 
*>ettle them in schools in country places, where they could never 
be brought under the evil influences of home. However, you will 
think this Utopian." 

" I am afraid I do," said Miss Moore. ** The ideas are 
charming, but the means to realize them seem very inadequate. 

A Modvrn Conversation, 99 

You aro trying, it seems to me, to create a Platonic Eepublic by 
means of Education Acts I" 

** Yes," said Ilussell, " tlie means are inadequate. But we 
must devise better ones, and I am sure we shall succeed if wo really 
try. All these difficulties of over-crowded cities and factories and 
slums ai^ comparatively new difficulties of the present century. 
They are very much the result of steam and electricity and 
machinery, with the great wealth and luxury and class changes 
which these have produced. The truth is, that man has for the last 
^•entury been turning all the hidden forces of nature to his own 
lise. The effects he has produced are magical, hut they have been 
unexpected. The forces have been too strong for hiui. They are 
like the escaped genie in the Arabian Nights, and have nearly over- 
l>owered him. But he will learn their secret by and by, and then 
he will be able to use them as he chooses, without the danger of 
inflicting misery on his fellow man. Perhaps by that time the 
antagonism between rich and poor may have diminished, and the 
Wnevolenee which was the aim of Buddha, as it is of our religion, 
may again reign upon the earth. Perehance some long time hence 
the rich may have been touched by Euskin's voicr^ still living 
when he has passed away, and may feel the ten-ible contrast 
between their luxury and the misery of the poor. It is a sanguine 
hope. But if peace is ever to return to the earth, it must be by 
^uch a reconciliation. Euskin will not have prea(4ied in vain. We 
t*an say of him in his own words : * Go thou forth weeping, bearing 
jirecious seed imtil the time come and the Kingdom when Christ's 
gift of bread and bequest of peiuje shall be Unto This Lsi-st as unto 
thee, and when for Earth's severed multitudes, of the wicked and 
the weary there shall be a holier reconciliation than that of tlie 
narrow home and calm economy where the wicked cease, not from 
trouble but from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' " 

After this I remember no more of what was said ; only that 
Kuflsell's thin pale face seemed brightened and glowing in the fire- 
light, while all the others, even in listening, seemed to have caught 
something of the prophet's fire. 

M. W, L. 

100 , The Irish Monthly, 


James Gilland, "Lough Ine/' J. C. Deady, W. P. jMrLCiiiNOCK, 
Bartholomew Dowling, etc., vav, 

1. We were about to place the following among our " Anony- 
mities Unvpiled," for no anonymity is more securely veiled than 
the authorship of a poem which is attributed to the wrong man. 
In the shilling volume in which Gavan Duffy, more than forty 
years ago, condensed with supreme skill and taste the best of " The 
Ballad Poetry of Ireland," he gave Dr. Drennan as the author of 
"' Rory O'Moore, an Ulster Ballad," just as he assigned to him 
" "When Erin first rose," and he prefixed to the poem which fol- 
lowed next, Samuel Ferguson's "Una Phelimy," an argument 
<lrawn from the fact of " two Northern Protestants" writing, as 
these did, about the Irish affairs of 1641. But this was a mis- 
take, which I find acknowledged in the forty-first edition. Yet 
he does not name the author of '* Rory O'Moore," which we now 
claim authoritatively for Mr. James Gilland, of Dungannon. Many 
of his poems appear in The Ulster Magazine in 1830 ; but they 
fire assigned to " the late James Gilland." They originally ap- 
l)eared in The BelfdJut Commercial Chronicle, between 1804 and 
1 812, and were signed " Z. X." One of the best of these is " The 
(}rave of Russell" — namely, Thomas Russell, who was executed 
lor high treason at Downi^atrick on the 21st October, 1803. When 
(Hlland died in his early manhood, in 1811, many warm tributes 
were paid to the amiable character and bright promise of this 
young poot of Tyrone, who had sung so well of those that placed 
their trust of old 

** In God and Our Lady and Roiy 0*Moore." 

2. We may add here, that another sweet Irish ballad, " Lough 
Ine," has been attributed to the Rev. Charles Davis, P.P., Balti- 
more. "We have his authority for denying this. He attributes 
the lines to a Corkman named O'Brien ; but on this also we have 
heard doubts thrown. 

Iteyns about Irish Per&om. - 101 

3. Some account ought to be written of the Poet of Duliallow, 
J. G. Deady, of Kanturk, who Avrote well in The Nation in the 

4. The death of Mr. John McCarthy occurred on Easter Sun- 
day, 1880. He was still in his prime, for he had not passed beyond 
his fortiefii year. Mr. McCarthy was bom in Ireland and educated 
in Spain. He was a ripe scholar, a critic of excellent taste, and an 
editor of rare discrimination. He was for several years associated 
with the late Father Hecker in the editorship of the Catholk World, 
He j>reseryed the admirable traditions of the late John R. G. Ilas- 
Fard, and kept that magazine up to the highest literary standard. 
Mr, McCarthy had a wide journalistic experience. He began his 
career in the United States on the staff of the Tribune ; he left the 
Catholic World to undertake an important mission to Cuba for the 
New York Herald; he contributed regularly during his residence in 
Xew York to the Catholic Quarterly^ Catholic Review^ and occasion- 
ally to The Ave Maria, His reputation rests chiefly on his 
essjiys, although one or two of his short stories are full of life and 
brilliancy. If Mr. McCarthy had enjoyed robust health, he would 
no doubt have written something more lasting than " leaders," 
forgotten in a day ; but pecuniary pressure forced him to do the 
work demanded at the moment, and his health could not support 
an extra pressure of daily work when the voracious demands of 
newspapers were satisfied. The list of Catholic writers in the 
United States grows smaller every year. Brownson, Girard, 
M^ Master, Hassard, Hickey, and now John McCarthy, have gone. 
Who can fill the void they have left ? 

5. In November, 1889, three Irish poets passed away. On the 
29th died Arthm* Gerald Geoghegan, at 27 Addison Itoad, Ken- 
sington, London, in his 80th year. His best title to be remem- 
bered by is as author of " The Monks of Kilcrea." A few of his 
pieces were contributed to our own pages, but his best work was in 
The Nation more than forty years ago. An account of his writings 
and of himself, as far as he wished to be known, will be found in 
our thirteenth volume, at page 325. For certain reasons he with- 
held then the date of his birth. His obituary reveals it — 1809. 
The obituary of William AUingham erred, it seems, in placing his 
birth in the year 1828. It was four years earlier — 1824. But 

102 . The Irim MouthJu. 

ah ! why was he not buried like a Christian man in the Abbey of 
Assaroe, beside the winding shores of Erne ? The third name is 
Fanny Forrester, daughter of Mrs. Ellen Forrester. Both of 
them, living in England, have shown deep poetic feeling and 
warm Irish hearts. We shall be glad of an oppoi-tunity of intro- 
ducing them to our readers. 

6. The Nation of December 21, 1889, ended an interesting re- 
view of the " Irisli Fairy Tales" of Mr. Edmund Leamy, M,P., 
by putting forward this boast for Waterford : " To Sexton the 
orator, to Dowling the novelist, to Downey, the successor of Lover, 
Waterf ord has added another son in Mr. Leamy, who will increase 
the store of our literature." But Richard Dawling is a native of 
of Cloumel. Can Waterford claim his kinsman, Edmund Downey, 
alias " F. M. Allen ?" 

7. The future biographer of Aubrey de Yere will find copious 
and valuable materials in the Autobiography of Sir Henry Taylor 
and in the Life of Sir William Rowan Hamilton. Another Irish- 
man who figures well in Sir Henry Taylor's pages is Richard 
Flecknoe, branded in Dryden's satire, yet capable of thus apostro- 
phising Silence : — 

** Sacred silence, thou who art 
Flootlgate of tlie deepest heart." 

Byron was not an Irishman, though he showed an Irish spirit 
in one of his two fine speeches. However, we may here set it down 
that hardly anywhere can there bo found a juster or more discri- 
minating appreciation of Lord B^Ton's genius and its limitations 
than in Sir Henry Taylor's introduction to his Philip van Arte^ 
relde- -which, by the way, Thomas Davis, in one of those letters 
first published in this Magazine, said was better worth studying 
than any play since Shakesj)eare. 

9. In the third part of "Anonymities Unveiled," in our 
Number for last November, page 610, Mr. D. Crilly, M.P., made? 
enquiries about William Pembroke Mulcliinook and Bartholomew 
Dowling after their removal to the Ignited States. Kind corres- 
pondents have given us information about both. 

There are good reasons for celebrating our day of baptism 

Flfjeonhole Paragrapfi9, lO-l 

rather than our birthday. The memorandum about William Mul- 
ehiBOck says only that he was baptized on the oth of Marf^h, 1820 ; 
left Tralee for America in 1849; returned to Ireland about the year 
1805 ; and died in September, 1864. 

10. Another correspondent states that Bartholomew Dowling, 
author of " The Brigade at Fontenoy," went from Limerick to. 
Boulogne in 1848, and was in Cork in the two following years, and 
for some years afterwards in Liverpool. But his last years were 
passie<l in Cahfomia, and he died on the 20th of November, 1863, 
in St. Mary's Hospital, San Francisco, a ttended by Irish Sisters of 
Mercy, one of them a native of Limerick, like himself, the ven^r- 
Able lady, Miss Keddan, aunt of tlie late Mother Francis Bridg- 
man, of Kinsale. 


1. The following appeal comes from the Convent of Mercy,. 
CLaremurris : — 

"There is something in the sufferings of feeble old age, and in the 
the helplessness of little children, which appeals strongly to the 
tender sympathies of compassionate and gentle hearts, who would 
procure — for the former, a quiet rest at the close of their weary battle of 
life; for the latter, a freedom from care and sorrow, in which X(t 
pnjoy their brief period of unconsciousness of the struggle that is 
before them. To these tender hearts we now appeal on behalf of 
pitiful little creatures, with pinched and pallid faces, shivering, half- 
ciothed limbs, bare feet, blue and blistered with cold, coming, many of 
them, miles to school, where they may spend some hours] in a warm 
room, and receive each the piece of bread which we struggle liard ii> 
procure for them. We appeal to them on behalf of aged poor, lyiiii; 
•in mouldy straw, a few rags their blankets, a tub beside theiJi*iu 
tlieir beds to catch the rain which drips through tlie rotting roof (jf 
thatch, their only alternative the workhouse, whose glaring white 
walls have, in too many caf es, added blindness to their other suffering; t*. 
To provide some means for their lelief, we have an annual Bazaar, 

104 . The Irish Monthly. 

but the place is s) out-of-the-way, and the people for the most part so 
poor, that we have to depend mainly for its success on help from 
outside. All offerings of money, fancy work, or prizes for the Bazaar, 
or gifts of cast off clothing, will be most gratefully received." 

* * * 

2. Tennyson's latest volume contains these lines to the snowdrop : — 

** Many, mmy welcomes, 
Februiiry fair-maid, 
Kver as of old time 
Solitary firstling, 
Coming in the cold time, 
Prophet of the gay time, 
Prophet of the May time, 
I'rophet of the roses. 
!Many, many welcomes, 
Fobruar}' fair-maid.' * 

The same theme was sung by one who at the time was very nearly 
seventy years younger than the Laureate, under circumstances 
that will be found recounted minutely at page 650 of the eighth 
volume of this Magazine, in the fourteenth chapter of "Flowers for 
a Child's Grave." I am fond of contrasting the different treatment 
of the same subject in the hands of different persons — such as Thomas 
^loore, and Henry Kirke White " To my Mother " — and, therefore, 
side by side with the octogenarian's snowdrop, I place the snow- 
drop of an Irish cliild who had hardly begun her teens when she 
wrote these lines : — 

** A sweet little thing is the snowdrop in Spring 
In its snowy white robe dressed — 
A j)early gem on an emerald stem, 
• AVith a dewdrop on its breast. 

*• Oh, a brave wee thing is the snowdrop in Spring, 
For the Winter's scarcely gone, 
AVhcn it lifts its head from its frozen bed 
And says, *' Bright Spring, come on ! " 

*' And a welcome wee thing is the snowdrop in Spring, 
For it heralds the summer sun. 
At the first warm ray it melts away. 
And the snowdrop's task is done." 

« 4f 4f 

3. We lately rei'erred to Mr. Wilfrid Blunt's newest volume, with 
its 'brilliant but lax theory and practice of sonnet- writing. It seems 
verj' desirable to give the counter- view of a weighty authority in 
The Weekly llegidtr, of I^ovember 23, 1889 :— 

Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 105 

" Mr. Blunt, as has been seen, writes the soiinet in a Shakesperian or qnasi- 
Oiakeeperian fonn, and has the easy advantage of that great name oyer those who 
hiild the Petrarchan formnla to be not only the moat beautiful, but the most fitted 
to expreae with dignity the intellectual act that is the cause of a spnnet. But the 
Bame, though it is the greatest in literature, is not the gfreatest in lyrical poetry,* 
and its authority is quite measurable with that of others. Moreover, the fact that 
Kliakespeare wrote strongly, or exquisitely, or thoughtfully in a certain form does 
not deny the fact that a better form existed, neglected in his time. The final 
eooidet with its point and epigram, suited his matter admirably, as some other 
ionn, even leas grave, might have suited it. None the less is the separateness of 
ol the final couplet alien from the orgfanio unity of the highest form of the sonnet, 
and none the lass is the snapping epigram of the final couplet alien from the 
neditativeneaB of a high sonnet's thought and from the composure of its utter- 
anoe. Ab regards the effect to the ear, the highest beauty of the sextet is to 
rise in sound and .to accelerate in movement towards the close, and to end in a line 
or m half line of peiuse ; and this the couplet makes impossible." 

4. In KoUahos of Midiaelmas Term, 1889, Mr. John P. Gannon 
coosecrateB the following sonnet to the memory of Father Damien, 
who has inspired more than one of our own poets : — 

** Strong brother of the weak, whose feet have trod 

In thy dear Master's footsteps silently, 

Braving the foe of men, pale leprosy. 
By whom struck down, thou passest unto God. 
Thy dust is laid beneath an island's sod, 

Far from both worlds, on lone Pacific's breast ; 

But thy pure fame is wafted east and west, 
Where cities hum or silent forests nod. 

" We little men with fevered fancies glow. 

Our hearts are faint with weight of selfish care ; 

We pine for praise, and reap not where we sow ; 
We seek and fail to find joy anywhere. 

Thou in a world of puppets still dost show 
What, under Grod, a man may do and dare. 

5. Mr. T. P. O'Connor's Pamell Movement will be acknowledged, 
0T«fa by thos^ who have least sympathy for its theme or its spirit, to 
be a ▼igorons and picturesque contribution to its history of contem- 
porary politics. But the reason why the present writer refers to this 
work is altogether apart from politics and literature. It is simply to 
emphasise the tribute paid incidentally to the practice ef total absti- 
nence as a qualification for hard work. At page 259 of the Popular 
Bdition of "The Pamell Movement," Mr. O'Connor says, of Mr. 
Vol. XTzn. No. 200. 67 

106 The Irish Monthly. 

Timothy Harrington, ?M.P. : — "Mr Harrington is a bom organizer- 
He has much of the iron spirit of the American * boss,' dashed with 
the kindliness of a good-humoured Irishman. His frame, hardj, 
firm-set, is capable of any amount of physical or mental effort. 
Throughout his whole life he has never onee tasted stimulant, and this 
perhaps accounts to some extent for his splendid health" 

6. A.S late as this January, 1890, several years aft^r her deaths I 
notice in The Argosy an item called simply " Sonnet, by Julia 
Kavanagh." A Catholic Irishwoman, living chiefly abroad, Miss 
Kavanagh, as far as I am aware, showed her Catholic faith only 
indirectly by the purity and wholesomeness of her Actions, and her 
nationality not at all. But this last relic of hers, the only piece of 
verse that I have seen from her pen,. turns out to be a pious picture of 
the Annunciation, and for her the Blessed Virgin is not merely '' a 
highly favoured one," but " full of grace " ; — 

'^ Along the morning sky the Angel came, 

And through the window like a snnbeam passed,- 

Silent and bright. A startled look she cast 
Upon his long white wings and brow of flame. 
* Hail, fnll of grace ! ' said he. The blessed name, 

Like long-expected music come at last, 
By earth was heard. Bat when with virgin shame 

Pure Mary shrank beneath the heayens vast, 

All through the lad, long-sufieiing world there ran 
A throb of fear and awe lest this poor maid 

The great boon should deny to sinful man. 
' Behold the handmaid of the Lord ! ' she said. 

Then gladness like a belt the earth did span : 
The Angel smiled and baok to heaven fled." 

This is not as poetical as Rossetti's sonnet on the same subject, 
but it is more reverent and more full of faith. After all, Canova did 
not greatly exaggerate when he said: "There is no real sublimity 
outside the Christian Faith ; no real beauty without the Madonna." 



ERIN stood weeping bj the wild seashore, 
Weeping because her bards were passed awaj, 

Their harps all silent. Through long years no ray 
Of light had pierced the cloud of grief she wore 
Wrapped as a garment round her. To deplore 

Deep cause she had beside her vanished day 

Of song and music ; yet for one sweet lay 
She yearned : the waves alone replied ** No more ! " 
Lo ! one arose, well skilled, and took that part 

For her dear sake. Her glory brief, her woes, 

But most her spiritual life he shows 
In sweet deep-flowing song. Drawn by his art, 
As glides his voice up through her vanished years, 
Hope with soft wings wipes from her eyes their tears. 

I read, and, as I read, upon my ear 
Arose a swell of music. Through the whole 
Sounded a deep full chord which drew my soul 
Past earth unto her God. Thy joy, thy fear, 
Thy hope for future years, Ireland ! here 
Are sung to that dear harp which lay so long 
In silence. This thy son his gift of song 
Has poured around thy shores. Oh ! ever dear 
Shall be his name to those whom thou dost call 
In truth thy sons and daughters. Lo ! a smile 
Beams from thine eyes e'en as the tear-drops fall. 
Joy in thy sorrow that thou hast the while 
A Poet still, whose voice from out the past 
Galls forth thy trust in God, and bids thee hold it fast. 

M. F. M. 

108 The Irish MontlUy. 


1. "Salvage from the Wreck," by the Eev. Pe.ter Gallwey, S.J. 
(London i Bums and Oates), is a work of remarkable originality and 
attractiyeness, and at the same time full of edification and instruction. 
Perhaps the title is not quite happy, and certainly it stands greatly in 
need of the explanation furnished by the sub-title : ** A Few Memories 
of Friends Departed, preserved in Funeral Discourses." It is well known 
that Father Gallwey is an Irishman whose work lias lain in England, 
and chiefly in London, W. When anyone very eminent in Christian 
virtue and in devotedness to the Catholic Faith has been called to his or 
her reward, he has been very often invited to ** point the moral" of 
the life thus brought to a close. Lady Georgiana FuUerton, before 
her turn came to be herself spoken of in this waj, expressed an 
earnest desire that Father Gallwey would publish a selection of these 
very unconventional and very unfrenchy oraisom funihres. He has at 
last done so, chiefly through the persuasion of Father Henry Coleridge, 
S.J., of whom he says most justly, that he may well be put alongside 
the late Father Faber of the Oratory as pre-eminent in the divine work, 
of promoting the Apostleship of Good Books. Father Gallwey may 
not be quite pleased with us for thinking, that the pages that he has 
found it necessary to add in putting the discourses together are the 
most interesting and valuable portion of the volume, which contains 
nothing more edifying than the last twenty pages of the introduction. 
Will the author draw the proper conclusion from tliis undoubted fact, 
and make up his mind to do himself what he urges earnestly on others ? 
Let him set down on paper and put into print, by instalments, as many 
personal sketches as possible, such as form the substance of ** Salvage 
from the Wreck." As some readers will share our disappointment at 
being cut down to initials in that part of the introduction to which we 
have just referred, we hasten to share with them also a discovery that 
we have made. In a subsequent part of the work we find that 
**M. C," to whom we owe the exquisitely devotional booklet, " An 
Hour before the Blessed Sacrament," was Miss Marj' Cuninghame, 
and her friend was Blanche Lady Fitzgerald, who died an Irish 
Sister of Charity. Mr Gladstone has just said in Tlie Speaker : ** I am 
disposed to think that ladies ought not to be named in print without 
their previous consent." This does not apply in the present case. The 
subjects of these sketches and funeral words are chiefly English men 

Notes on New Books.. ,109 

iind women who have died within the last score of years : Sir Charles 
Tempest, Charles Langdale, Charles Weld, Sir Edward Vavasour, 
♦ tc Lady Georgiana Fullefton, of course, finds a place ; and with her 
tae Marchioness of Lothian, Lady Herries, Mrs Devas, and a Franciscan 
Nun, Mother Magdalen. There are about twenty in all, with eighteen 
portraits. The volume is produced with great taste, in a type pleasant 
to read ; and it cannot fail to be welcomed as a permanent addition to 
4/Qr Catholic literature. We hope it will be properly introduced" to 
American readers also. 

2. Mr Aubrey de Vere will, we trust, forgive us if we promote the 
interests of a very good book by quoting his opinion of it as expressed 
in a private note. The book is Coventry Patmore's recently publishe<l 
essays, '* Priuciple in Art, etc," in wliich The Spectator says ** there is 
a pithy wisdom that reminds us of Bacou, and there is, too, in large 
laeasure, a gift which Bacon lacked— spiritual insight;'* while Th$ 
Saturday Review says that ** Mr Patmore excels in short aud pithy 
sayings, apophthegms which take fancy captive and linger in the 
memory." Mr de Yere writes : ** I have been reading with great 
admiration Coventry Patmore's new work. It seems to me decidedly 
:he best work we have seen for many years on the philosophy of 
poetry. It is full of profound insight and penetration, happily mingled 
with great good sense. Its style is not less remarkable. Besides all 
that it exjMresHes, it is full of passages of fine suggestion^ and shows how 
instructive short essays may be where condensation is forced upon the 
author. Everywhere it rests upon principles deep aud true, not ou 
rhetoric ; and it goes direct into the heart of the subject treated. Its 
>tyle too is admirable — a happy union of long and short sentences, the 
long ones being always steered safely along their winding course, and 
the meaning always advancing in volume as the sentence makes 
progress. It abounds also in felicitous and therefore memorable ex- 
prtefeions, and singularly unites subtlety of thought witii clearness. It 
is a work capable of being of the very highest use to our young Irish 
pjj«t8 and poetesses, in whom I am always much interested. It might 
prevent the misapplication of much ability and the wise development 
of powers otherwise fated to run to waste." Mr de Yere goes on to 
eipress a wish that this w<irk should be adequately noticed in our 
Magazine. We have almost done so already by venturing to print, 
without any permission, what Mr de Yere himself wrote without the 
slightest idea of publication. 

3. Messrs Gay, Brothers, of New York, have brought out a vast 
collection of ** The Poetry and fcsong of Ireland " in a very ornamental 
volume, with a large number of portraits, and short biographical 

110 The Irkh Monthly. 

sketches of nearly all the poets represented. It is not long since w» 
recommended to our readers Mr Daniel Connolly's " Household 
library of Irish Poets" ; and here comei to us from the same New 
York another large tome devoted to the same subject. They difEer 
^7idely, however, in their contents ; and we shall soon take occasion to 
(compare the points in which one has the advantage over the other. 
The present work is the second edition, greatly enlarged, of a collec- 
1 ion edited by John Boyle O'Eeilly. We shall return to it again. 

4. Another very large and handsome volume is " The Story of the 
Irish in Boston," edited and compiled by Mr James Bernard GuUen, 
and published in luxurious style by the firm of which Mr Cullen is the 
head. Every incident and every person linking together Boston and 
the Irish race has been sought out with enthusiastic diligence ; and 
sketches and portraits are given of all the distinguished Irishmen and 
Irish women connected with Boston. It is an interesting, and, in many^ 
respects, an amazing book. We intend, with all due acknowledgment, 
to draw on its abundant stores for biographical particulars about a 
great many of our Irish race. 

5. To attempt a review of " The Review of Reviews" would be to 
carry reviewing too far ; but we feel bound to offer a welcome to No. 1, 
both for its own sake, and for the promise it holds forth for the future 
of this marvellous sixpenceworth. One item of the first number, in 
which it has the advantage over its successors, is the reproduction in 
fac simile of autograph letters of a great many of the most distinguished 
men of the day. The most talked-about book just at present is Lady 
(K Fullerton's first novel Ellen Middleton; the most talked-about man 
is Mr Stanley. This book and this career are condensed by Mr Stead 
with admirable skill, so as to satisfy the curiosity of most people ; and 
these are only two of the chief dislies in a very generous and various 
menu. A yearly volume of 7%e Review of Reviews^ well indexed, will 
be a treasure-house of contemporary literature and of information of 
aU kinds. 

6. Miss Mary Catherine Crowley is rapidly acquiring a high repu- 
tation as a writer of stories for children. In an interesting sketch of 
her given in a work which we have just commended to our readers, 
**The Irish in Boston" — a sketch marked by initials which we are 
glad to identify as those of Miss Katherine Conway, according to our 
usual policy of unveiling anonymities — we find that Miss Crowley's 
literary activity is very great and very various ; but the department 
in which she is most favourably known is that of children's stories. 
We were able last year to give a cordial welcome to her " Merry 

Notes on New Books. Ill 

Hearts and True ;" and now another too bright-covered book contains 
*• Happy-Go-Luckj, and Other Stories '* (New York : D. & J. Sadlier 
And Co.). Among the Pres^ notices at the end, we notice this Maga- 
zine quoted as saying of the previous volume : " There are just half 
a dozen stories in this handsome quarto, with its big type, and cover 
of red and gold." This holds good precisely of Miss Crowley's new 
book, all except the colour of the binding of the particular copy that 
lies before us. The style is as bright as the cover, and the incidents 
as nomerouB as the pages. We hope this good book will make its 
"way into a great many Irish libraries. 

7. Mr T. J. Livesey has translated very well from the German, 
** Flowers from the Catholic Kindergarten, or Stories of the Child- 
hood of the Saints" by Father Hattler, S.J. (London : Burns & Gates). 
Some thirty chapters of holy anecdotes, not only about the young 
saints who never grew old, but also about the early days of old saints 
who once were young. The book is brightened with many pictures ; 
but it needed no such help to attract youthful eyes and to move 
youthful hearts. 

8. " The Light of Eeason," by Sebastian Wynell Mayow (London : 
Keg;an, Paul, Trench & Co.), is a solid and orthodox treatise on the 
fundamental truths of the existence of God and the divine revelation. 
In this age, in England and in the United States, such dissertations 
must be translated out of the language of theology. An examination 
of such a treatise would be out of place in our pages ; but we can 
guarantee the excellent spirit in which it is written, and express our 
belief that it will be of use in giving peace to many a doubting soul. 

9. A very different book comes next on our list : ** Miss Peggy 
(^Dillon, or, the Irish Critic, by Viola Walda (Dublin : M. H. GiU 
and Son). It is a lively attack on the weaknesses especially of the 
writer's fellow-countrywomen. We have not been very much im- 
pressed by Miss Walda's reflections, — such of them as we have read 
in our book-tasting capacity. 

iO. ''Songs in a Minor Key: a Small Volume of Verse." By 
William C. HaU (Dublin : Sealy, Bryers & Walker). This is one of 
the most tasteful pieces of Dublin typography that we have ever seen. 
There is a certain refinement in the poet's choice of themes, and even 
in his diction ; but we cannot find anything to praise very warmly in 
the poems themselves. 

11. " The Pacific Coast Catholic Almanac" (San Francisco : Diepen- 

112 The Irish Monthly. 

brock and Co.) is excellent. The literary matter is varied and interest- 
ing ; and the illustrations remarkably well done, especially the 
portraits. In some respects it rivals the admirable " Catholic Family- 
Annual" (New York : Catholic Publication Society), which is far the 
best thing of the kind in the English language. The handsome and 
valuable volume brought out in London by the Catholic Truth Society 
bears almost the same name, but it is a work of a different kind. It, 
too, is excellent in its way, and does great credit to Mr James Britten 
and all others concerned in it. 

12. We can only call attention to the previous collection of " The 
Prose Writings of Thomas Davis, edited, with an Introduction, by T. 
W. Bolleston," which forms a recent volume of the wonderful Shilling 
( Jamelot Series (London : Walter Scott). This book must sell by the 
thousand. It is produced admirably. The most striking thing in the 
whole collection seems to be the very first — the Address to the Dublin 
Historical Society in 1 840. This book will increase the welcome for 
" The Life and Letters of Thomas Davis," by Sir Charles Gavan Duffy, 
which is now passing through the press. 

13. The Catholic Truth Society has added to its long^ list of 
publications three more of Father Gerard's thoroughly delightful 
papers on Nationtil History in connection with Science and Faith. It 
has also issued penny selections from the famous Fioretti of St. 
Francis. With that beloved name we may link " The Franciscan 
Treasury," (Dublin : James Duffy and Son). It is a very beautiful 
(tollection of prayers and devotions edited by Father JarlathPrendergast^ 

14. Messrs. M. H. Gill and Son have issued a shilling edition of 
** The Poet's Purgatory, and other Poems" by Father H. I. D. Eyder, 
of the Oratory. ' It is worth a great many of the volumes of " Recent 
Terse" criticised occasionally in The Atlisnaum and The Academtf, 

15. At the last moment we receive two important Addresses on the 
Irish University Question, by the Most Reverend Dr. Walsh, Arch- 
bishop of Dublin, reprinted (and remarkably well printed) in a 
\\ imphlet of a hundred pages. Messrs. M. H. Gill and Son are the 

MARCH, 1890, 



Sylvia's home. • 

THE evening sun was setting ; the wide prairies, with their herds 
of cattle, the paddocks, and the peaks of the distant mountains, 
wore bathed in its gold-red light. 

In the verandah of a small house in the Australian Bush sat a 
joong roj^n of five or six-and-twenty. He was tall and strongly built. 
His shoulders were broad ; his limbs long and muscular. He was not 
handsome ; but he was a gentleman ; and there was something very 
attractive in the earnest glance of his dark eyes, and the kindly 
expression of his sunburnt face. 

At his knee, her rosy mouth wreathed with happy smiles, her little 
fat hands clasping his, stood a baby-girl with fair curling hair, and 
akin of lily whiteness. The young man looked at her with mucli 
affection, and pressed his lips to her chubby cheeks. 

** My darling ! " he said, ** it is nearly time for my sweet Sylvia 
to go to bed." 

The child pulled at his watch-chain, and stamped her little foot. 

" No, no ! " she cried. 

*' Tes, yes. It is late. The calves and chickens are all in bed, 
and Sylvia must go, too." 

But baby frowned. 

" No, no; fo*, fo*," she said imploringly. " Me want fo^ fo." 

** Then off you go," he answered, laughing. '' Go and gather 
some flowers if you like. I am too lazy to stir. Bun along and bring 
aome to papa." 

Vol. XVIII. No. 201. 68 

114 The Irish Monthly. 

Sylvia dropped tlie chain, and with a crow of delight toddled to the 
other side of the verandah, where the morning glories twined their 
gracef ol stems round the battered posts. Baising herself on tip-toe, 
she tried to reach the pretty blossoms. But they grew too high ; and 
as she stretched above her head, she lost her balance, and rolled over 
on the floor. She uttered a loud cry, and big tears hopped down her 

•* Poor little mite, you have indeed fallen low,'' cried her father, 
rushing forward and catching her in his arms. '' But you must be 
plucky, dear, and not cry so easily. See, papa will give you the 
flowers. So dry your eyes, my pet." 

He gathered a few glories, and placed them in her hands. 

^^ Papa dea, papa dea, oh, oo dea," whispered Sylvia softly ; and 
nestling up to him, she kissed and patted his face. He pressed her 
lovingly to his breast, and warmly returned her caress. 

" My little girl must be brave. It is not good to cry so easily." 

The child smiled through her tears. 

** Me dood now, wery dood." 

" That is right. And now my pet really must go to bed. ' Anne ! " 

A door opened, and a neat-looking young woman entered the 

" Tes, sir. Shall I take Miss Sylvia?" she asked. ** It is past her 
usual bed-time." 

"Yes, take her, please. She is tired and sleepy. And when she 
is in bed, Anne, I should like to speak to you. I have something 
important to ask you." 

" Very well, sir. Come, Miss Sylvia." 

The child sprang into her arms, laughing and crowing with delight. 

** Night, night, papa," she cried, shaking her little hand. "Night, 

Her father kissed her again. "Good night, darling; and goto 
sleep quickly, for I want nurse." 

**rU be back very soon, sir," replied Anne. " She's never long 
about going to sleep." 

As the baby disappeared, and the last sound of her merry prattle 
died away, the young man sighed heavily, and flung himself down 
upon a chair. 

"Poor darling! It will be hard to part with her. She grows 
more engag^g, more winning, every day. It will be a sad trial to 
send her away, But it must be done — it must be done." 

He sighed again. His head sank upon his breast, and he became 
lost in thought. 

George Atherstone was the only son of an English baronet, and 

A Striking Contrast 115 

lieir to a fine old place, and a considerable amount of property in Lan- 

<aaliiTe. But, unfortunately, the Atkerstones had been fast-living, 

extravagant people, and when George's father succeeded to the title 

and estates, he found the latter heavily mortgaged, and yielding an 

inoome upon which it was impossible to live in anything like the style 

l)efitting his rank. For himself, he was not. ambitious ; but he was 

anxious that his son should one day pay off all debts, and take his 

place amongst the well-to-do. By going into trade he believed he 

mi^ht accomplish this, and when George left college he told him his 

plans, and implored him to enter a merchant's office. But the young 

man would not listen to his prayers. He was not anxious to make 

money. He could not bear the drudgery of the city. His tastes did 

not lie that way. He loved a free, roving life, and longed to see the 

world. His father was bitterly disappointed, and begged him to 

ojnsider the matter well. But George was firm. So, finding him bent 

on following his own will, Sir Eustace gave him what money he could 

spare, and allowed him to go where he would. The sum was not 

large, but with it the young man was well pleased, and certain of 

turning it to good account in the distant land to which he was going. 

80 he thanked his father warmly, said good-bye to his mother and 

friends, and sailed for Australia. ' 

On board ship he met Sylvia Kenyon, daughter of an Australian 
settler. She was just eighteen, with pale gold hair, a delicate com- 
plexion, and soft, appealing blue eyes. She was an interesting 
companion, a sympathetic friend; and in a few days George 
Atherstone grew to love her very dearly. Sylvia soon returned his 
affection with all the ardour of her fresh young nature ; and they 
became engaged. The marriage was solemnized some six weeks later 
at Melbourne, and the happy couple started at once for the Bush. 

The home to which George Atherstone carried his bride was pretty 
enough in its way, but lonely, and isolated from other habitations. 
The house was old, and had been patched and repaired on all sides. 
The roof was covered with sheets of bark, held down by large wooden 
girders. A huge vine spread its leafy branches over the walls, tenderly 
eiivering their nakedness and defects. A wide verandah ran along 
the whole front of the dwelling, and was thickly grown with gorgeous 
creepers. Below this was a flower garden, its beds bright with many 
flowers. A row of broad-leaved tropical plants surrounded the little 
enclosure, where some of the trees had been felled and stumped, whilst 
others had been spared for shade and effect. Then, beyond, as far as 
eye could see, were vast prairies, with herds of cattle grazing quietly, 
or lying camped under the trees, and a beautiful chain of blue-poaked 
mountains stretching away in the distance. 

116 The Irish Monthly. 

Within the hoiise there was but a small supply of anything like- 
luxury. The walls were coTered with illustrations from pictorial 
papers. The furniture was scanty, and of the poorest description. 
But when 8ylvia hung up the white mosquito curtains, and spread 
about the many dainty objects she had brought with her from 
England ; when she filled her bowls with flowers, and the comers of 
her rooms with plants and ferns, the place improved rapidly, and very 
soon assumed a comfortable and homely aspect. 

The first year of their married life passed quickly by. And in 
spite of many privations, and enforced isolation from their friends, 
the young people were extremely happy. George was hard-working 
and industrious. Sylvia had plenty of occupation, delighted in her 
house, and felt proud of her big, kind husband. The free country life 
suited them both ; they cared nothing for society, and had little to 
trouble or annoy them. 

But all too soon there came a change. Sylvia grew delicate. She 
longed for a female friend ; and as George was obliged to leave her by 
herself for hours together, while he looked after his sheep, or rode 
over his farm, she became lonely and discontented. 
• Then young Atherstone and a neighbouring selector quarrelled 
about a piece of land that the latter wished to seize and make his 
own. George was furious ; but as he had no money to buy 
the field, he was obliged to let it go. This incident caused 
much annoyance and irritation, and peace seemed banished from 
the homestead. Then baby Sylvia was born ; and for a time 
Atherstone forgot all outside worries in the joy of possessing 
his little daughter. The happy mother was no longer lonely, 
and soon grew strong again. The quarrelsome selector became 
friendly, and offered to give back the land at a moderate price. This 
pleased George, and he wrote home for money. The man promised to 
wait ; and everything looked bright once more, when suddenly the 
young wife caught a fever, and after a short illness expired in h^r 
husband's arms. George was wild with grief, and for some time could 
not bear to look upon his child. But by degrees his heart warmed to 
the Little creature ; and he soon came to love her with tenderness and 

George Atherstone had, as we know, gone - to Australia much 
against his father's will ; and every mail brought letters imploring 
him to return. But the young man was obstinate. The life in the 
Bush suited him best. He was happy, so was his wife. He would 
not go back to England. But after Sylvia's death everything was 
changed. The little house felt lonely. His home was not what it had 
been ; and he was strongly tempted to leave it all, and set sail for 

A Striking Contrast, 117 

£arope. The temptation, howeyer, did not last long. Tlie idea of 
settling down to a humdrum life in London or Lancashire, was most 
distasteful to him ; and he soon dismissed it from his mind. He would 
take change of air and scene out in Australia. So there and then he 
re9<)lTed to leave his present abode, and travel farther into the country. 

Then came another letter from his father. 

** I am growing old, George," he wrote. " My wife, my children, 
are aU dead — but you. Come home, my son— come home. I am rich 
now. My money troubles are at an end. 1 told you in my last letter 
that there was question of running a railway through the estate, at 
the bottom of the home-park. This has been done, and the com- 
pensation given by the company is so large that 1 have been able to 
pay o£E all debts and mortgages. Then the railway coming so close 
haa enhanced the value of my property. 1 have built new houses, 
for which I receive high rents promptly paid. So, my son, I wish you 
to come home. You may now live as you please — go where you 
choose. Society, the best London can supply, will receive you with 
open arms, and your father will welcome you gladly. For wealth has 
not brought the happiness 1 expected. All my dear ones are gone. 
I long for somethiDg, some child of my own to love. And yet from 
what you have written me so often, I fear even this will not tempt you 
from your life of freedom. Therefore, 1 pray you — I implore — if you 
cumot, will not come youself, send me your child. The Australian 
Bush is not a fitting place for a tender girl, the daughter of a family 
like ours. So if you cannot yet bear the trammels of civilization, if 
jon still prefer a roving existence to your home, send little Sylvia to 
comfort and console me." 

When he first read this, George was indignant. ** Part with my 
child ! No, never — that I could not do. Let her grow up without 
knowing me — without loving me — I could not — i could not. And to 
go home is impossible. I could not endure life in England. 

'* Society ! Bah ! it would stifle me. I shall stay as I am. The 
freedom here suits me to perfection. For many years yet Europe 
shall not see me, or Sylvia." 

But when he thought of his lonely father, of his anxiety to have 
«ome one to love and comfort him in his old age ; when he considered 
the dif&culties of his own position, the many dangers he might 
encounter in the wilder regions of the Bush, he resolved to grant the 
latter part of the old man's request, and send his daughter home. 

" 1 cannot do better after all," he reflected. " My darling will be 
<afe, well taken care of. Her presence will make up for my absence ; 
her affection atone for my neglect. Next year, perhaps, if all goea 
well, I may take a run over to London to see her." 

.118 Tlie Irish Mmithly. 

Accordingly, a letter was written and despatched to Sir Eustace 
Atherstone, announcing his grand-daughter's speedy arrival. 

But after this things went on as before. George put off the evil 
hour, and lingered on amongst the flowers, his little one at his knee. 
The thought of parting with her was anguish, and he kept it away 
from him as long as possible. 

At last he heard of an exploring party going far into the country, 
and he grew feverishly anxious to join it. Before he could do so, 
however, it was necessary to place his child in sa^ keeping. He could 
not take her with him, nor could he leave her alone in the Bush. He 
decided, therefore, to send her without further delay to England. 
But who was to take her ? He had so few friends. He knew of no 
one going to Europe. What was to be done ? Here was a dilemma 
that had not occurred to him before. And as poor little Sylvia fell in 
trying to reach the morning glories, he suddenly realized what a help- 
less atom she was. 

"If Anne would go with her, all would be well," he said, as he 
gazed out over the thick short couch grass, green with summer thunder 
storms. " I have watched her well, as she sat there, hour after hour, 
with my darling in her lap, or played with her round the verandah, 
and she has always seemed kind, watchful and trustworthy. My dear 
wife loved her. Sylvia adores her. I feel I might trust her ; if only 
she would go. But she may have friends that will refuse to part with 
her. She may " 

" You wished to speak to me, sir. Baby is asleep, so I came at once.'^ 

George looked up at the speaker, and gravely noted every point of 
her form and face. The survey pleased him. She was exactly what 
he thought : strong and well-built, neither too old nor too young. 
She had a fresh, wholesome complexion, a kindly smile, and an affec- 
tionate motherly expression. " She will do, I think ; and, if she will 
only consent to go, I may safely trust my dai'ling to her care," flashed 
quickly through his mind as he bade the woman sit down. 

" Anne," he said gently, " you are very fond of little Sylvia, I 

Anne's colour deepened ; her eyes grew bright. 

" Fond of her ? I love her as if she was my own, Mr. Atherstone. 
I loved her sweet mother, and on her death-bed she gave her to me, 
saying : * Anne, you have been a faithful servant, be true to my child;, 
never leave her — take care of her and love her.' I vowed to do it,^ 
and do it I will as long as I live." 

George looked at her gratefully. ** Thank you. You are a good 
woman, and — and-^your words, your manner, encourage me to ask 
you a favour." 

A Striking Contrast. 119 

•* A faTOur ! Oh, sir, it is granted before you ask it. There isr 
nothing I would not do for you and Miss Sylvia." 

" Then will you be ready to undertake a long journey to please 
me? Will you leave your friends in Australia and go to England by 
the next steamer from Melbourne ? " 

Anne startled and turned pale. 

"To England! Oh, Mr. Atherstone, that is a long, long way; 
and what would my little pet do without me ?" 

" I do not mean you to go alone. Sylvia shall go with you." 

"Sylvia go with me! Would you— oh, sir, would you part with 
ycmr child?" 

" Yes, Anne, I must. But only for a time. My father is lonely, 
and implores me to send her to him. I am going away from here — 
fax up country — ^and I cannot take Baby with me. So I have resolved 
to send her home. Will you go with her ? If you do, your wages 
shall be doubled. I will bind my father to keep you with my child 
always. No matter what turns up, he must not part with you or 
disiniss you from his service. Will these conditions suit you ? Will 
you take charge of Baby Sylvia ? " 

Anne turned her head aside. Tears gathered in her eyes, and her 
lips trembled with emotion. 

** My dear master," she stammered presently, "you are too good. 
Eren if I did not love the child as dearly as I do, I would feel bound 
to accept your generous offer, for I have a sick mother dependent on 
me for her entire support, and I am anxious to earn all the money I 

" Then you will take my child to England ? " 

" Indeed, I will. When and how you please. And believe me, 
sir, my whole life and strength will be devoted to her, not because of 
jour generosity, but because I love her, the treasure confided to me 
by my dying mistress." 

George grasped her hand, and shook it warmly. 

"Thank you, Anne — thank you. You are, indeed, a good and 
faithful servant." 

" I trust I am, sir," she said earnestly. " And if ever I seem to 
fail in my duty to you or your child, it will not be my fault. I shall 
never do so of my own free will." 

" I believe you. I have full confidence in you.*' 

"Thank you, sir." 

And Anne courtseyed and withdrew. 

120 The Irish Monthly. 


Sylvia's escort. 

On a hot snmmer day, about a week later, Oeorge Atherstone 
strolled leisurely down Burke street. He, Baby Sylvia, and Anne the 
faithful nurse, had arrived in Melbourne the evening before. 

Atherstone had not visited the metropolis of Victoria since the 
happy day of his marriage ; and he felt sad and lonely as he wended 
his way through the busy streets, and recognised the various points of 
interest that he had seen for the first time in company with his 
beloved Sylvia. He gazed at the imposing piles of masonry, churches, 
institutes and warehouses, and wondered at the groups of humble 
little shops, devoted to the sale of fruit, toys and sugar-plums, that 
intervene, and are all that remain of the early shanty days of 
Melbourne. He admired the lofty dome of Messrs. Goldsborough 
and Co.'s wool palace, and then thought joyfully that very soon he 
should leave all this glare and magnificence, this push tind bustle, to 
rbtum to the delightful solitude of the Buinh. 

As he turned down Collins street on his way to his hotel, he heard 
a quick step close behind, and someone called him by his name. He 
looked round in surprise ; for in all this busy crowd he did not 
expect to meet a single acquaintance. 

An elderly man with a care-worn face, thin and shrunken in form 
and figure, approached him eagerly, and held out his hand. 

** My dear Atherstone, I am glad to see you. You look remarkably 

** Neil ! Can it really be you ? " 

'* Yes, I do not wonder at your not knowing me. I am much 
changed, Atherstone." 

" Changed ! I should just think you were. "What have you been 
doing to yourself ? " 

** Nothing. But the fates have been against me. Everything 
has gone wrong with me. I have sold my house and land, and am 
going back to England." 
*' Is that wise?" 

** I am not sure that it is. But my wife is eager to go." 
** Your wife — is she in Melbourne ? " 

'* Yes. She and my two children are at a small hotel just out of 
Bourke street. We sail for England to-morrow." 

** My dear Neil," cried George, " I am glad. I was longing to 
meet a friend going in the Cimhria." 

A Striking Contrast. 121 

'* Are you coming then ? " 

" No. I do not care to return to Europe at present. But I am 
sending my little girl home to my father." 

** My poor fellow, have you then lost your pretty wife ? " 

** Yes, she is dead. My darling died last year," and his voice 
grew low and husky. '^ She is a terrihle loss to me and the little one." 

•* I am sure of it. I feel for you extremely," said Neil, ** and if 
there is anything that my wife and I can do, pray tell us and we shall 
be delighted io do it." 

" Thank you, you are very kind. There is not much to be done. 
But if Mrs. Neil would look after Baby a little " 

" My dear fellow, of course she will, with the greatest pleasure. 
What sort of person is your nurse ? " 

. '* A most estimable person, and I can trust her * thoroughly. But 
it would be a great happiness for me to know that during the voyage 
mj darling had a lady to be kind to her, and little friends to play 

" Of course ; and we shall take splendid care of her. My Madge 
lA like a second mother to her small sister Dora. She will be the same 
-to jour child. How old is she ? " 

** Two years and a month or so." 

** Just Dora's age. They'll be companions for each other." 

Gecirge laughed. 

" They'll probably pull each other's hair. Is Madge much older? " 

" Oh, yes. Madge is twelve. The wisest little woman in the 
world. Her mother would trust her over the whole universe with 
little Dora. Come along and see them. My wife will be pleased to have 
a talk with yon. But she'll be deeply grieved to hear of Mrs Ather- 
stone's death. Dear me ! She was a winsome creature. Well, well, 
my dear fellow," continued Mr. Neil sighing, ^Hhere are many things 
worse than death. It has been a trial, a great trial, to you to lose 
3'oar darling wife. But believe me, I have sufEered terribly in seeing 
mine, the beautiful girl I loved grow thin, and pale, lose her health 
and spirits, and all because of my misfortunes and bad luck." 

OeoTge grasped his hand, and shook it warmly. 

'* I am sorry you had so much trouble, very sony. But I trust 
you may do better in England. I'll give you a letter to my father. 
For my sake he will find something for you to do. He is in want of an 
agent, I know, and he will surely give you a trial at my request. It 
is a good post, and would suit you admirably." 

•* God bless you, Atherstone. Your words fill me with hope. It 
was a wonderful chance my meeting you to-day." 

*' It was. But a still greater that you should be going home in the 

122 The Irish Mmthly. 

same steamer as my Sylvia. Your fate is in her hands. She will plead 
for you with grandfather. Kindness to her will be a powerful pass- 
port to his favour.** 

" Then my life will be a brighter one than I ever hoped for ; for 
there is nothing that can be done for your child that I shall not do. 
But here we are at our hotel. I hope you don't object to stairs, for 
we have to mount a good many. 1*11 lead the way." 

The stair-case was narrow and steep ; and the room into which 
the two gentlemen walked unannounced was small and dark. The 
blinds were drawn down to keep out the sun, and so close was*the day 
that the white mosquito curtains were undisturbed by the breeze, 
alt&ough all the windows were wide open. Trunks of every shape and 
size were ranged round the walls ; and the chairs and sofas were 
strewn with garments large and small. There was no one visible. But 
suddenly, from behind a tall screen, there rose the sweet, frei^ voice 
of a child, singing a pretty lullaby — 

"Oh, huah thee, my baby. 
Thy Biro was a knight, 
Thy mother a lady, 
Both gentle and bright.** 

** There, that*s my Madge," whispered Mr. Neil. "Just peep 
round, and see how she is taking care of her sister.** 

George did as desired, and was charmed with the picture that he 
saw before him. 

On* a low seat, her long, well -shaped legs, and neatly shod feet, 
stretched out before her on the floor, sat Madge. She wore a white 
cotton frock, with short sleeves and low neck. Her brown hair, which 
was thick and wavy, was tossed back from her face without comb or 
ribbon to confine it, and hung loosely .over her shoulders. On hor 
knee, her eyes closed, but her lips smiling, lay a beautiful child of 
about two years old. 

" Gk) to sleep, darling ; my Dora must go to sleep,** cried Madge, 
interrupting her song to remonstrate with little wide-awake. " Poor 
Sissy has work to do. So you must go to sleep.** 

The baby laughed and pulled her sister's hair. Madge hugged 
her to her breast and covered her with kisses. 

"You see,'* said Mr. Neil, "Madge has the temper of an angel. 
No matter how that child torments her, she is always kind. She has 
a heart of gold, and a wise little head of her own.'* 

Before George had time to answer, the baby caught sight of her 
father, and struggling oS. her sister's knee, ran forward to meet him. 

A Striking Contract, ' ^ 125 

'* Naughty Dora, not to go to sleep," he cried, tossing her in the 
air. '< Madge ought to whip you." 

Madge gare a groan of horror, and sprang to her feet. 

" Oh, father, what an idea! I wouldn't touch the darling for the 

'' I should think not," he answered gaily. *' I know you love our 
pet too dearly for that. But you must not spoil her." 

''You are more likely to do that, father," said Madge gravely. 

"Perhaps so. But it would not be wonderful if we all spoiled her. 
Isn't she a beauty, Atherstoije ? " 

*'8he certainly is," said George warmly. " I don't think I ever 
saw such a pretty child." • 

" What ? Not even your own ? " 

" Not even my own. Sylvia is fair and dainty looking. But this 
child is a beautiful little creature." 

" So she IS," cried the delighted father, "and we are all very proud 
of her. Aren't we, Madge ? " 

'' I am quite sure you are," said Atherstone, " and I hear you are 
a first-rate little mother in your way, Miss Madge. Now my poor 
Baby is going to England in the same steamer with you. Will you 
be good to her ? She is a lonely bairn, and will have neither father 
nor mother to look after her." 

Madge raised her large grey eyes to his face, and' looking at him 
earnestly, said : 

" I will be kind to her. She shall be another little sister. But 
are you not afraid to send her away from you ? " 

'* Afraid ? Oh, no. There is nothing to fear." 

"Now, Madge, don't make us nervous," cried her father. **The 
fact is, Atherstone, with all her wisdom, my little girl is a bit of a 
coward. She hates the sea." 

Madge shivered slightly. 

" I don't like long journeys," she said. " And I don't want to go 
to England. I like Australia best." 

" So do I," answered Qeorge. " But I suppose your father has 
good reasons for going." 

The child clasped her hands tightly together ; and as Mr. Neil 
moved away to the window with Dora, she whispered sadly : 

" He thinks he'll get work to do, and earn money there. But 
he'U never get it, poor father — never. Here comes my mother. So, 
haah, not a word to alarm her." And putting her finger to her lip, 
she went after Dora, took her in her arms, and carried her out of the 

" What a strange child," thought Qeorge. " She's certainly old 

124 . , * The Irkh Monthly. 

beyond her years. And as her father says, she might safely be 
trusted to take care of her baby sister. She is kind and gentle, and 
seems wonderfully grave and sedate." 

" Atherstone, here is my wife,*' said Neil, in a low voice. " You 
will find her much changed. But do not pretend to notice it." 

George bowed his head to show that he understood, and went for- 
ward to meet Mrs. Neil. He looked at her smilingly ; but as he put 
his hand in hers, he could scarcely conceal the sorrow he felt at the 
terrible change that had taken place in her since he had last seen her 
^our years before. Could this wan, thiu creature be the fine buxom 
woman, who had been the life and soul of the company on board ship? 
C(fuld this nervous, shrinking lady be the dashing, merry Mrs. Neil, 
who had chaperoned his Sylvia, smoothed away all difficulties, and 
hastened his marriage ? 

"We have had many troubles, Mr. Atherstone," she said, and her 
voice trembled as she spoke. ** I daresay my husband has told you." 

** Yes. But there is a good time coming," cried George eagerly, 
** when you reach England." 

*'Ah! If we ever do." 

"My dear lady," George laughed nervously, "Pray do not sug- 
gest such a thing. No wonder the child is frigljitened at the idea of 
the long journey," he thought. "With such a mother, good heavens, 
it is not extraordinary she should be prematurely old." 

"I suggest nothing," said Mrs. Neil slowly. "I long to be off — 
to leave this hated country. I have known constant grinding sorrow 
and anxiety ever since my return to it, the year you were married. 
But you, too, have been in trouble. I hear your sweet young wife is 
dead. Why was she taken, I wonder, whilst I, a useless, worthless 
invalid, have been left as a burthen to my poor unfortunate husband?" 

" Kate ! " cried Neil reproachfully, " My darling, do not talk so. 
Weak and delicate as you are, you have been my comfort." 

" No, no, John; you would have beea far bettet without me. I 
have but increased your troubles." 

" Kate, Kate, I know not what to say to you." And, wringing his 
hands, the poor husband turned away. 

" You have a child, Mr. Atherstone," she remarked presently. 
" And she is coming with us to England. You look surprised. But 
I was in the adjoining room ; the folding doors are slightly open, and 
I heard all you said to Madge. Why are you sending her home ? " 

" To comfort my father, who is lonely." 

" Quite right. He has grown rich, I hear. She will be his heiress." 

" I never thought of that," said George smiling. " But I suppose 
I, his son, will come first. Sylvia will surely come after me." 

A Striking Contrast . 125' 

** Kist or seeond it matters little," she answered gloomily. "She 
will be rich — an heiress — a somebody, whilst my darling, my 
beaatifol Dorothy, will be a pauper. Ah, Mr. Atherstone, what a 
contrast will be their lot in life ! A striking, a cruel contrast." 

^* Biches do not always mean happiness, Mrs Neil. My Sylvia 
win hare money; but your Dora will have a mother to love and 
cherish her." 

*' Alas, my life is imcertain — a mere question of time, Mr. 
Atherstone. My heart" 

'* Mamma, dear, you have talked enough ; Mr. Atherstone will 
excuse you. You must come and rest now." And little twelve-j ear- 
old Madge laid her hand on her mother's shoulder, and looked as 
though she meant to be obeyed. 

*• Yes, dearest, I am coming," said Mrs Neil meekly. " Mr. Ather- 
stone, this child is my greatest comfort. And should anything happen 
to me on this voyage, she will look after your little one, and"^— 

•* Mother, Mother, do not talk so wildly." 

" It is not wild, dear. It's only— only — But good-bye till to- 
morrow, my friend. I am tired, I must rest." 

And leaning on her daughter's arm, she went slowly from th& 

George gazed after them, with eyes full of compassion. 

" Is it not sad to see her thus ? " asked Neil in broken accents. 
'^ She who was once so strong and full of life." 

** It is, it is," cried George. ** But do not fret, my poor friend. I 
am sure this sea journey will restore her, make her all right." 

"I hope so, I trust so. This journey must and will do her good. 
It will give us all new life, please God, and end our troubles." 



When early next day George Atherstone stepped on board the- 
Cimhria^ with his little daughter in his arms, he found that Mr. Neil 
aod his family were already there, and had taken possession of their 

Mrs. Neil was not visible ; and George rejoiced not a little at her 
absence, for her gloomy nervousness affected him unpleasantly. 

126 The Irish Monthly. 

Madge and Dora were walking up and down the promenade deck, 
watching with much interest all that was going on. When Madge 
saw Atherstone and his child, she smiled, and taking her sister's hand 
went to meet him. 

" Dora,'* she said, " here is a friend for you, a dear little girl to 
play with." 

She took Sylvia from her father, kissed her tenderly, and put her 
down beside Dora. 

The two children stared at each other for a moment, then Sylvia 
ran forward, put her rosy lips to Dora's, and stroked her curling 

" Oh, you dea," she cried. *' You pitty dea ! " 

"Sylvia has an eye for beauty," said George smiling. '* I think 
they will be friends." 

"Yes, I am sure they will," said Madge. " Sylvia looks a sweet 
little creature, and Dora, .though rather passionate, is a loving, affec- 
tionate child." 

^*I am sure she is, and you are kindness itself. Anne," he said, 
turning to the nurse, who stood behind him, armed with packages 
and wraps. *^ This is Miss Madge Neil. Her father is an old friend 
of mine ; and I wish Baby to be with her and her sister as much as 

"Very well, sir," replied Anne, whose eyes were red with much 
weeping. "It will be pleasant for me to have friends of yours on 

" And it will be nice for me to have you," said Madge with a frank 
smile. " Mother is an invalid, and will be almost always in her 

" That is sad for you. But I trust she will soon grow stronger," 
said Geofge kindly. " I hope nurse and Baby may have a cabin near 

" They are next to us," she replied. " Will you leave Sylvia with 
me, and take Anne down to see where she is ? She had better get the 
berths ready and arrange all her parcels before we start." 

"Wise little woman, your advice is excellent. But I think I'll 
take my darling with me. Our moments together are precious now. 
Oome, Anne." 

Then lifting Baby Sylvia, he hugged her to his breast, and carried 
her down stairs. 

" And now, Anne," he said, when he had made all possible 
arrangements for his child's comfort, "take care of my darling. 
Watch her night and day, and see that she wants for nothing." 

" Trust me, sir," answered Anne with emotion. " I will do my 

A Striking ContrahL 127 

datj. Tour cliild will be more precious to me than my own life. Ill 
watch over her well." 

** I believe you will. And now, I think, you have all you require ? " 

" Tee, sir. Everything." 

'^ Yery well. And here is a letter for my father, with his address 
in full, leet by any chance he should be prevented meeting you. I 
h&Te telegraphed and written, but in case of accident it is well to have 
this with you. And here," taking a locket and chain from his neck, 
^' is a portrait of my dear wife. See, I will put it on Sylvia. Show it 
to my father, that he may know what my darling was like. But let 
the child wear it always." 

" Yes, sir. And I'll teach her to love her mother's memory." 

** Do. And may God bless you." 

A bell was heard above. Mr. Neil rushed to the cabin door. 

" Atherstone, you have barely time to get away. We are just off. 
Come along." 

•*God bless and protect you, my pet," cried George in broken 
accents. "Good-bye, my dear little Sylvia, my sweet child. Talk to 
her of me, Anne. Do not let her forget me." 

He pressed the little one to his heart once more, kissed her over 
and over again. Then rushing upstairs said a hasty good-bye to Mr. 
Neil and Madge, and hurried on shore. 

The gang-way was withdrawn, the anchor raised, the ropes 
pulled in, and the good ship Cimhria steamed out of the harbour. 

The next few 4&y8 were passed in the usual fashion on board ship. 
The wind was high ; the steamer pitched and rolled, and almost all 
the passengers were laid low. The decks were forsaken ; the dining- 
room but little frequented. After a time, things looked brighter. 
The wind went down ; the sun shone pleasantly ; and the handsome 
saloons, and comfortable seats on deck were filled with a gay company, 
anxious to enjoy life, and make their days on board the Cimhria pass 
as quickly as possible. 

One of the first to come forth from the seclusion of her cabin was 
Madge Neil. She had suffered much, and longed for a breath of 
fresh air. In the passage she met her father. 

"Well, my dear. I am glad tj see you," he cried, kissing her 
tenderly. '* These have been miserable days. How is your mother ? 
And my sweet Dora, how deed she seem ? " 

•• Mother and Dora are both much better, papa. They are asleep. 
Will you take me for a walk ? " 

" Certainly, dear. Come along." 

He drew his daughter's arm within his own ; an 1 they went up on 
deck together. 

128 The Irifih Monthly. 

About an hour later, Anne, looking as wliite as a ghost, came u{> 
the stairs carrying Sylvia on one arm, and Dora on the other. 

Madg^ flew to her side in an instant. 

'' How good of you to think of Dora, Anne. I thought she was 

'* Children don't sleep for ever any more than big people. Miss 
Madge," she answered pettishly. 

" Oh, Fm so sorry," began Madge. 

** You need not be. It was no trouble to bring her up, poor lamb. 
Perhaps the sea-breezes may ^o her and Miss Sylvia good. They've 
brought a fine colour to your cheeks." 

" Yes, have'nt they ? " cried Madge, kissing her baby sister. 
" I don't think I ever felt so well in my life. 1 positively love the sea 

" Well, well, I can't say as I do," replied Anne dolefully. " And 
oh, dear, England's a terrible way off." 

" Of course it is. Why, we have weeks and weeks before us yet." 

" Dear, dear ! How shall we ever get through it all ? I wish I'd 
never left Australia." 

Madge laughed merrily, and began to dance the little girls about 
on her knee. ** Poor Anne, but you'll soon change, I am sure. Why, 
look at me ! When I started, I was in such bad spirits. I hated going 
to England. I was afraid of the sea. I felt that something dreadful 
would happen to us if we left our home to wander aimlessly over 
Europe. I had a perfect horror of coming on board. But now" 

" You seem greatly changed, certainly. You look bright and 
merry. Just as if you had heard some very good news." 

Madge hid her face for a moment ; then uncovered it with a cry of 
" Here I am to the babies." 

They laughed and crowed, and called " Dain, dain." 

Their orders were obeyed ; and a lively game ensued. Then the 
little ones grew tired and rolled off her knee, on to the deck, wher& 
they sat blissfully content, munching a couple of hard biscuits. 

"What a pretty picture they make," said Madge." "I never 
saw such a pair of darlings. Both so lovely and yet such a contrast ; 
I hope they may always be friends." 

''That's not likely," replied Anne, shaking her head wisely. 
'' Your mother says their lives will be as great a contrast as their 
looks. Miss Sylvia is going to a splendid home. She will be a great 

'' Whilst my poor Dora's family is certainly not rich ; and she will 
never have any fortune, but her own bonnie face." 

'' And a right handsome one that will be. But I would not despair,. 

A Striking Contract. 129 

ICas Madge," saii Aane encouragingly. " There's many ups and 
downs in Kfe. And who knows what may happen yet ? Your p t's 
clerer. He may get on better than ev^er he did when he goes to 

" Yes, I am sure he wili. In fact I know ke will," cried the girl 
joyfully. *^ And that's the reason I looked as if I had heard good 
news. Because, I really had." 

" A very good reason too," answered Anne smiling. ** But what 
is the good news ? " 

" This. My father told it to me to-day, as we walked up and down 
the deck together. Mr. Atherstone is very fond of papa. He knows 
him to be good and clever, and he has given him a letter to his father, 
who is immensely rich, and has large estates, I don't exactly know 
where. But papa knows all about them. And Mr. Atherstone has 
^ked him to give x)apa a situation of some kind there — his agent, I 

" But wiU the old gentleman do so ? " 

" Of course lie will. He would do anything for his son. So you 
see, even if our Dora is never an heiress, she will be quite in a 
position to be Sylvia's friend." 

^* Certainly. And if their fathers love each other, it is only natural 
they should, too, the pets." 

"So I think. And do you wonder now, Anne, that I feel 

" Xo, Miss Madge. And I do hope all these things may turn out 
418 you -wish." 

' Madge raised her clear, earnest eyes to the sky, then let them 
wander away over the wide surging waters of the ocean. 

"Yes, Anne, I hope so. God grant they may," she said softlj'. 
*' I think they will. I feel f uU of confidence." 

"And your mother ? How does she feel ? " 

"Mamma is always depressed. But she is better, I think. She 
has great faith in Mr. Atherstone.'* 

" Which ? Father or son ? " 

" Both. But she never saw the father, you know." 

"She saw and knew my master's wife?" 

"Yes. She knew her before she was married, and was at the 
wedding. She says Sylvia is very like her." 

"Yes. She certainly is. See, this is her portrait." 

And lifting Sylvia on her knee*, she showed Madge the pretty 
miniature that George Atherstone had placed round his child's neck. 

" What a sweet, sad face ! " cried Madge. " How lovely she must 
have been ! And yet she looks as if she must have suffered greatly." 

Vol. xviu. No. 201. 59 

130 The Irish Monthly. 

''I know nothing of her history," said Anne, releasing the- 
struggling Sylvia from her arms. ** When I knew her she was very 
happy, but had a sad expression, poor dear. She was an orphan, I 
fancy, from what I have heard. So, unless on her father's side^ 
Sylvia has but few relations. None, indeed, that I ever heard of." 

*' I'm afraid we haven't any either," said Madge sighing. *' If 
anything were to happen to papa and mamma, Dora and I would be 
utterly friendless and forlorn." 

"Why, Madge, how solemn you look," cried her father, comings 
up at that moment. " I left you smiling and bright. I find you " 

'^Laughing and merry, papa dear," she exclaimed. " Everything^ 
looks promising for us now ; so, of course, I am gay. And see, aren't 
those children well ? They are as rosy as possible." 

" They are, dear," he answered, smiling. <* And even Anne looks 
fresher than when she came on board. Your mother, too, lias 
improved marvellously. We shall have her quite strong before wo 
reach England." 

" Quite ! " cried Madge joyfully. " A sea journey is a wonderful 
cure for faint hearts and tired bodies. But, papa, take Anne round 
and show her all the beauties of the ship." 

" Very well. Come along, Anne." 

" But Baby Sylvia," cried Anne. " I can't carry her about. I am 
too unsteady on my feet, and I don't like to leave her." 

" rU take c«.re of the pet," said Madge. *' See, we three shall have 
fine games together. Peep— o^Sylvia ! Peep — o— Dora ! Eun off 
and practise your sea-legs, Anne." 

So Anue went away to explore the ship, and Madge ^nounted. 
guard over the babies. 

( To be continued.) 


(Foe a Fbibkd's Album.) 

THHERE are thoughts sweet perfume breathings 
-■- Bright and sage and fuU of beauty, 
Culled from past and present ages. 

O'er thy album's pages strewn. 
From the rich domains of fancy 
Loving hands with care have gathered 
Every bud of sweetest meaning — 

They were planted all too soon. 

A Shamrock. 131 

Else I might find some stray blossom 
With fresh dew of thought upon it ; 
Yet I fain with thy fair garland 

Would one tiny field-flower twine — 
One green spray of native shamrock, 
Fragrant with historic memories, 
On each leaf in letters golden 

Fain I'd write a gift divine. 

Faith, firm Faith, bright, strong, enduring — 
Faith, that life's fierce storms and passions 
Shall pass by, and leave unclouded ; 

Be this blessing thine for aye. 
Hope, that glimmereth through darkness. 
Charms the present, gilds the future, 
With warm rays of Heaven's glory. 

Imaging eternal, day. 

Love, God's crown of bliss, outshining 
All the joys e'er known or dreamed of. 
Perfect as thy fairest vision. 

Be this treasure thine, to keep. 
In thy inmost heart close folded, 
May it ever walk beside thee, 
Safe without regrets or shadows, 

Fears to fright, or tears to weep. 

In the pages yet ungamished 

Wilt thou give my shamrock welcome 

Only for the fervent wishes 

Fondly wreathed round the stem ? 
Tribute to thy grace and beauty. 
And the mellow light of kindness 
That illumes thy gentle spirit, 

And thy heart, thy purest gem. 

Hklena Callan^vn. 
8t. Patnck'n Ere, 1887. 

132 The Irm Monthhj. 


TTAVINGr ajrived at the time of life when one's own indi- 
-'— ^ vidual comfort appears to be the chief attainable good, 
being by nature bilious and somewhat, irritable, and by profession 
scientific and Kterary, I have made up my mind that quiet, the 
most absolute that can be procured within easy reach of every- 
where, is the one thing needful for me. It was after due delibera- 
tion, therefore, that I decided on giving up my comfortable but 
noisy quarters in PaU Mall, and accepting the offer of a friend of 
mine, who assured me that his quiet little house in the quietest of 
quiet streets was absolutely made for me. 

This desirable residence has been let to me (furnished) for six 
months on approval, that I may ensure its suiting me before 
finally agreeing to take it off my friend's hands. {N,B. — Though 
I am a man of science, I know how to keep my eyes open.) 
There is a little library at the back — ^the very thing for a 
literary man — with cupboards and book-cases, and a beautiful 
place for my beloved writing-table in the window. It has, 
however, one drawback, which, to a person of my age, tempera- 
ment, and requirements, is somewhat serious: there is no Ught. 
My neighbour on the left, who is of an artistic turn of mind, has 
built a large studio at the back of his house, which effectually 
fihuts out from the back of mifke any gleam of sunshine that does 
manage to filter through the grime and fog of a London winter. 
Well, there is nothing for it but to move my writing-table to the 
<iining-room ; being, thank heaven ! a bachelor, I have only my 
own convenience to consult, and the street is so quiet I am not 
likely to be disturbed. It ts quiet ; the distant roar and rattle of 
the outer world sound faintly in one's ears, like far- away waves, 
and make one relish all the more one's own peace and security. 

Hallo ! what's that P A street-singer, by all that's horrible ! 
Two street-singers, men, entoning a patriotic, or rather incendiary 
ditty, each to the tune they love best, and with a noble disregard 
of time of any kind. They are both extremely hoarse, but, with a 
laudable desire to atone for this, yell with all their might, the 
voice of one of them giving way with a peculiar quavering crack 
at all attempted high notes. There is a chorus too, something 

In a Quiet Street. 133 

about England being drenched with gore, and " the our-r-r-ses of 
the pore," which in itself is sufficient to drive any peaceably dis- 
posed man out of his senses. It is evidently their longed-for goal, 
the thought of which cheers them in their labours through the in- 
termediate verses, and in hastening to attain which it is the 
ambition of the one to leave the other behind. 

I ring the bell in desperation, and Jackson, my butler and 
general factotum, appears in answer to my summons. David 
Copperfield in his yoimgest and callowest days could not have 
stood more in awe of the respectable Littimer than do I of this 
eminent personage. It is not mere respectability — ^he would be 
mightily insulted if I ventured to call him respectable — ^but there 
is a loftiness, an imperturbability, an innate nobility about Jackson 
which fiUs me with veneration. To this day I feel I am taking an 
unwarrantable liberty in calling him by his name ; there is a ring 
of familiarity about " Jackson" for which I am inwardly 
apologetic. " Johnson" would be more becoming in every way, 
but, on the few occasions that I did venture to bestow this 
cognomen upon him, it was received with such unmistakable signs 
of displeasure that I was obliged to give it up. 

On this occasion, however, my irritation gets the better of my 
customary caution. 

" Jackson," I cry, " for Heaven's sake send those brutes away." 

He gazed at me in dignified astonishment. 

" Those singers, Jackson — get rid of then at once. I shall be 
in a lunatic asylum soon if this goes on." 

" Oh, the singers ! " returns Jackson. " I will tell them your 
objections, sir, if yoti wish, but " 

" Go at once," I reiterate eagerly, as from a general quickening 
of speed I foresee the approach of the dreaded chorus. 

Jackson retires in some dudgeon, and after a moment I see him 
standing on the steps outside the hall-door, where, with a princely 
wave of his arm and doubtless appropiate expressions of disapproval, 
he bids the musicians depart. 

They stop for a moment, make some scowling rejoinder, and 
fall-to again with more zest than ever : — " Ho ! Engulland, take 
war-r-ming. . . ." 

This is imendurable. I ring the bell again. 

"Why, they are not gone," I cry savagely. "Did you toll 
them what I said ? " 

lU The Irinh Monthly. 

Jackson bows gravely : — 

" I desired them, sir, to leave this neighbourhood, and they 
made answer that this were a free oouatry, sir — ^that wOTe what 
they said." 

There's the chorus again, this time the singer with the cracked 
voice two good bars ahead, and several semi-tones above his com- 
panion. I explode : — 

" Tell them to be off this very instant, or I'll give them in 
charge as public nuisances." 

Jackson retires somewhat precipitately, and sternly looking out 
over the blind I have the satisfaction of seeing my perseeutora 
filowly shuffle ofiE with many a lowering glance in my direction. 

I breathe freely once more and return to the knotty point 
which I was revolving in my brain when first annoyed by this 
interruption. Confound it all! they're at it again, in the very 
next street, the words indistinguishable, it is true, but the tune, or 
tunes, distinjotly audible, and the chorus rec^irring with maddening 
l^ersistency. Oh ! for the roar and racket of a thousand cabs and 
carriages to drown their abominable voices! Oh! to be for one 
brief delirious moment a special Constable with a good stout 
truncheon, and to come face to face with those fellows in an unruly 
mob ! Wouldn't I pay them out, that's all ! I'd make their heads 
ache for them, I know, as they have made mine do to-day. 

Somewhat soothed by these reflections, I lay down my pen and 
seek oblivion in a cigarette and the morning papers. I come upon 
some rather alarming statistics which for a moment excite a languid 
interest: only so many thousand police in London to so many 
himdreds of thousands of thieves, vagabonds, roughs of all denomi- 
nations. Gracious me ! hundreds of thousands of rascals like those 
outside there — ^high time something was done. 

They are gone at last ; now to work again. . . . Ah me ! 
there is no peace for the wicked. Before an hour has passed, there 
is another of them ; a woman this time, with a wretched child in 
her arms whose feeble wail mingles with her singing. Singing do 
I say? There is •no distinguishable tune, an& no intelligible 
words, but a sort of low exhausted bellow — ^yes, that is the only 
term for it — like a fog-horn heard a long way off, or like an animal 
in pain. 

I approach the window in wrath, intending to dispatch her 
myself ; she looks up eagerly. Her rags flutter in the cutting 

In a Quiet Street. 135 

NoTrember blast ; her f aoe, and that of the ohild, are pinphed aiid 
blue with cold, and with a slow monotonous rooking to and fro, 
and an appecding glanoe at my face, she continues to emit those 
unutterably doleful sounds. I pause for a moment with a shudder : 
that thing out there is a woman, a woman as truly as is the Queen 
on her throne, or as was my blessed young mother who died so 
long ago, and whose memory to me is so sacred ! Still gazing at 
the wretched face, out of which the momentary hope is beginning 
to fade, strange thoughts come to me. TAere is a picture of 
matemiiy, I say to myself, thef*e is a mother with her child, to 
^me people the beau ideal of all that is beautiful, and charming 
and (I had almost said) divine. What has her motherhood been 
to this creature? An additional burden, a hard, unwished-for, 
unlovely care. What will be the fate of her wretched offspring ? 
To struggle onward, through pain, and dirt, and sin, and abomi- 
nation of every kind, till it becomes a repetition of its mother. 
Woman's weakness, I say to myself again, a little sardonically, 
what capital is made out of woman's weakness in our world, both 
by the dear creatures themselves, and the chivalrous of our sex ! 
They must have the best of everything, and take precedence every- 
where, and be contradicted in nothing — ^because of their woman's 
weakness. A very different story here, I trow. This woman, 
being a woman, is therefore the easier to hustle, and bully, and 
insult — if a thing so degraded is conscious of insult. She takes 
precedence of no one, except the policeman when he desires her to 
move on ; and stay — that is a very ugly bruise upon her cheek, 
the handiwork of some cowardly* brute of a husband, I fancy. 
Evidently woman's weakness is at a discount in her class .of life. 
Well, these are very fine sentiments, and I am conscious that they 
do me honour, but they are rather embarrassing all the same. After 
this I cannot very well threaten her with the police, which was my 
•original intention ; and neither can I stand her bellowing under 
my windows constantly, as she certainly will do if I give her alms — 
what is to be done ? After some reflection I ring again. 
" Jackson, there's . . . there's another street-singer ! " 
Jackson looks at me with a questioning glance, then out of the 
window at the woman, then at me again. 

"I want to get rid of her," I resume faintly, "and I think the 
best way would be to give her half-a-crown on condition that slie 
jpronuses never to sing in this street again." 

136 The Irish Monthly. 

This is weakness engendered by my reflections of a little while* 

Jackson retires slowly, creaking the door as he doses it in a 
most irritating fashion. Suddenly, just a& I begin to breathe- 
freely, he opens it again. 

" Did I understand you to say ^arf-a-crown^ sir ? " 

" Yes," sharply, " half-a-crown, and be quick about it." 

The door closes, this time more promptly, and I feel that I 
have fallen for ever in Jackson's estimation. He never had any 
opinion of my tailor, I know, nor of my wine-merchant, but for 
tnyself personally he had a certain regard; now I am convinced 
that he considers me a fool. 

Well, so I am. Of course, the woman turns up in about a 
week, and the infliction is a terrible one. She lies in wait for me 
when I go out, and follows me half-way down the street, begging,, 
besides making the air hideous with her voice at all times and 
seasons. I have threatened the police several times and shall be 
obliged to call them to my assistance, I see, before I can get rid of 
her ; and yet I hardly like. Pooh, nonsense ! 

As to the bands and barrel-organs, and Italian girls with 
accordians and tambourines, this would appear to be a favourite 
resort of theirs. I daresay there were just as many in Pall Mall, 
but somehow the din and clatter there was so universal I did not 
notice them. 

^^ Besides, this 'ere street is so quiet they likes it, sir," observes 
Jackson, to whom I make this remai^k. " They thinks they can 
be 'card better and that it ain'i so fatiguin' on the voice." 

"The deuce they do!" 

" Yes, sir, it's the quietness as does it," adds Jackson, with a 
grim pleasure in the knowledge that this statement — ^reflecting as 
it does on my perspicacity — is unpalatable to me. 

However, notwithstanding all this, my life would be bearable 
if it were not for my neighbours. The gentleman on the left is, 
as I say, of an artistic turn, and his studio renders my library 
practically useless, but his tastes are innocuous, nay commendable,, 
in comparison with those of the family on my right. They are 
musical (save the mark !), all of them, and being a large family, 
my evenings are in consequence, perfect burdens to me. I don't 
like going out much at night now, unless somebody or something 
makes it worth my while; I catch cold rather easily of lftte„ 

In a Quiet Street 137 

besides I generally set apart the time after dinner for rest and 
enjoyment. With a good fire^ a cigar, and books and papers ad 
infiHt'tum, I used to say that I would not change places with any- 
body- I used to say so, but I don't now. Hardly am I settled in 
my easy-chair before one of the daughters next door (the fat one 
with the flat, red face, I feel convinced) begins : — 

" In the gloaming, oh-h-h mj darling, tum-ti tum-te tum-ti-ded.*' 

Now if there is any one song I abominate, it is "In the 
Gloaming ; " but even that is less intolerable than the rendering of 
various well-known operatic airs, which the rest of the family 
affect There is a son, a conscientious young man, with a ver\ 
loud voice, who practises one particular shake, or trill, or whatever 
you call it, night after night, which drives me to the verge of dis- 
traction. Time after time he begins it, and breaks down, and 
begins again ; then one of the sisters tries it, by way of example,. 
I suppose, and he takes it up again after her with renewed vigour. 
Fresh break-down; sister tries again, another sister chimes in, 
they simnlate the shake on the piano (very high up in the treble),. 
then they ail try it together. When it comes to this I generally 
knock at the wall, which at first had some effect, but now has nonn 
whatever except as a relief to my feelings. When I meet any of 
the family in the street, we scowl at each other mutually ; and I 
am forced to go out at night a great deal more than I like, whicli 
not only ruins my domesticity, but is productive of chronic 

However, all these annoyances— rand they are not trifling — are 
as nothing in comparison to that which I experience from my 
neighbours in the house immediately facing mine. Yet they are 
nice people, there is no denying it, quiet and unobtrusive in every 
^•ay. Their house is very nice and clean, with spotless white 
curtains in the windows, and abundance of flowers ; and there is 
always a cheerful flicker of firelight in all the rooms, and when the 
servant brings in those coloured lamps in the afternoon I get a 
glimpse of sttch a pretty drawingroom before he has closed tlie 
shutters. There ! Do you not see why these people annoy me so Y 
It is because I take, I know not why, such a petty, vulgar, inex- 
plicable interest in them, and in all that concerns them. I find 
m^'self watching their goings and comings, and speculating as to 
their doings, and picturing them to myself at different times, in a 

138 The Irish Monthly. 

way that is not only irritating, but positively lowering to one's 
Belf-respect. And yet I don't even know their name, and as for 
them, I don't suppose they are aware of my existence. 

Eetuming home one afternoon at dusk, and walking on the 
side of the street opposite to my own house (as it is very muddy, 
and the crossing is a little way down), all of a sudden something 
catches hold of my leg with an ecstatic exclamation of delight. I 
say something^ but I ought to say somebody, though the person is so 
extremely small that my mistake may be excused. I look down, 
startled and considerably put out if the truth be told, and see what 
appears to me to be a little bundle of white fur affectionately 
embracing my knee. 

" What is aU this ? " I cry crossly. 

Then the bundle, promptly detaching itself, reveals a little 
round chubby f a-ce with two large, startled eyes. 

" Oh, please ! " ejaculates the owner of the ieuce, " I fought you 
was my papa. I was going to kiss you," she adds seriously. 

At this juncture, a breathless nurse arrives with a similar 
bundle of white fur clinging on to her, and mingles profuse 
apologies to me with scoldings to her little charge. 

" 1 fought^^ reiterates the child, " that he was my papa" — 
pointing a minute finger at me — " but," after a pause during 
which she scrutinises me narrowly, " I'm iserg glad he isn't." 

" Oh, for shame, Missy ! You see, sir, she do set such store 
by her papa, and he do make such a fuss with her." 

Here, thinking the scene had lasted long enough, I mutter 
something indistinctly and pass on, but hear, as I withdraw, the 
nurse's indignant comment on my ungraciousness : — 

" Of all the cross-grained, ill-tempered !— rwell. Missy how you 
could take such an ugly old gentleman for your papa beats me ! " 

Another man would have treated this little incident differently, 
aud would very likely have put in for the kiss intended for the 
much-beloved papa, but not I. Faugh ! Fancy, kissing a three- 
year-old baby ! 

Next morning, as I am at breakfast, I see the nursery detach- 
ment from over the way sallying forth ; two nurses, two perambu- 
lators, and, gracious goodness ! three children, all apparently the 
same age, or very near it. I feel a sort of contemptuous com- 
passion for my double opposite. Poor wretch ! I would not be in 
his shoes for something, and to think that I might have been. 

In a Quiet Street. 139 

if not in his shoeSy at least in some of the same sort, had I been 
weak-minded and soft-hearted as many are ! 

AjBy cup in hand, I am still absently looking out of the window, 
somebody steps hastily out on the balcony of No. 13 and calls out 
an injunction to the nurses beneath — a very pretty somebody — 
thgfogh I am a woman-hater, I can see that. Big eyes, and pink- 
and-white face, and sunny-looking hair that falls into charming 
rings and little curling tendrils about a lovely brow. " Tongs of 
ixmjne," I say to myself, but somehow I don't feel quite so sorry 
for my double as I did just now. 

My double indeed ! Why, there he is beside her, waving his 
hand and grinning at his progeny. Ugh ! Not a bad looking 
fiellowy in your broad-shouldered style, but not a bit like me ; a 
good twenty years younger to begin with, I must confess. 

Now he sallies forth, and my attention is again distracted from 
my bacon and eggs and my Standard ; the sunny head is in the 
drawing-room window now, and gives a little smiling nod as the 
husband looks up from the street. Sickening sentimentality / call 
it ; with all those children too, they ought to be ashamed of them- 
selves ! I get used to this performance in time, however, as it is 
repeated every morning. In the afternoon about half-past four 
the head appears in the window agam — I can just see it defined 
against the red blind through which the lamp shines so cheerily. 
The shutters of that window are never closed at this time of day. 
Presently the lord and master may be discerned coming down the 
street and the pantomine of the morning is repeated — upward 
glance, downward smile (most likely — ^it is too dark to see clearly) 
then a flash of lamp-light as the blind is pushed to one side, and 
the head vanishes. 

It is irritating, the way in which I watch this performance day 
after day, almost lying in wait for my broad-shouldered neighbour 
aa his spouse does, and feeling vexed and surprised if he is late. I 
sit in the dusk rather than allow my blinds to be drawn before the 
^Qstomary performance has taken place. I flatter myself, now 
that I am solving knotty questions within myself, now that I am 
resnng my overwrought mind, and I am m reality doing neither 
the one nor the other, but idly speculating about my opposite 

In fact the confounded quiet of this street is the cause of the . 
change in my character. Living, as I used to do, in a crowded 

140 The Irish MoiUhly. 

thoroughfare, I noticed nobody because I couldn't notice every- 
body. Here, on the contrary, everybody and everything force 
themselves upon my attention, and excite my interest because there . 
is so little to distract me. As, for instance, that wretched singing- 
woman. I read with the greatest complacency that hundreds such 
are starving in London. I brush with absolute callousness past a 
score of them perhaps when I take a short-cut through a by-way ; 
but because this miserable unit comes under my immediate notice 
in this empty street, because in the stillness her wretched quaver- 
ing voice is distinctly heard, I become a very milk-sop. 

To return to the people at No. 13. Coming home one night 
from the theatre, I observe that the husband — I have to call him 
so because I don't know his name — ^is walking down the street 
immediately in front of me. He has a latch-key, and I have not, 
consequently, while I am waiting for Jackson to let me in I watch 
his movements with my usual vulgar curiosity. He is a neat 
young man, I perceive, for after he has opened the door he remains 
a considerable time polishing his feet on the mat at the threshold. 
Here comes a little flying figure down the stairs, fluttering white 
draperies, hair very bright by gas-light, outstretched arms, face 
sparkling with smiles — hang it all ! How glad she is to see him ! 
And he, great overgrown creature, pushes the door to, or partly to^ 
^vith one arm and receives her in the other. They don't notice 
me, but I see them. Humph ! That sort of thing aggravates me x 
so, turning round, I treat Mr. Jackson to a rousing peal of the 
bell that brings him to the door with a speed very unlike his usual 
majestic tread. 

Curious how a trivial incident like that takes hold of my mind. 
As I step into the haU, a vague feeling of loneliness comes over 
me. The primness, and tidiness, and silence of the house are 
more noticeable than usual. I pause for a moment and gaze at 
my neat, trim, newly-carpetted staircstse with a certain disgust. 
No flying figure here to be gladdened by my approach. There is 
no one in this house to take notice of my goings and comings 
except Jackson, and he is not likely to fall upon my neck. Ha ! 
ha ! I laugh grimly at my own wit, and retire to my sanctum 
somewhat consoled. 

About a month or so after this occurrence I notice that the 
daily programme of parting and greeting is not carried out as 
usual. It is true my broad-shouldered friend— or enemy, for 

In a Quiet Street. ' 141 

sometixnes I am not sure if I like him or hate him — ^looks up at the 
middle inndow according to his wont, but I observe that he does 
so with a certain pained, anxious expression, and the pretty smiling 
face is no longer there. " Had a quarrel most likely ! " I say to 
myaelf with a chuckle, and I feel inwardly rather glad. They 
were really tiresome with their everlasting spooniness ; besides, it 
i» a comfort to have my own theories with regard to the miseries 
of mairied life endorsed. One morning as I am waiting for 
keak&st, I saunter to the window according to my custom, and 
find that straw has been laid down in the street immediately 
opposite 'my house, and for several yards on either side. I 
question Jackson as to the reason thereof, and he informs me that 
be nnderstands that the lady at No. 13 is ill. 

"Pooh! — a confinement, I suppose. Brcallj the way these 
people add to the population is disgraceful ! " 

Jackson draws himself up. He is a family man himself, and 
n surprised at my levity. 

** I 'eard different, sir," he remarks. " I 'eard it was some- 
thing on the lungs." 

Where do servants get their information from? It is perfectly 
wonderful how they manage to get hold of things. I've no doubt 
Jadcaon knows all about these people. 

"Indeed?" I say after a pause. "I am sorry to hear it. 

Has Mrs. " 

" Brabazou" suggests J&ckson, seeing me in fault. (Of course 
he knows her name.) 

" Has Mrs. Brabazon been long ill ? " 
"About ten days I understand, sir." 

Ah, that accounts for her non-appearance in the window. My 
penetration is at fault again. 

Well, the straw tfuii^ possibly be of use on these occasions, but 
1 cannot see that it is, myself. The vehicles that find their way 
iuto this street are not overwhelmingly noisy, and it seems to me 
that by the absolute cessation of all sounds of traffic, minor ones are 
intensified a hundred-fold. Thus the jingling of all the hall-door 
beUfl in the neighbourhood is distinctly audible, also the footsteps 
of the passers-by, while the rattle of milk-cans, and the cry of the 
purveyors of that useful article, "Mi-i-ulk ! " force themselves upon 
one's attention as they never did before. 

Towards the afternoon the straw appears to afford great attrac- 

142 The In^h Monthly. 

tions to the ragged youth of the neighbourhood, who roll thereon, and 
pelt each other therewith, emitting shrill expressions of enjoyment. 
Just as I am making for the bell with the intent of summoning* 
Jackson to the rescue, the door of No. 13 is flung open, and Mr. 
Brabazon himself rushes, hatless, into the street. The mere sight 
of his haggard, angry face is enough for the urchins, who fl'ee 
precipitately ; it also engenders a certain wondering uneasinesB ii> 
me. I should not have thought that handsome, careless, prosperous- 
looking fellow capable of such an expression : I hope there is no- 
thing very wrong. Next morning alas ! all the blinds are down 
nt the house opposite, and on the following day I read among the 
deaths in the Morning Post that of Edith, wife of John Brabazon,. 
aged twenty-three. Twenty-three ! I suppose it is the thought 
of her age, or rather her youth, that strikes me with such a sudden 
pang. Twenty-three, on the very threshold of womanhood, at the- 
time when most people talk of beginning life, behold! hers is ended. 

I watch the central blind of her drawing-room idly ; there is^ 
no flash of lamp-light behind it ; never again wiU the little watch- 
ful figure station itself at its post, never again will the expectant 
face below be gladdened by its smiling greeting. At my lonely 
dinner I picture the solitary man opposite, more lonely than I — 
oh! a thousand times more lonely. I cannot miss that which I 
never had, and he — why every hour, every moment will bring his 
loss more plainly before him. Had they not everything in com- 
mon, these two, and were his very thoughts complete until they 
had passed from his mind to hers ? 

It is late now. Someone is giving a ball in the large street 
that runs at right angles with this one ; the distant rattle of car- 
riages is over, and the dancing has begun. I know it has, because 
the windows are evidently open and the music sounds faintly on 
the night air ; I can hear it — ^my house being near the comer of 
the street — I wonder if it is audible opposite P 

Now they are playing a waltz, one of those slow, dreamy things 
that in youth set all one's pulses throbbing with a thousand possi- 
bilities of love, and happiness, and tender vague hopes, and that, in 
after life, strike upon one with an unspeakable sense of pain, of 
loss, of regret — ^bringing home to one in a word the consciousness 
of being young and blythe no longer. 

I wonder if that poor fellow over the way can hear it ? It is 
enough to madden him. It is but a few years, after all, since he- 

March. 143 

and she were first conscious of the tremors and wonder and delirium 
^f their young love ; the strains of that very waltz, or oAe like it,. 
n:3r have helped them to discover their tenderness one for the 
««tlier. Well, well, he is alone to hear it now. Kneeling by the 
beil whereon she lies, he may hold her hand, but it will rest pas- 
>ively in his, and the tender clinging clasp of the little fingers is 
now only a memory. Not a quiver of the eyelidjs, not a motion of 
thtj lipe in response to his passionate kisses, his ecstasy of grief ; 
»!1 still and silent as the grave which even now is waiting for her. 
P<K)r fellow, poor fellow, God help him ! 

What an old fool I am ! What does it matter to me ? Are 
there not soores of such deaths every day, and did I ever yet take 
'^ne of them to heart P Here I am positively unhappy about people 
to whom I have never spoken one word in my life. All this is 
ruudlin, simply maudlin — ^living in this abominable little street 
has done it. I shall be fit for nothing if I stay here much longer. 
Confound it! I'll give up the house and take rooms in Piccadilly I. 

M. E. Francis. 



[IE ! with your blustering ! 
Ho ! with your flustering ! 
Fie on you, thinking of frighting us, March ! 

Scowl if you dare now, 

Little we care now. 
Whether you're loving or slighting us, March I 
Sure when your brow is all dark with the frown 
Sullen and black, and the tears dropping down — 
When you walk with a fling and a toss of the head, 
And through dint of hot temper your cheek flushes red- 

Knowing you well now, 

Faith we can tell now 
There's little cause to be grieving us, March. 

Under your whining 

Your blue eyes are shining — 
Yuu thief of the world for deceiving us, March ! 

144 The Imh Monthly. 

Bolder and bolder now, 

Turn the cold shoulder now, 
♦Snowing and blowing — O shame on you, March, 

But it's your nature, 

Tou obstinate crayture, 
I'll not be throwing the blame on you, March ! - 
Sometimes, in spite of the wrath in your eye. 
The smile on your lip gives bad temper the lie : 
And shaming the growl in your voice when you speak, 
The dimples of merriment dance in your cheek — 

O but you're cute now, 

Hiding the. truth now, 
•Cutting your capers and giving us, March, 

Scolding and pleasing. 

Warning and freezing. 
You thief of the world for deceiving us, March ! 

Up from their narrow beds, 

Baising their purty heads, 
Tliough your wet blankets you throw on them, March ! 

See the small posies now, 

Lifting their noses now, 
Sniiting the sunbeams aglow on them, March. 
Mighty and proud as the king on his throne, 
There's a sweet coaxing way that you have of your own. 
Like a play-actor taking the winter's dark part. 
With the smile of the summer asleep in his heart : — 

80 you may blow, now, 

I^ain, hail, and snow now. 
Little your tricks will be grieving us, March ; 

We know your way now. 

Sure it's all play now, 
You tliiof of the world for deceiving us, March ! 

Mary Elizabeth Blake. 

Linen-Weaving in Skibbereen,' - 145 


~T7} ROM Drinioleague we took the train to Skibbereen, finding 
-L the latter a mu^'h more respectable town than we had 
expected. The name Skibbereen has a ragged, bare-footed sound, 
but the place has rather a decent aspect for a small Irish town. 
One thing that struck us deplorably was the great number of 
houses licensed to sell drink's. There are so many that along the 
principal street almost every shop window shows a row of black 
Iwttles. We did not see any sign of intemperance about, though 
so much facility is given. The prosperity of Skibbereen has not 
increased, we were told, since industry and thrift have found a 
centre at Baltimore. Visitors go straight tlirough to the fisheries, 
and take little interest in Skibbereen, which does not even receive 
a supply of fish, as all the fish is carried off by the boats of. 
English or Scotch buyers. This state of things may be changed 
when Father Davis's projected railway begins to work, and shortens 
and cheapens the carriage to home markets. 

The most interesting feature in Skibbereen at present is the 
new enterprise of the Sisters of Mercy, whose pretty, cheerful con- 
vent stands close by the Cathedral, on a height overlooking "the 
town. The Superioress, a bright, energetic, young woman full of 
enthusiasm for her brave undertaking, told us that for some time 
she had pondered the question of how. best to introduce 9. re- 
munerative industry into the cottages and cabins of the poor people 
surrounding her. She had thought of the manufacture of lace, 
but reflected that it was already overdone, and that there was 
little satisfaction in the production of any but a really artistic 
fabric, which was difficult to obtain,, and harder to dispose of at a 
remunerative price. After long consideration, she had made up 
her mind that linen-weaving was the thing to be desired. There 
existed in the neighbourhood a tradition of wea\'ing once attempted 
there before, and the people had a kindly recollection of their 
former effort, which had somehow failed, and were well disposed 
to make another trial under more hopeful circumstances. For a 
long time the dream seemed impossible to realise, till one day 
chance, or Providence, brought into the convent garden Sir 
Thomas Brady, that [good friend of industry in general and the 
fisherman in particular. Sir Thomas entered into the spirit of the 

Vol. XVIII. No. 201. 60 

146 TliB Irish Monihly. 

dream, and promised to see whether it could not be turned into a 
reality. Some time passed, and the ardent nun was beginning to 
fear that the little seed thus sown would never re-appear above 
ground, when an immense mass of oorrespondenoe was placed in 
her hand, showing that her friend had been busy meanwhile in 
obtflining every scrap of information she required from every 
available quarter. Many difficulties appeared in the way, but 
finally all vanished under the helpful hand of the late Sir 
William Ewart, a great linen merchant, of Belfast, who, though a 
Protestant of the Black North, was yet thoroughly in sympathy 
with the project of the Southern Sisterhood. From him came the 
looms which we saw at work in a pleasant upper room of the cou- 
vent, and he sent a skilful workman to set them up and to explain 
their mysteries to the Sisters. This first scene in the Skibbereen 
industrial drama was surely a curious and delightful meeting of 
orange and green, North and South, very curious to those who 
know what Protestant prejudice is in the North of Ireland. The 
looms were set up, and the question remained of a teacher to take 
a weaver's class in hand. The nuns wished to have a woman to 
teach their girls, and a woman was produced who understood the 
art of weaving, but she proved less capable than was needful, and 
in the end a man arrived from Belfast to take the matter in hand 
and steer the boat of the adventure, which seemed in danger of 
foundering. From the moment of his arrival the movement 
marched forward, the lassies and elderly women learned to throw 
the shuttle and make the proper rhythmic motion with th^ feet, 
and linen cloth grew on the looms to the intense delight of the 
Sisters, the pride of their pupils, and the edification of Sir William 
Ewart, who pronounced the specimens forwarded to him as 
excellent beyond all his expectations. 

Only last May the looms began to work, and already a good bit 
of money has been earned, and hope has sprung up in many a j^oor 
home — the hope of escape from hungry poverty by means of t lie 
flpng shuttle and the gold that it will win. The death of JSir 
William Ewart was a sad shock to the community he hal 
befriended, but happily his son has adopted the course his fatluu- 
had so nobly taken to heart, and promises every assistance in his 
power to the weavers of Skibbereen. Ho will dispose of all the 
cloths they produce, but, at the same time, advises them to try to 
pronde a market for themselves outside this country, as, in that case, 
they may, of course, hope for higher than trade prices. 

LiMU'WenLvituj in Skibbereon. 147 

The presence of this hopeful industrial work makes a little 
flatter of joy all through the pleasant convent. A reflection of it 
seemed to he in the very sunshine that lay yellow on the floors, 
and ahone in the faces of all the smiling Sisters, who each had some 
fresh accident or incident to tell about the daily experiences de« 
reloped in the course of " our weaving." One little detail of their 
lai^ enterprise is the conversion of the teacher from Belfast, the 
inas<niline person who was admitted into the workroom of the con- 
Tent ^th some awe, as being a man and a heretic, but who has 
fioeoeeded in gaining the respect and confidence of the whole com- 
manity. He, on his side, appears quite satisfied with his position, 
and is likely to settle down under the shadow of the convent 
walls, and end his days in the service of the Papist Sisterhood. 
TTtfl conversion may be regarded as doubtful, judging by the sly, 
oompassionate smile with which, while we examined his cloth, he 
regarded the movements of one of the Sisters, who had brought a 
fresh flower from the garden, and was placing it in the arms of the 
tall statue of the Good Shepherd, which stood in a commanding 
position at the end of the pleasant, sunny little factory. 

"We must hope, however, that all the desires of these pure and 
holy hearts may be gratified, and that every cottage in the neigh- 
boorhood of Skibbereen may soon have its loom and its weekly 
wages for work produced. Irish sisterhoods are at present en- 
couraged by the Commissioners of National Education to devote 
their energies to industrial objects. Some time ago they were 
obliged t4 give all their efforts to the task of conferring high-class 
edneation on their poor pupils, who, except in the case of a few 
destined to be teachers, were thus rendered unfit to earn their 
bread by the only means ever likely to come within their reach. 
The pupils left school, their heads a little turned, at the best, by a 
imattering of mental acquirement, and with hands deplorably uso- 
leas, quite incapable of maintaining them in the position of life 
they coveted. Now, the evils of that state of things have been 
recognised, and are to be counteracted by the encouragement of 
industrial works in connection with the National Schools. In the 
Blue Book for 1888, issued by the Commissiout^rs of National 
£dacation, Miss Prendergast's report on industrial work in the 
schools gives a great deal of interesting information as to the pro- 
gress already made. The National Schools, to which a graftt of 
salary in aid of special indiistrial instruction is available, are 43 in 

148 The Irish Monthly, 

number. Abut 1200 girls attend them. Departments of Industrial 
Schools in connection with the recognised National Schools number 
about 33, and are attended by nearly 3000 pupils, 230 of whom are 
boys. There are such departments in charge of the Sisters of 
Mercy, at Crumlin-road, Belfast ; at St. Malachy's, Antrim ; at 
Canal-street, Newry; and at llostrevor. At Carrickraacross the 
conductors are lay teachers. In Munster there are industrial 
•centres at Kilnish, Kanturk, Kinsale, Skibbereen, and Passage 
West, all under Sisters of Mercy. In Limerick, at SS. Mary and 
Munohin's (St. Johu's-square) , and at Adare, Mount St. Vincent, 
Bruff, St. Anne's (Rathkeale\ and at St. Catherine's (Newcastle 
West). At Blackrock, Cork, the Ursuline Sisters conduct the 
industrial department, and at Bruff the Sisters of the Order of the 
' Faithful Companions. There are centres at Fethard and Carrick- 
on-Suir. In Leinster the industrial centres are Carlow, Dublin, 
Warreiipoint, Blackrock, Booterstown, Houndtown, Athy, Kil- 
kenny, Goresbridge, Clara, St. Joseph's (Longford), Coote-street, 
Mountrath, Maryborough, Mountmellick, Stradbally, and New 
Hoes. The industrial centres of Connaught are at Newtown Smith, 
Oranmore, St. Vincent's (Galway), Gort, and Ballinasloe, all con- 
ducted by the Sisters of Mercy and the Presentation Sisters. 

Rosa Muliiolland. 



AND are those glorious stars unpeopled nil ? 
Jjives there no thought outside our human race ? 
Men scan the heavens ; does no celestial face 
Turn wondering to our planetary ball ? 
Who knows if yet to science it may fall 
T') find a bridge o*er interstellar space. 
Tliat we those lords of other worlds may trace. 
And message send responsive to their call ? — 

credulous, yet incredulous ! Hear the word 
]^y God revealed— Beyond the farthest star. 
In liigliest heaven, most lovinfj^ friends there are ; 

By our repentant sighs their joy is stirr'd, 
We strike our breasts, the echo wakes their praise, 
And they have charge to hallow all our ways. 

T. E B. 

An Ukfer Poet, 149 


I HAVE been asked to ^vxite a short account of Patrick 
McManns, who a few years ago, by his contributions to- 
some Irish magazines and newspapers under the name of *' Slieve 
Donard," excited the hopes of many that at last a minstrel had 
arisen in Ulster who eventually would take his place beside Dr. 
Drennan, Francis Davis, William xlllingham, and the best singers 
north of the Boyne. 

McManus was bom on St. Patrick's Day 18^3, at a place calleif 
Kearney, in the Ards peninsula, County Down, about three miles 
from the pretty little town of Portaferry. His father, James 
McManus, was (and is) a unique type of a country carpenter. He will 
talk on any subject imder the sun. Take him on music or painting ; 
and, though he has never heard an opera or seen a great picture in 
the course of his life, he will theorise on these matters till the crack 
of doom, and will bear down your arguments derived from practioifl 
e3cperienoe with an irresistible flood of rhetoric. He is especially 
strong on Robert Burns, who, he maintains, had he been a Catholi'^,, 
would Kave been a saint. With thirty years' reading and a most re- 
tentive memory, he is never at a loss for something to say. lii 
politics he has changed his mind as often as Cobbett ; and, if you told 
him EO, he would first argue that his doctrines were always the same, 
and then, when you had proved your charge up to the hilt, he 
would fall back on his second line of defence and inform you with 
Hmerson (if he had come across the passage) that consistency is 
a weakness of little minds. Withal, Patrick McManus had for his 
father the staunchest of Catholics, and a typical Irish mother, de- 
voted to her children,, especially the one of whom we write. 

It was from these fountains that "Slieve Donard" drank his 
first idead. His father's talk cultivated in him the literary instinct, 
which was bent towards poetry probably by the old Irish songs he 
heard from his mother. His taste for verse-making showed itself 
early in his school days. At BallyphiUp National School ho 
received a rather better education than most of the lads attending 
it ; and he then began the stem business of life as his father's ap- 

150 The Irufh Monthly. 

prentioe at the carpenter's bench. He was twenty years t)f age 
when his first poem, " Good-bye," was published in the Belfast 
Examiner. He called this his "literary baptism," and years after- 
wards he wrote to me that the day on which the modest little lyric 
appeared was the happiest' of his life. 

Some young fellows, when they take to poetry, affect long hair 
and an abstracted look, and walk much by themselves. This was 
not McManus's way. Prosaic as it may appear, he was a very 
enthusiastic Land Leaguer, and a member of the National Band ; 
and amongst all " the boys " there was none more willing than 
Paddy (as they called him) to join in any good hearty fun that 
was going on. I have seen him, in a battle of sods, lead his side 
with rare coolness and courage ; and altogether he was known to 
^e " ail there " and a most determined character in engagements 
of this nature. His enjoyment of real, hearty, breezy, rbugh-and- 
tumble life amongst healthy, ready-handed boys was intense. I 
remember witnessing a scene one night which gave him great delight. 
The Band had split into two hostile camps, and on this particular 
<}vening both parties went out on the Lough, each in a boat of its 
own, to entertain themselves and the townsfolk with music on the 
water. The boats collided : a naval engagement ensued. Bud- 
ders and floor-boards, rowlocks, seats and oars — all the movable 
furniture of the boats was immediately called into requisition, and 
a desperate attempt was made by either side to swamp th^ enemy. 
It was nearly coming to hard blows, but the humour of such a sea 
•fight proved too much for some of the combatants, and it ended in 
nothing worse than a universal drenching, the temporary disap- 
pearance of two fiddles, and an adjournment to terra firma, where 
hostilities were not renewed. In the midst of all you might have 
seen our poet thirsting for fight as much as any of them, and 
deriving from the mimic warfare the keenest enjoyment imagin- 
able. All the while, though he knew it not, M'Manus was laying 
in a store of material for future use, even as Banim and Carleton 
and Kickham in their day. He took instinctively to the study of 
human nature, as he saw it around him ; and you might often 
liave come upon him talking to one of the many " characters " of 
the town and district, drawing him out, and noting his hiunorous 

This was not his only study by any means. He was a 
passionate lover of the beauties of earth and sky to be seen along 

An Ulster Poet. 151 

Ihe shores of Strangford Lough. And they are no moan baauties 
these. The scenery of Strangford Lough, though the world does 
not seem to know it, is among the best in teland. Portaferry 
is quite a place for a poet to spend his youth in. There is hill and 
Talley there, and woodland and swift running lough, twice as wide 
and twice as nice as the Bhine at many of its best places ; and 
green little islands and old castles, dating away from De Courcy's 
time, dotted over the shores ; and wild sea-birds, and three miles 
out there to the east the waves of the Channel rolling against the 
rocks of Ardullah. These things were not lost on young M*Manus. 
He drank them in with the wild thirst that the Muse gives to every 
young poet when she first wakes his perceptive faculties to all 
things beautiful and true. Some of his sweetest little bits were 
inspired by these, scenes. For instance, he thus describes a lovely 
»ummer*day when he paid a visit to Killyleagh, not unknown to 
the readers of the Life of Archibald Hamilton Rowan : — 

*' Along Lough Cuan's castled shore,* 

Around the winding sapphire bay, 
The white-winged seagulls calmly soar, 

The summer, breezes gently play ; 
And blue smoke curls above the town, 

Floating in eddying wreaths afar 
Beyond the distant mountains brown, 

Across the wailing, wave-swept bar. 
Kuohanting Nature dons to-day 
Her fairest robes in Killyleagh. 

** The soft clouds, tinged with amethyst, 

Across the bright blue heavens pass ; 
The placid ocean, now sun-kissed. 

Appears a molten silver mass. 
And children on the golden sand 

Play joyously in wild delight, 
Wbile up the sunny sea-swept strand 

The startled heron wends his flight ; 
And meek-eyed cattle browse and stray 
Amongst the fields of Killyleagh." 

Is not this a pretty picture of a lazy summer evening in some 

* From tills old name of Strangford Lough the writer of this paper took his n&m 
^*- pinme which he had at first appended to the very touching elegy ** In Memory 
of Annie," at page 36 of our seventeenth volume (January, 1889). — Ed, /. X^ 

152 The Irish Monthly. 

peaceful seaside Irish village ? It is from a poen^i called *' The- 
Euined Town " :— 

** Oyer the iDouutain*8 crimaon crest 

Quiver tlie shafts of the sinking Hun ; 
Softly they reach to the billow's breast 
A parting kiKS ere the day 18 done. 

*' Pleasantly faU the slanting beaniH 

Down on the streets of the seaside town ; 
Windows mirror the glowing gleams, 
Chimneys cliange to a golden brown. 

" Far in the gardens the sparrows bide, 
Chirping, chirping among the leavet^ ; 
Prodigal swallows in raptures hide, 
Twittering, twittering under the eiivcs." ^ 

There are some very felicitous scenic touches, too, in a '98 
ballad, entitled " The •Da\\Tiing of the Day " :— 

'' It is evening in the summer, and tlie red departing rays 
Of the sun's majestic glory quiver in the amber haze, 
And the wild-fowl hasten homeward to the margin of ithe brook, 
And the silent song-bird nestles in the leaf -embowered nook. 
Not a speck of fleecy vapour shades the blue expanse above, 
Not a softly-breathing zephyr stirs the tree-tops in the grove ; 
But the first faint dew from heaven moistens meadow, hill, and brue, 
And all nature is betokening the waning of the day. 

'* Hark ! what sound is this which wakens rolling echoes in the glei:. 
Breaking through the solemn silence ? 'Tis the tread of marching nun. 
See the dusky forms descending, mirrored 'gainst the azure sky. 
Where the chasm-channelled mountain lifts its haughty forehead hij,'h I 
See the marshalled pikes and muskets, with the green flag over all, 
In the brook-indented valley where the shifting shadows faU ; 
See, through heather, furze, and marshland, dark detachments wend their way^ 
Hound the banner bright to gather at tlie waning of the day ! 

** But why group they by the mountain foot with weapons wild and rudo : 
What enchanting spell allures them to that stirless solitude ? 
*Tis the blissful hour for resting, and what pleasure seek they thoro, 
When the maid awaits her lover, and the matron weeps a prayc r "r 
Ah, the answer you may hear it in that father's stifled sighs — 
You may read it in the blazing of that peerless peasant's eytt. : 
'Tis to listen to their leader, ere they pit their dark array 
'Gainst the spoilers of their country at the dawning of the day." 

The reference to the stars in the following verse of this poem 

An Ulster Poet. 153- 

does not seem to me to be original,* but I ara certain Mcilunns 
would not have consciously plagiarised : — 

*' It is midnight, sable midnight, trackless is the hidden sun. 
And the f^v» are stealing softly to their stations one by one ; 
And the mist is on the mountains, and the shadows dense have grown, 
And the peasant host is sleeping, and their leader wait8 alouo. 

•* And he keeps his silent vigU till tlie lines of livid grey 
Aich the distant east horizon at the dawning of the day."* 

We have surely lost some fine Irish ballads by the eariy death 
of the young writer of these lines. 

M'Manus's master passion was Ireland. It is probably not 
the slighest exaggeration to say that his highest ambition would 
have been' to die for his country. In an elegy on Edward Kelly, 
one of the Kilclooney Wood heroes, who died in January, 1884, he 
speaks of the dead patriot as 

" Disdaining to cry for her, 

Scorning to sigh for her, 

Longing to die for her — 
Beady his love and his homage to swear on 
The hilt of his sword on the hills of green Erin." 

The last three lines are applicable to the poet liimself ; but he 
did not " scorn to sigh " for Ireland. A note of sadness runs 
through nearly all his national pieces, as, for instance, in his 
address " to the Men of Down," from which we can only take one 
i»taiiza: — 

" Pallid is the slanting sonshine, dreary are' the nights and long ; 
Surge the silver-crested bUlows, silent is the thrush's song; 
Fields once gladsome, gay, and golden, now are bleak and bare and bruwu, 
For a sorrow-shaded mantle shrouds the pleasant plains of Down." 

The same sadness runs through " The Ruined Town," from 
which I have already quoted. But his doctrine is not a gosjiel of 
despair. It is a noble philosophy that he preaches to his exiled 
brother : — 

• Alexander Smith says of the " pallid stars '* in his ** Life Drama " :. — 

** Now watch with what a silent step of fear 

They*n steal out one by one." 
Probably some closer parallel passage lurks in our contributor's memory. But 
how is the hidden sun specially tracldess at midnight ? — Ed. /. M. 

154 Die Irinh Monthly. 

" Know you truly, know you truly, were ahe never to be freed, 
She is worthy of your worship, worthy of your brightest deed." 

But it is no ordinttry deed nor any cold-blooded worship that 
will satisfy him : — 

*' Think upon her, think ux>on her, till the blood boils in each vein, 
So that, were it spilled to save her, it would melt a ciroling chain — 
Till the tears which fill your eyelids at the story of her wrongs 
Fall as drops of molten iron on her lashes and her thonga.'* 

I presume to hazard the remark that we have here a poet. No 
mere verse- writer could have conceived these daring figures. 

It has struck me more than once that there was a resemblance 
between M^Manus and Dalton Williams, especially as the comic 
and the tragic muse were equally at the service of both. " Slieve 
Douard," however, had not the light nimble touch of " Shamrock." 
lie was more successful in his satirical pieces ; but these are chiefly 
aimed at persons on whom we are not disposed, even in such a 
ooiitext, to bestow the immortality of these pages. 

Our young, Ulster poet only wrote during the last two or three 
years of his brief life. A selection of the best of the work 
he has left behind him would make a dainty little volume ; and 
the present writer has not given up the hope of such a memorial of 
** Slieve Donard." His verses may be sought in the files of The 
Belfast UxamineTy The Weekly New9y Young Ireland, and The 
Nation; but many of them never came under the eye of an editor. 
Amongst these last may be reckoned his contributions to a local 
publication known at different periods as The Celt, The Pwtaferrj' 
National Banner, and The Lough Cuan Monthly, McManus, the 
present writer, and a mutual friend, Mr. Hugh Doyle, now on the 
staff of a Belfast newspaper, were the joint editors of these several 
journals which, it is scarcely necessary to say, had a brief though 
brilliant existence. The poet-editor was by no means to be de- 
pended on for pfinctuaHty in furnishing his quota. 

I think it was in the winter of 1884 that McManus went to Belfast 
to work at his trade. He had been very happy among those of 
whom he had simg in one of his lyrics as " the boys of the noisy 
town ; " but some of his friends wondered how he would like the 
busy, bustling life of a city. He did not keep them long in sus- 
pense, for in a few weeks he sent a message home in one of his 
favourite journals : — 

An Ulster Poet, 155 

•* Oh, tiike me away to my own loyed home 
By the sounding aea. 

» « * 

** Oh, take me away to my lonely cot, 
From the crime-stained town, 
For I would not dwell in this sinful spot 

For a kingly crown, 
And a monarches wealth would allure me not 
From the shaded shores and the hills of Down/* 

He suited the action io the word and returned home. He 
vould rather have ended his days in Portaf erry than anywhere else 
in the world. But that would have been too great luck for a poet. 
Ah, i>oor McManus's last days did not belie the name we have 
ventured to give him. How is it that so many of these sons of 
song have gone down to their graves in sorrow much deeper than 
that which usually accompanies the death of the ordinary solid, 
sordid citizen ? Think of Scott dying broken-hearted in harness, 
Skelly perishing in the waves of the Grulf of Spezzia, the suicides of 
Tannahill and Chatterton, the dark reasonless closing years of 
Cowper. Think too of the sad ending of Poe, and of " the pit 
abysmal, the gulf and grave of Maginn and Bums." But Ireland 
has had more "gulfs and graves" of this sort of sorrow over than 
that of Maginn. What of Mangan himself, and of Callanan before 
him — ^Davis resting too early in Mount Jerome, Williams in the 
far clay of Louisiana, and " the grave that rises o'er thy sward, 
Devizes ? " Is there not something here to drop a tear over r^ It 
is with whispering breath that I name our humble northern car- 
penter in such goodly company ; but if he has no claim to sit in 
Tara's hall with the minstrels, " him grant a grave to, ye pitjang 
noble," among those true souls who poured out their very heart's 
lilood in song for Ireland. 

Here he had hoped and prayed to live and die : — 

** I would rather live in Ireland — and the thought comes from my heart — 
would rather toil in Ireland, on the barest, bleakest part, 
Spumed by every village magnate, smote by every minion^s hand, 
Than abide in pomp and panoply in any other land. 

** 1 would rather live in Ireland than where palms and olives grow, 
Nodding gently to the music of the softest winds that blow — 
Than where any silken lordling after fleeting pleasure roves, 
"Mid the citrons and bananas, through the shady orange groves. 

106 The Irish Monthly. 

" I would rather live in Irelaiul—ay, a hundred thuiLsand time.^--' 
Than in all the tropics' lustre or in beauty-hauuted climes ; 
Than in all the stately splendour of the cities in the West, 
Or where temples cast their shadows on the Tiber's storied breast. 

** I would rather live in Ireland ; for, although the spoiler's breath 
Loi'ust-likc may sweep her valleys, spreading ruin, dearth, and death,. 
Still it cannot chill the sunshine, and it cannot yet — thank CJod I — 
Hush the murmurs of the rivers, chase the shamrocks from the sod. 

** I woidd rather live in Ireland, though I live a life of care. 
And my eara for ever hearken to a pity-pletiding prayer — 
Though my eyes are weary watching the departing cowards' flight, 
And my brain is ever burning in the noon-day and the night. 

** I would rather live in Ireland, for my dearest dreams of fame, 
All my fondest aspirations, were commingled with her name — 
Pictured visions bom with boyhood and in hopeful manhood prized, 
Ye have kept your natal brightness though ye ne'er were realised I 

** I would rather live in Ireland ; for the friends you make ai-e true 
Ah I 'tis sad to think I've bade to some a long and last adieu) ; 
Though the spectral gaze of famine bids all earthly joys depart. 
It can never chill the kindness in a tender Irish heart. 

*' And I'll live in outraged Ireland — poor and hated, crashed and banned — 
That's a right by Heaven grant-ed to the lowliest in the land ; 
But I'll wait with growing trustfulness for that ai)proaching day 
Which will wake dear Erin's smile, and wipe her tears away." 

Not only to live in Ireland but to die and be buried there. So he 
had prayed in a poem which he called " My Grave," probably not 
forgetting that that was the name which Thomas Davis gave to his 
well known lines published at the very outset of his career, in tlie 
third number of 2 he Nation (October 29, 1842). Forty yeani 
later McManus thus pictured the grave he would choose for 
himself : — 

'* Away, away from the dusty town. 

With its woeful want and its crime-caused care, 
From the gables dark and chimneys brown. 

From the shadowed street and the stony square. 
Is a still, sweet spot which the rose perfumes, 

Where the yew- trees watch and the mosses creep : 
Oh ! there, 'ncath the bright labumimi blooms 
I hope to rest in my last, last sleep — 
Away from the glare 
Of the street and square. 
In the depth of my calm, unbroken slec p. 

An Uktev Poet, 157 

*' Awaj', away from the busy town, 

Where the circling trees to the wild wind bend, 
Where the sun -touched cross of the church looks down. 
And its shades with the shades of the tall trees blend, 
\^1iere the night-winged bird of the evening chants 

Its mournful song when the soft dews steep 
The guardian leaves of its lonely haunts — 
I'd fain lie there in my dreamless sleep ; 
Where the dark pine waves 
O'er the low, green graves — 
'Tis there I'd rest in a peaceful sleep. 

*' It my direst foe whom I now offend 

Would remember no more my foolish deeds, 
If my dearest friend, with another friend, 

Still thought on the one *neath the churchyard wcoils. 
And would sometimes sigh for the days gone by 

When we trod the valley and climbed the steep, 
I could feel resigned if my doath were nigh, 
I would rest in peace through that long, long sleej) — 
If I only thought 
He'd forget me not, 
I would calmly rest through that silent sleep, 

** When one with a soft, sweet face would pass 
That lowly moimd in her beauty by, • 

As she came to kneel at the solemn Mass, 

And would turn to the spot with a saddened eye ; 
Or with lingering step would desert the crowd 

To pray for my sinful soul and weep ; 
Oh ! I think Td stir in my mouldering shroud — 
I'd toss with joy in that sombre sleep — 
If her tearful glance 
Ck)uld but break the trance, 
How I'd rise with joy from that silent sleep ! 

An old graveyard in Portaferry was before his mind ; but he 
was to be buried far away. In April, 1886, he went to join his 
brothers in Philadelphia, and he died there in the August of that 
same year, at the early age of twenty-three. 

I know we shoidd be careful to whom we give the noble name 
of poet ; but I hope no reader will raise the finger of protest if I 
venture to conolude this sketch of my dear friend by changing 
slightly the beautiful words of Oliver Wendell Holmes and saying 
that the immortal Maid, who, name her what you will — Goddess, 
Muse, Spirit of Beauty — ^sits by the pQlow of every youthful min- 
strel, came to this poor young Irish carpenter and bent over his 
pale forehead until her tresses lay upon liis cheek and rained their 
gold into his dreams. John McGrath. 

158 The Irish Monthlt/. 


ALONG- the lovely Umbrian ways 
St. Francis strayed at eventide, 
While little birds sang roundelays. 

Fra Paolo, walking by his side, 
With eyes full of love's gentle beams, 
Gazed on the valley stretching wide 

Beyond Chiasi's limpid streams, 
Winding from 'neath the mountain's feet, 
like brooklets in a child's fair dreams, 

Where, shimmering in the Summer heat, 

Above Subaso's olive wood, 

Gleamed white Assisi's straggling street, 

With quaint old roofs, as red as blood, 
Shelving within its crumbling wall, 
O'er which the lofty bell tower stood. 

Saint Damian's soft and silvery call : 

The Angelus in solemn chime, 

Swept down the slope like dew's hushed fall 

Within a bindweed's cups aclimb, 
Around the maize's ripening blade. 
And sighing through the scented thyuie, 

It floated o'er the myrtle glade, 
Haunted by yellow-belted bees. 
And died amid the pinewood shade. 

The Saint sank low upon his knees, 
Fra Paolo knelt with closed eyes : 
A nightingale amid the trees 

Broke into little meUow cries, 
As if it knew the hour of prayer 
And fain would add its liquid sighs. 

A sudden glory filled the air, 

Its radiance streaming clear and bright 

Around the two men kneeling there,, 

A Story of a Sainf, 150 

When Francis, rising in the light, 
Saw flocks of goats a herdsman led, 
And in their midst a lamb, snow white. 

" vision of God's Lamb," he said, 
"Who midst the cruel crowds for me 
Was mocked, and spat upon, and bled I " 

But Paolo spake : "Nay brother, see, 
It is a little lamb outcast 
Spending its days full drearily." 

So quick across the bridge they passed. 
And he who loved dumb things the best 
Bartered his raiment till at last 

He bought the lamb, and on his breast 
Soft placed the tiny, trembling thing, 
As in a warm and peaceful nest. 

And making each dusk coppice ring — 

" Love's Lamb, my loving thoughts inspire/' 

His own sweet song, he 'gan to sing. 

Ubaldo gleamed a golden pyre, 

And then swift darkness hid each heiglit 

And quenched the sunset's ruby fire : 

A lad who through the purple night 
Thrumming upon his mandolin. 
Sang joyously of love's delight. 

Heard that rapt voice, the grove within, 
And, hushed amid the acacia bloom. 
Knelt 'neath the burden of his sin. 

So this still eve, from out the gloom 
That rests around those distant years, 
Sweet Saint, thou passest through my room, 

The lamb still nestling free from fears. 
And, like that careless peasant lad, 
Mine eyes filled with a mist of tears, 
I hear thy carol clear and glad. 

Clemem' J. B. Carteret^ 

16a The In.s/i Monthly, 


1. ** Blunders and For^reries : Historical Essays by the Rev. T. E. 
Bridgett, of the Congregation of the Most Holy Redeemer" (London : 
Kegan, Paul, Trench, Trubner & Co.), is an extremely valuable 
addition to the literature of liistory. Mr. Gladstone lately expressed 
his admiration for ** Father Bridgett's extraordinary acumen and 
Tesoarch," and he paid him the further compliment of being convinced 
by his arguments and withdrawing publicly a statement he had made 
about an incident in the life of Blessed John Fisher. But few have 
such candour and largeness of mind ; and we fear that similar 
retractations have not been made by Canon Perry, Dr. Lyon Plaj^fair, 
and other writers who are convicted of having blundered through their 
ignorance of Catholic matters and through rashness and self-sufficiency. 
The amount of painstaking research that has gone to the making of 
this book is incalculable ; and fortunately these stores of minute and 
accurate learning are sot forth in an admirable stjie that exactly suits 
the subject — a clear and pleasant style, equallj^ removed from dulness 
and flippancy. The first part of this work consists of five essays on 
certain ** blunders" committed by writers generally of high authority ; 
and the second part is devoted to the exposure of certain ** forgeries." 
The longest and in some respects most important discussion in the 
volume is that with which it concludes — "Robert Ware, or a Rogue 
and his Dupes." This is particularly interesting to Irish readers, for 
many of Robert Ware's forgeries regard Irish affairs, and the man 
himself was the unworthy son of the well known Irish antiquarian and 
annalist, Sir James Ware. Father Bridgett for his laborious investi- 
gations deserves the gratitude of nil who wish that history should not 
be what a famous writer represented it as having been for three 
centuries — a conspiracy against the truth. This very learned and 
ingenious volume is in many respects the most useful and certainly 
the most generally interesting of the many works that Catholic litera- 
ture owes to the indefatigable Redemptorist who seems to have taken 
the same vow as his illustrious Founder about the diligent employ- 
ment of every moment of time.* 

• A a wo wisli thiH name to bo familiar to any readers who h ive not already learned 
to aMSOciate it with solid learning and piety, we venture to allude to a mistaken 
notion that we have known to have been entertained that Father Bridgett was called 
so in the same way that the Hon. and Rev. George Speneer was known as Father 
Ignatius. But no, this unusual family name was borne by him as a Protestant 
student at the ITnivorsity of Cambridge, which he left to enter the Catholic Church, 
and soon after the R<Klemptori8t Order, so dear to Limerick and all Ireland. 

Notes an Netc Books. IGl 

2. Mr. Oladsione's review of Mien Middleton, disinterred after 
forty years, has probably relieved Burns and Oates's shelves of many 
copies of their reprint of Lady Georgiana FuUerton's earliest novel. 
We trust that the same effect may be produced with regard to a 
pretty book of stories published by Mr. R. Washbourne, 18 Pater- 
noster Bow, when the author is recognised as Miss Fowler, tho 
convert daughter of an Anglican clergyman, who is now making 
Molokai her home. As a Dominican nun, her name is Rose Gertrude, 
and as such she is thus addressed by another Anglican clergyman, 
the Rev. H. D. Eawnsley, in The Pall Mall Qautte:— 

" SiBter Rose Gertrude ! when the angels came 

And fired your soul and filled your girlish eyes 

With that fierce splendour of self-saorifioe, 
Whose passionate glory death can never tame, 
Did tropic lands with flowers and fruit out-flame P 

Bright shores from hyacinthine seas arise ? 

Or heard you Pain in some far Paradise, 
Cry for a Saviour in the Saviour* s name ? 

Nay rather, then, the paradisal flower 

Of Love, heaven-planted in your heart of earth, 
Turned to the light to find its being whole, 
And o'er dark seas you went with pity^s power 
To share true Life's communicable birth, 
And realise the God within your soul." 

It ia pleasant to be able to add that Amy Fowler tells her pretty 
^tofries 80 prettily that they do not need the extraneous recommendation 
of having been written by Sister Hose Gertrude. "Little Dick's 
<Siristma8 Carol" contains five tales, beside the one that gives its 
name to the book. The three first are in reality one story. Every 
one of the half dozen is interesting, edifying (and not too edifying), 
uid very charmingly written, worthy of warm praise for its own sake, 
even if the writer had not given up home and friends to become a 
Catholic, and had not now gone across the world to nurse the poor 
lepers of Molokai. 

3. Sir John Croker Barrow has published the third and concludin.^ 
part of his legendary poem, "Mary of Nazareth" (London: Burns 
uftd Oates). Though he calls it legendary, hardly a line of it rests on 
mere legend ; the devout Muse has followed the letter of the inspired 
narrative with great fidelity. The same stately heroic metre is used 
a« in the two previous parts, and the same device is resorted to for 
breaking the monotony of the heroic couplet : namely, the rhymes do 
not follow one another in couplets, but are arranged irregularly in 

Vol. xYin. No. 201. 61 

162 The Insk Monthly. 

quatrains and oth^r forms. Three or four branches of the subject are 
also treated in short lyrical pieces, as was done also in Parts I. and 
II. Indeed, we are not sure that the poet was well advised in 
separating, by long intervals, the publication of the three portions of 
his not very long poem. ''Mary of Nazareth" cannot be said to 
thrill the heart ; but it pleases both the spiritual and artistic taste. 

4. Seven articles of Cardinal Manning on National Education are 
joined together in a small but valuable book— articles mainly, by 
which, during the last five years, His Eminence has described the 
unequal and inadequate state of the legal provisions for National 
Education in England. The volume is published by Bums and 

6. Mr. E. Washboume has brought out with his usual care and 
good taste a translation by M. C. J., of Father Jennesseaux's modem 
edition of an excellent treatise on ** The Divine Favours granted to 
Saint Joseph," written with great unction and discretion by Father 
Stephen Binet, S.J., the schoolfellow and life-long friend of St. 
Francis of Sales. The devout clients of St. Joseph, and those who 
wish to become such, will find solid nourishment for their devotion in 
these 150 pages, divided into fifteen short and clear chapters. The 
translation is very good. Another March Saint is the Apostle of 
I reland. It is enough to announce a new edition of the popular work 
on St. Patrick by the Very Rev. T. H. Kinane, Dean of Cashel (Dub- 
lin : M. H. Gill and Son). From the same Diocese and the same 
Publishers comes "St. Patrick, Apostle of Ireland," by the Rev. 
Arthur Ryan, President of St. Patrick's College, Thurles. A brief, 
agreeable, and yet learned sketch of the Saint's life is followed by a 
novena of meditations, and common to all the nine days a very earnest 
and practical prayer and a very musical hymn, with plenty of rh}Tne 
and rhythm, and reason also. With St. Joseph and St. Patrick we 
may join St. Francis of Assisi. Though his feast is not in March, 
but as far away as October, several books about him have made their 
way to our library table this month. Newcastle-on-Tyne (Warburton 
and Co.) sends the Encyclical of Leo XIII. on St. Francis of Assisi 
and the Propagation of his Third Order, followed by the life of 
Blessed Lucius, its first member; and London sends five books 
relating to the Seraphic Saint. Mr. Washboume has issued n^w 
editions, both of Miss Lockhart's excellent translation of St. Bona* 
venture's life of him, and of a translation of his "Works," namely, 
his letters, monastic conferences, canticles, prayers and familiar 
colloquies. This last is a particularly holy and beautiful book. 
Finally, the Catholic Truth Society, in penny pamphlets, furnishes us 

Notes (w» New Books. 165 

with Legends of St Francis (from the Fioretti), the Sayings of 
Brother Giles, one of his first followers, and Legends of Brother 
Juniper, another of them. 

6. The Worlds Fair which is to be held in 1892 in Chicago. St. 
Louis or New York*, in honour of the fourth centenary of the discovery 
of the New World, wiU probably outstrip all similar celebrations that 
our half century has ever seen. The first book published in connection 
with it is " Isabella of Castile, 1492-1892," by Eliza AUen Star, 
(Chicago : C. V. Waite and Co.) It is published under the auspices 
of the Queen Isabella Association, which has been founded to secure 
for Isabella of Spain her proper recognition as the patron of 
Columbus, one of its special objects being the erection of her statue, 
which has very appropriately been entrusted to a woman sculptor, 
Harriet Hosmer, who would be greatly surprised if she saw herself 
styled the Mary Redmond of the United States. This monograph on 
Queen Isabella has been written by the most competent of her sex, 
Miss Starr's artistic taste is seen in all the externals of her book. They 
certainly do these things well on the other side of the Atlantic. 

7. Brother Azarias is the religious name of an Irishman, who, as a 
Brother of the Christian Schools, has done some noble work for Catholic 
education in the United States. In Catholic literature he has made 
himself felt chiefly through his contributions to The Catholic World, and 
The American Catholic Quarterly, To the recently deceased editor of 
the latter Review Brother Azarias dedicates his latest publication 
'* Books and Beading," which is sold at twenty-five cents for the 
benefit of the Cathedral Library of New York, and is now in a second 
edition. It is a sort of hand-book for the Heading Circles which are 
being organised among American Catholics. This pamphlet of seventy 
pages is an excellent piece of literature, full of interesting facts and 
remarks, and marked by far more novelty and freshness than it might 
be supposed possible to lend to such a theme. Those at home here 
who have anything to say to the guidance of young people in their 
reading would do well to procure this lecture of Brother Azarias and 
a recent book of Maurice Francis Egan, on English Literature. Both 
of those Irish Americans praise earnestly a book by an Irishman, 
almost utterly unknown at home, both man and book — ** Dion and 
the Sibyls," by Miles Gerald Keen. We are sorry to say that Brother 
Azarias is mistaken in naming Annie Keary among Catholic writers. 
The spirit of her Castle Daly and others of her stories is so good as to 
deceive one into thinking her one of ourselves. Her dearest friend 
became a Catholic and a nun, and remained her dearest Mend ; but 

164 The Irish Moithfy. 

Miss Keaiy never found her way into visible union with the Catholic 

8. " Saint Cecilia's Cates," by Esmeralda Boyle (Dublin : Jameis 
Duffy &.Son), is another link between the Old and the New World, 
^liss Boyle is a native of the United States, with Irish blood and an 
Irish name and heart. Her dainty little quarto is full of poetic feeling, 
and recalls vividly many holy scenes and many holy moods. A great 
many of the pieces are very short and need a good deal of sympathy 
to enable the reader to interpret the writer's full meaning. 

9. These notes on new books are confined to those books which are 
«ent expressly for this purpose by those who are concerned in their 
success. This month the majority of these new Publications come to 
us from America. Benziger sends the fifteenth volume of the great 
Centenary Edition of the Ascetical Works of St. Alphonsus Liguori, 
which comprises the treatises that may be grouped under the titl«' 
'*The Preaching of God's Word." The same energetic firm, as if to 
f-liow us that their enterprise is not confined to ascetic works, has sub- 
ndtted to our inspection specimens of their school books, a "New 
Primer," and a ** New First Reader," both compiled by a Catholic 
liishop, Dr. Gilmour of Cleveland. The pictures and the artful 
grouping of small words seem admirably adapted to coax the younji^ 
student forward. Another firm that has one foot in Germany and 
another in the United States — a wider stretch than the Bhodiau 
colossus was able to compass — is Herder, of Freiburg, in Baden, and of 
St. Louis, in Missouri, who sends us a rather large "Illustrated Bible 
History of the Old and New Testaments," translated from the 
German of Dr. Schuster, and revised by several clergymen. 

10. Another set of American publications, which, as they have 
travelled so far, must at least be mentioned, for this is enough to 
recommend them. The seventh thousand of the Eev. Thomas J. 
Jenkins' ** Christian Schools" (Murphy: Baltimore); "The Spanish 
Inquisition," by Dr. Dwenger, Bishop of Fort Wayne (Benziger 
I^rothere) ; and an extremely eloquent and interesting lecture on 
Culture and Practical Power by an Irish-Canadian M.P., Mr. Nicholas 
Flood Davin, published at Eegina, in the North West Territory. To 
our friend, Mr. W. J. Onahan, City Comptroller of Chicago, we owe 
very many favours, the latest being copies of the official record of 
** The Dedication and Opening of the Catholic University of America, 
Nov. 13, 1889," and of the magnificent "Souvenir Volume Illustrated" 
(Detroit : William H. Hughes), which is a worthy memorial of three 
great events in the history of the Catholic Church in the United 

Nates on New. Books. 165 

•Statet—ihe celebration of the Centenary of the establishment of the 
.Vmerican hierarchy, 1779-1889, the first American Catholic Congress, 
and the Dedication of the Catholic Universitj. The addresses, essays, 
and sennons, and the record of the other proceedings, are very inter- 
^ting and contain much valuable matter. The volume, which is a 
splendid specimen of the best American typography, is profusely 
illustrated with pictures of buildings of Catholic interest in the States, 
of the chief laymen who organised this celebration, and especially of 
the American hierarchy, so numerous that very few, if any, of the 
thirteen archbishops and seventy-five bishops are omitted. These por- 
traits are engraved in that excellent artistic manner to which The 
Century Magmne has accustomed even European eyes. In addition, 
(^herefore, to its religious and historical interest, this Souvenir Volume 
:!» elegant enough to adorn the drawingroom table of a refined Catholic 

11. It is only as literature, and an interesting and valuable piece 
of Uterature, that we can notice Dr. George Sigerson's "Political 
Prisoners at Home and Abroad " (London : Kegan, Paul, Trench, 
Trubner & Co.) Dr. Sigerson was a member of the Royal Commission 
on Prisons in 1884, and has made the subject a special study. Quite a 
literary flavour is given to the earlier chapters, especially by extracts 
from William Cobbett, Leigh Hunt, and others, describing the treat- 
ment they received in prison. The present work must be consulted 
by all who have any concern with the subject.- It is introduced by a 
short recommendatory letter from Mr. James Bryce, the learned author 
of "The Holy Roman Empire," and more recently " The American 
Commonwealth," whom we were glad to see referred to lately as 
"that erudite Belfastman." 

12. The Catholic Truth Society, 21 Westminster Bridge Road, 
?.E., has issued a shilling volume, neatly bound, with the title of 
*• Science and Scientists : some Papers on Natural History," by the 
Rev. John Gerard, S.J. It is quite remarkable for the fulness and 
minuteness of its knowledge, manifestly not second-hand, and for the 
freshness and quiet brilliancy of the style, which makes solid in- 
fitruction delightful. 

13. '* On Rescue Bent!" by Austin Gates (London: Bums and 
Oates), describee in a very taking way the work of the Catholic Rescue 
and Protection Society of Manchester, and the sad need there is for 
fiuch a work. We are allowed to understand something of " A Night 
in a Common Lodging House," ''Saturday Night in the Free and 
Eaaies,". '*Gn Tramp, or Thirty-eight Hours in a Casual Ward," 

166 The Irish Monthly. 

** Monday Morning in the Police Coutts," and "A Day in the Office- 
of the Catholic Protection and Rescue Society," which through the 
zeal and energy of Dr. Yaughan and the earnest men who carry on 
the work, is doing much to save the poor Catholics of that great 
English City, most of them of course from our own dear land. And we 
at home — are all of us according to our ability * 'on rescue bent? '* 
Do we do enough to support the various institutions established for 
rescuing the fallen and saving the yoimg from the sad need of 
rescue ? 

14. ''The Secular office, being Notes compiled as a general guide 
to the Divine office extra Chorum,", by the Rev. E. J. Ryan (Dublin : 
M. H. Oill and Son), will hardly be intelligible to any but those who 
are accustomed to the recitation of the Divine office, and to them it 
will not be of much interest or utility. 

15. "The Bugle Call, and Other Poems," by Augusta Clinton 
Winthrop (BostoD : W. H. Clarke and Co.) is one of the most daintily 
produced volumes that even Boston has ever sent forth. One is 
further prejudiced in its favour from seeing it " lovingly dedicated " 
to a man whom we all revere, Oliver Wendell Holmes, and to Louise 
Chandler Moulton, whom many of us admire for her rare charm of 
style in verse and prose. In Miss Winthrop's poems there is great 
variety of theme and treatment. We prefer those which take their 
inspiration from piety.- In many of them the author, though an 
American, shows a warm Irish heart, God bless her! If we could 
indulge in the luxury of quotations, we suspect that our first choico 
would fall either on " Sweet Friend " or on " Three 6ouls.*' 

16. Another American book must be our last this month. It is^ 
we think, the first that has come to us from Milwaukee — "Rational 
Religion," by the Rev. John Conway, Editor of " The North Western 
C'hronicle." With a style as clear and bold as the type in which 
Hoffmann and Company have set up the took. Father Conway 
discusses all the questions that interest a religious enquirer in a com- 
munity such as he lives among — God, the Trinity, the Divinity of 
Christ, Miracles, Faith and Reason, Faith and Pliysics, Faith and 
Evolution, the Church and the Bible, the Veneration of the Blessed 
Virgin, and many other points of doctrine and practice. Please God, 
the book will be a help to many an honest searcher after truth, and 
will enable its Catholic readers to give a reason for the faith that is in 

17. It is but right that we should occasionally give a kindly 

Notei on New Books. 167 

greetiDg to the magazines and other periodical publicationa that take 
the trouble of visiting our editorial sanctum month after month, or at 
other stated periods. The most dignified of these is The American 
Catholic Quarterly Eeview (Philadelphia : Hardy and Mahony). In 
the latest number the paper of most general interest is one in which 
Monsignor Bernard O'Eeilly describes the diplomatic efforts of the 
British Goverument in its relations with the Holy See some sixty years 
ago. Many interesting and important letters of the then Eector of the 
Irish College at Eome, who was afterwards to be Cardinal Cullen, 
and several other original documents, are given in this article, which 
is only the first of a series. Two other American magazines are most 
punctual in their visits, The Catholic World and The Ave Maria, The 
former will allow ns to say that it has had a great loss in Father 
Hecker, and the latter will allow us to say that it has had a great gain 
in Mr. Maurice Egan. From a greater distance than any of these and 
at rarer intervals comes to us Our Alma Mater, which is not a monthly 
nor even a quarterly, but '*a school annual edited by the students of 
St. Ignatius' College, S.J., Eiverview.'* This is the Jesuit CoUege of 
Sydney, New South Wales, which, if we may judge by the pictures 
given here of the college buildings, chapel, cottage hospital, swim- 
ming baths, and especially the beautiful view of all together as seen 
from the river, must be worthy of. that vast Australian continent. 
Even to benighted European outsiders this volume is of great interest; 
but what must it be to the Eiverviewers themselves, past, present, and 
future? " The Geelong Grumble" adds considerable piquancy to the 
present issue, which, we trust, will be absent from the ten remaining 
Tears of this century : for we need not yet send our wishes so far for- 
ward as the Twentieth Century. It strikes us that Eivei^view has hit 
on the proper maximum (and minimum) of academic journalism. 
Even The Fordham Monthly and other American visitors, with aU their 
merits, do not convince us that such frequent appearances are useful. 
They must interfere with better things. But indeed we know very 
little about the matter. At any rate it would seem that every large 
Kchool, like Clongowes here at home, should at least once each year 
issue some such record of its proceedings. These records may acquire 
very great value in after times. '^Our Alma Mater " seems to us an 
<^xcellent mqdel for such a college annual. But, with all due respect 
for Fordham and Eiverview and the rest, The Stonyhurst Magagine 
bears away the palm for the interest it contrives to throw round its 
local surroimdings. However, some Geelong grumbler woidd object 
tliat this merit is not due to '' a bona fide schoolboy." Most decidedly' 
not, and so much the better. The editorial chair is too sacred an 
institution for schoolboys to meddle with except under prudent re- 

168 The Irish Monthly. 

»triotions. Ab those who are intested in Zipptneott^s Magazine have 
taken the trouble to forward the January and February parts, we may 
second their wish to extend their European circulation, as Harper*8 
Mmthly and The Gentnry Magazine have done, by expressing our wonder 
ut the vast quality of excellent matter that this American periodical 
furnishes for a shilling. The most noticeable contributions are from 
Julian Hawthorne, who inherits a great deal of his father's genius. 
Indeed Nathaniel Hawthorne is himself a contributor, his sketch of one 
of his stories being annotated and filled up by his son. Our last word 
will be given to Commercial Ireland, an extremely weU printed and well 
edited journal, which is true to its name and sticks to its proper pur- 
pose. Business and advertisements very properly occupy nearly all 
tlie space ; but the occasional scraps of literature are good in their 
way, like the grass which grows in the crevices of the rocks that cover 
a field in some parts of Connaught, where sheep fatten weU, we are 
told, on what seems to be nothing but stones. 



rOETE jaces victus, Damiane, invicte laborum ! 
Fato functus abes quo nunquam dignior alter 
Yita perpetua, nee te revocare peremptum 
Vota valentve pieces, nee luctum tempus abegit. 
Nee desiderium mollit miserabile nostrum. 
Tu patriam linquis, tu moestos linquis amicos ; 
Tu fers auxilium quserens confinia mundi 
Qua miseri morbo conf ecti speque careiites 
Marcebant homines passim, medicina neque ulla 
Nee requies erat usque mali. Eeperire nequibant 
Corpora qui curet morbo jam dedita morti. 
Hue 8(ilator ades f essis succurrere doctus 
Et mulcere malum, tamen omne recidere nescis 
— Nee datur— et lenis vim lentee mortis amaram, 
Templa Dei monstrous securaque tecta piorum, 
Et Crux, una Salus, cseois spem reddit ocellis. 
Sancte, vale, pater, has nunquam rediturus ad oras ; 
Lux cecidit vitee, fama) tibi gloria vivet 
iBtemumque tuum recolent pia secula nompn. 

H. A. HiNKSoir. 
Clongotces Wood College. 

APRIL, 1890 





THE long voyage was almost at a end. Nothing had occurred to 
disturb its peace and harmony. The weather had been splendid ; 
the passengers agreeable and entertaining. And as the Cimbria 
bowled merrily through the Mediterranean, Madge was enchanted with 
all she saw. The glorious blue sea, the clear cloudless sky, filled her 
with delight; and when they ran along the lovely shore and cast 
anchor in the Bay of Naples, words failed her, and she gazed across 
the unrivalled harbour with flushed cheeks and shining eyes. 

'* To-morrow we shall be in England," thought Madge one night 
as she lay awake in her berth, *' we have passed the Bay of Biscay, 
oar journey is almost at an end, and sometime to-morrow we shall 
reach our destination — England. A new country — I wonder what is 
it like. Shall I feel amongst strangers there ? No. Why should 1 ? 
I have father and mother and Dora. Sweet little Dora. I shall never 
be lonely whilst I have all these dear ones to love. God keep them 
■afe for me.*' 

Then the girl raised herself on her elbow and looked down upon her 
sleeping mother and sister. Mrs. Neil looked white and wan in the 
dim hght ; but Dora was the picture of health and loveliness, as she 
lay in profound slumber on her pillow. Madge smiled happily and 
Bank back upon the berth. But she could not sleep. She felt restless 
and unsettled. Thoughts of the new country, the strange home, her 
father's prospects, filled her mind and kept her uneasy. 

It was a dear starry night. There was not a breath of wiv*^. not 
Vol. ZTxn. Ko. 202. 62 

170 The Irish Monthly. 

a ripple on the water. One beautiful star twinkled brightly at Madge 
through the port-hole, and myriads bf little ones covered the blue 

But suddenly a haziness came over the atmosphere, a heavy cur- 
tain of mist fell about the ship, and the shining planets were hidden 
from view. "How strange," thought Madge. "Is it a fog? Or am 
I getting sleepy ? Perhaps a little of both. Now, I must really try 
to forget everything and go to sleep." 

She closed her eyes, and prepared to rest. But at this moment a 
crash was heard — a horrible grinding sound, and then the immense 
steamer stood still, shuddering through all its parts. Then the place 
echoed with cries of horror, and shriek after shriek resounded on all 

White with terror Madge sprang from her berth — 

"Mother," she cried, "something dreadful is going on. Get up, 
get up." 

Mrs. Neil stared at the child. But before she could answer a word 
the cabin door was flung open, and a wild terrified voice announced 
the awful tidings — 

"Quick — to the boats — there has been a collision — we are sink- 
ing fast." 

Madge threw her ulster on over her night-dress, wrapped the now 
weeping Dora in a cloak, and clasped her in her arms. 

"Mother," she cried in a voice of anguish, " rouse yourself , for 
pity's sake rouse yourself." 

But Mrs. Neil made no reply. Her white face was set ; her eyes 
fixed and sfaring. 

"Madge! Madge!" screamed Anne rushing in with Sylvia. 
" There is not an instant to spare. See, your father will help your 
mother. Save yourself — come, come." 

Mr. Neil bent over his wife and kissed her lovingly, then started 
aside with a groan of horror. 

"My darling," he murmured in a choking voice, "we can do 
nothing for your poor mother now. God has taken her to Himself — 
this shock has killed her." 

"Oh! that cannot be, that cannot be. Mother, speak to me — 
speak ! " And, sobbing bitterly, Madge flung herself upon the dead 
woman's breast. 

"To the boats — children and women first," cried the Captain. 
" For God's sake, be quick. Bring nothing — think only of your lives. 
Quick, we are sinking fast." 

Mr. Neil caught Dora in his arms, and, raising the almost un- 
conscious Madge, bore her out of the cabin up to the deck. 

A Striking ContrmL 171 

There all was in wild confusion. The fog enveloped everything 
like a pall, and nothing could be seen at two yards' distance. The 
lower decks were covered with water. People were running about 
distracted with terror. Men 'and women grew delirious as they clung 
to the rigging, imploring the sailors to help them. 

The captain alone remained calm. He never for an instant forgot 
his duty. The boats had all been lowered ; and by the gleam of the 
Bengal lights, burned by the chief engineer, he saw that they were 
filled as fast as possible with the unfortunate women and children. 

As Madge appeared on the scene clinging to her father's arm, she 
was quickly seized and flung, more dead than alive, into the nearest 

"Help, help," shrieked Anne. And, relieved of his daughter's 
weight, Neil turned, and taking Sylvia from her, dragged her up the 

In an instant she was hurried away. There was just room for 
one more in a heavily laden boat, and into it she was thrown. 

"The chUd — my master's child," she screamed. "I cannot go 
without her." 

Mr. Neil made a step forward, tripped on a rope, was jostled ruth- 
lessly by the crowd, and fell on the slippery deck. 

"The children — ^they must go in these boats," cried a sailor ; and, 
i-atching them roughly, 'he flung one to Anne and the other to Madge. 

" Father, father, come with us," cried Madge, as by the flare of a 
torch she saw poor Neil struggling to his feet. " Of what use is life 
to OS without father or mother ? Oh ! come. Let him come, I pray, 
I implore. My father, my " 

But the sailors heeded her. not, and pushed quickly off to sea. 
The thick fog hid the sinking ship from view ; and with a shriek of 
anguish Madge fell fainting to the bottom of the boat. 

" Thank God we are«safe," munnured Anne, wrapping her cloak 
closely round the child who clung to her in speechless terror in the 
other boat. "Thank Godjwe are saved." 

"So you may say," answered one of the men. " We were the last 
to leave the ship. She is gone— aU on board have perished." 

" Row for your lives," cried another; " dimly through the fog I see 
a light. It is a steamer. Row, boys, if we reach her we are safe ; if 
not, we must perish of cold and hunger." 

The men fell to work, rowing with aU the strength of their brawny 
arms. Fortunately the sea was comparatively smooth, or the boat 
would have been swamped. The men pulled for their lives, and not 
a word was spoken. Anne, with the baby clasped to her breast, two 
other women, and a boy of ten, crouched in the stem, peering anxiously^ 
for some signs of the saving ship. 

172 The Irish Mmthhj. 

For 8ome time nothing cotild be seen ; and, imagining they had 
been deoeived, the men hurled curse after curse at their comrades. 

Then all at once a cry of joy went forth. Close beside them, 
rising like a ghost out of the fog, was a large steamer almost motion- 
less upon the calm waters. 

The shipwrecked party signalled wildly. Their signals were seen. 
Bopes and ladders were lowered, and men, women and children were 
soon in safety on board a homeward bound yessel. 

They were all kindly treated, provided with food and clothing, and 
sent to bed. 

Much exhausted, weak and numb with cold and terror, Anne gave 
the baby to the stewardess ; and, begging her to attend to its wants, 
staggered to a berth, where she soon fell into a deep sleep. 

Early next morning she awoke, and sitting up, called loudly for 
the child. 

"Pray do not be uneasy," said the stewardess, "she is fast asleep 
just beside you. See." 

She raised the counterpane of the next berth, and showed a lovely 
infant fast asleep, with one little rounded arm thrown above her head. 
But the hair was a rich auburn ; the long eyelashes that swept the rosy 
cheeks were dark ; the nose was short and daintily formed ; the pout- 
ing mouth was like a cupid's bow. In one word, it was not Sylvia 
Atherstone that lay before the distracted ni^rse, but little Dorothy 

" There was another," gasped Anne, clutching the woman's hands. 
" Another — fair — delicate. Oh, say, there was another." 

" Alas ! no, my poor soul, there was only one. The other must 
have been drowned. This is the only baby brought on board last 
night. There were children of six, eight, and ten. But only one 
baby, and here she is." 

" Drowned— my pet— my Sylvia. Oh, master — master ! What shall 

And, wild with grief, Anne flung herself back, weeping on her 
pillow. Hour after hour she tossed from side to side in passionate 
despair. What was to be done ? Where could she go to with this 
motherless, fatherless, penniless babe? She had no money, no 
clothes, no home. If she were to go with this little stranger to her 
masters father, and tell him that his grandchild was dead, ^vliat 
would he say ? What would he do ? Cast them both from his door 
— and then ? Well, they might seek a refuge where they could— 
starve by the road-side, or go to the workhouse. 

Then a terrible temptation took possession of the unfortunate- 
nurse ; and in her hour of extreme need, she yielded to it. 

A Striking Contrast. 173 

Saddenlj, in the midst of her anguish, she remembered that Sir 
Eastace Atherstone had never seen his granddaughter. How, then, 
i-ovld he know that this little girl was a stranger ? How guess that 
she was not his son's child? How, indeed, unless he were told. 
And there and then Anne resolved that for the pre<tent, at least, he 
ohonld not be told. 

" We touch at Plymouth directly," said the stewardess ; " would 
jou like to land ? " 

" Land ?" cried Anne, aghast at such an idea, ** without money — 
without friends. Oh, no, I must stay till someone comes for me." 

" Then send a telegram. The news of the loss of the Cimbria will 
be, or perhaps is, known everywhere. No one will know how or 
where to find you, unless you telegraph that you are coming home in 
ihe Sultana. We shall reach Gravesend to-morrow." 

Anne trembled, and became white as death . 

"I feel — I — am — weak — ^I cannot — write." 

" Poor thing, you have suffered much. But never mind. I will 
write it for you." 

She took a pen and sat down beside Anne. 

" Now, what is the address ? " 

** Sir Eustace Atherstone, 18 Cromwell Houses, London." 


"Will reach Gravesend with Miss Sylvia Atherstone to-morrow. 
Saved from wrefck of Cimbria. Have no money. Anne Dane." 

** And will you not mention the other child?" asked the woman 

"The— other child?" 

"Yes. Just a word to break the news of its drowning." 

Anne started to her feet, and gazed wildly round the cabin. 

"Hush ! There— was no other child. I — was— dreaming." 

Then, with a sob and a cry, she fell fainting to the floor. 

** Poor creature, the terror of this wreck has turned her brain," 
^d the stewardess; '*and, indeed, it is not astonishing that it 

She raised the unhappy Anne, bathed her face and hands, and 
laid her in her berth. Then, when •she opened her eyes, and seemed 
returning to consciousness, she covered her carefully, and htirried 
away with the telegram. 

Next day the Sultana steamed into Gravesend. A tall, broad- 
^hoxddered man of about fifty, with a kindly anxious face, stood upon 
^e vharf, and immediately the gangway was lowered, he sprang on 
io it, and made his way on board the steamer. 

"Where is Anne Dane ? " he asked at the door of the saloon. 

174 The Irish Monthly. ' 

'•Here, sir, here." 

And a woman, as white as death and trembling in every Kmb,. 
staggered forward and placed a lovely little girl injhis arms. 

"My Sylvia, my sweet little pet," he cried with emotion, and 
pressing the child to his heart he covered her with kisses. ** Welcome, 
my darling — a hundred times welcome." 

Then turning to Anne, he shook her warmly by the hand. 

** Thank you, thank you for your love and care. In the midst of 
dangers and shipwreck you have not forgotten my little one. I shall 
never forget your goodness, never. Come, your troubles are at an end. 
You shaU live with and nurse my pretty Sylvia as long as she requires 
you ; and then — well then you may do what you please— live as you 
like ; I will always look after you and give you all you may require. 
God bless you, and thank you." 

Anne could not speak for emotion. She was touched by Sir 
Eustace's kindness, and longed to tell him the trouble. But she dared 
not do so. It would be risking too much. So. she said nothing, and 
followed him quietly on shore ; and thus she and the orphaned Dora 
found a comfortable home. 



Meanwhile, Madge and Sylvia were suffering sadly. They clung 
together sobbing and shivering. The fog was damp and cold, and 
they were thinly clad. Madge, always unselfish, pressed the little 
one to her breast, and covered her with her ulster. In the dreadful 
darkness that surrounded them, she knew not which of the children 
she held in her arms. But it mattered little which — she loved them both, 
and felt certain that the other was somewhere near with Anne Dane. 
The idea of the boats being separated and their inmates losing each 
other, never entered her head. She was stunned, dazed with miser}^ 
and thought not of the future. 

For many long hours they pitched about upon the sea. It was cold 
and dark. No friendly sail came«near them through the night. A 
barrel of biscuits and a keg of water was all they had to keep them 
alive ; and they were probably miles and miles from land. The sailors 
cursed and swore and quarrelled amongst themselves, and poor Madge's 
heart was sick within her as she listened. Then by degrees she began 
to realize the sad fate that was hers— the utter desolation that had 
fallen upon her, her mother dead, her father swept away to a waterj^ 
grave, and she left alone to face the cruel world or perish of cold and 

A Sinking Contrast, 17t> 

hunger, with a baby in ber arms— a fair, delicate baby. For as the 
morning dawned she saw it was not her sister she held to her heart, 
but Sylvia Atherstone. With the morninfj: light their misery became 
more intense. A gale sprang up, the fog cleared away, and the 
sea, that had been so calm, grew suddenly wild and tempestuous. The 
frail bark was tossed unmercifully from side to side. Waves broke 
over her and filled her with water. Then it seemed as though all was 
over— as though all must perish. Someone flung a life-belt over 
Madge^s head, and in a moment she was struggling for life in the midst 
of the angry billows. 

That day, at noon, two ladies sat on the beach at a little sea-side 
place some miles from Plymouth. They were old and thin, with care- 
worn faces that spoke of much sufEering and great anxiety. 

"Well, sister," said she who from a certain air of command seemed 
to be the elder of the two, ** there is only one way out of our difficulty. 
We can no longer do the work ourselves and attend to our shop. Since 
that sad hour when we heard that we had lost our fortunes through 
the dishonesty of our guardians, and came to eke out an existence in 
this lonely village, I have not felt so weak and incapable; you too 
are failing in health; and so the one thing certain is, we must take 
a servant." 

" I supx>ose so, Matilda," replied her sister sighing. "But where 
shall we get one for the money we can offer ? The maids about here 
ask such exorbitant wages." 

"So they do, dear. But we must wait and watch. Who knows — 
something may turn up." 

This was always Miss Matilda's cry no matter what happened, no 
matter what went «vrong— something would surely turn up. And so 
these two kind-hearted maidens had gone through life, living on little, 
pinching and screwing, always hoping that something would turn up : 
that their squandered fortune— squandered by wicked and dishonest 
guardians — might one day be restored to them, or that they by their own 
own efforts should become rich and prosperous. But in spite of their 
iadustry and attention to their shop things did not not mend, nothing 
of any consequence ever turned up ; and now ns they grew too old and 
feeble for their work, they were a^s poor and unsuccessful as on the 
first day when they had taken up their abode in the little village by 
the sea. 

"Let us go home, Barbara," said Matilda after a time. " It is 
dinner-hour, and some of the villagers may come round to the shop." 

Barbara sighed, but rose immediately. "It is so refreshing here, 
Uatty. The sea looks grand to-day." 

"Grand. Yes; but dangerous. Think of the ships and 

176 The Irish Monthly. 

But what is that?" she cried in sudden excitement. "What are 
those men carrying ? Bab, Bab ! It is someone who has been 
drowned. Who can it be ? '* 

The fishermen laid down their burden as Miss Matilda pressed 
forward to question them. 

" 'Tis a little lass, Ma'am," said one, drawing down the cloth that 
covered the girl. " A little lass, with a baby in her arms." 

** Poor child ! Is she dead ? " 

" No, no. The life's in her yet." 

** Then, why do you waste time in restoring her ? Bring her into 
our house. Carry her in at once. Gome, you can lay her on mj 

"You are a good woman, Miss Matilda. God will reward you." 

" Come ; waste no time." 

The men raised the stretcher and followed the old lady into the 
cottage. The bed was warmed, restoratives applied, and in a short 
time Madge and Sylvia were sleeping peacefully, whilst Miss Matilda 
watched beside them with loving anxiety. 

"Matilda," whispered Barbara, stealing up to the bed-side and 
gazing at the children in alarm, "it was foolish to take them in. 
We are poor. How can we feed and clothe these unfortunate waifs?" 

Miss Matilda raised her eyes towards heaven. A beautiful smile 
played round the comers of her mouth, and illumined her withered 

" God sent them to us," she said simply. " I am glad ; happy to 
shelter them and save them from starvation — or the workhouse. We 
are poor, as you say ; but believe me, sister, God is good — something 
will surely turn up." • 



In a few days Madge was herself again. The damp night air, 
the terrors of shipwreck, and the cruel struggle with thejangry waves, 
had done her but small injury. The old ladies who had so kindly 
taken her in, treated her with such tender care and consideration, 
that in a short time she was once more restored to her usual health 
and strength. But poor little Sylvia drooped and pined. The cold 
and fatigue, the long exposure she had endured, had shaken her 
delicate frame and left her very fragile. The child grew pale and 

A Striking Contrast 177 

tliin; aU lier energy seemed gone ; and she would lie for hours 
together on her bed without word or movement. 

Madge was distracted with grief. Sylvia was all she had in the 
vorld to love, and the thought that she too might die, and leave her, 
was anguish. She watched her night and day. All her time was 
spent by her bedside ; all her prayers were for her recovery. 

Then, by degrees, Sylvia grew brighter, and when the sun shone 
and the air felt warm and balmy, Madge would wrap her up carefully, 
and carry her down to the beach. Here they would sit the best part 
of the day — Sylvia sleeping or playing with shells, Madge reading, 
or thinking sadly over their unhappy fate. 

On« day, about six months after their rescue from the waves, 
Madge sat as usual amongst the rocks with Sylvia on her knee. The 
<hild had improved of late. She had still a white, pinched look about 
her httle face. Her form was slight, her back weak, her shoulders 
Tonnd. But her eyes were bright, and her lips wreathed with smiles, 
u she looked up at Madge, and listened to her sweet low song. 

Miss Barbara suddenly appeared at the cottage door, and shading 
her eyes with her hand, gazed down towards the beach. 

" Here they are," she said. '^ I must speak to Madge at once. It 
vill be a blow to the child. But what can we do ? " 

She picked her way across the* stones, and coming behind Madge, 
touched her on the shoulder. 

She first started and looked round. Then, seeing who was there, 
moved a little, and made room for the old lady beside her on the 

"Sylvia is better to-day," she said brightly. "See, Miss Bar- 
bara, she looks quite gay." 

" So she does. And I am delighted to see the change. It will 
make it more easy for you to part with her." 

" Part with her ? Oh, Miss Barbara— I— why ? " 

" My dear child," answered the lady kindly, " something must be 
done. We cannot gp on as we have been doing any longer. We 
<annot, indeed." 

" But — but parting with baby. What difference can that make ?" 

" This. And you must not be vexed, child. It is necessity that 
forces me to speak. There will be one less to feed, and you will have 
time to work." 

Madge flushed hotly, and turned away her head. But presently 
she looked round again. Her eyes were full of tears. " I have been 
▼ery thoughtless — very selfish," she cried. " But, indeed, from this 
hour I will work hard. Only — please— please don't send Sylvia 

178 TheJrhh MoixfhUj. 

" My dear, we must, and believe me it will be for your good and 

" Ob, how— bow? " sobbed Madge. 

** In this way. You will be able to work and earn your bread, 
and at the same time educate yourself, whilst she will be happy and 
well taken care of." 

" But where is she to go ? " 

" To the Orphanage at Plymouth." 

Madge gasped. 

"To the Orphanage. Oh, Miss Barbara." 

" Well, dear, it is all we can do for her. And it is only through 
the kind influence of the Squire's wife that we can manage even that. 
You tell us the child belongs to rich people— that her grandfather is 
wealthy, but your information is vague ; . beyond that, and that his 
name is Atherstone, you know nothing. So how are we ever to get 
at him ? " 

" We mtist find her grandfather in time." 

" In time, perhaps. But that may mean years, or never. Adver- 
tisements have been put in the papers. But no notice has been taken. 
And surely if any man were in doubt as to the fate of his grandchild, 
he would have made a fuss, advertised, put detectives on the track, 

" He thinks she is dead, I suppose. But one day we shall find him 
out. How I wish I knew his name and address ! But papa and Anne 
always spoke of him as Mr. Atherstone's father, and X never thought 
of asking where he lived. He was in England, that was enough for 
me. But now. Miss Barbara, I'd give the world to know more." 

" Yes, it would be a blessing, dear. But now, as you don't, and 
as we cannot find him, the child must be provided for. So Matilda 
and I have arranged to take her to the Orphanage at once, to-morrow 
or next day." 

** Poor little Sylvia, poor little pet." 

And Madge bent her head and wept bitterly., 

** My dear, she is not going to prison. She will be kindly treated, 
and carefully trained. You wiU be allowed to visit her at certain 
times, and you will be able to take her little things bought out of 
your wages." 

" My wages ? " 

''Yes. Sister and I have been thinking that, when the child is 
gone, you would be anxious to earn some money, and so we thought 
you might be our servant. At least, you might help us in our work." 

** Dear Miss Barbara, I'll do anything you want," cried Madge, 
with streaming eyes. ''You and Miss Matilda have been so good to 

A Striking Contrast. 17d 

me. I'll work all day — and— and— now — I see my darling must go^ 
But, oh, it is hard — so hard, for she is all I have.'* 

" It is hard, I know, dearest. She has taken the place of father^ 
mother, sister," replied Miss Barbara, gently. ** But listen, child ; if 
you work well in the mornings at our house work, you shall go to 
school in the afternoons. The organist will teach you music, if he 
iinds you have talent, and the Squire's daughter. Miss Tranmore, ha» 
offered to teach you French. You are a lady born, we see ; and we 
are resolved to do aU we can to give you b. lady's education. Our 
friends are most generous, and anxious to help us." 

"You are good, you are good," murmured Madge. "Miss Bar- 
bara, how can I ever thank you ? " 

" By working well, and giving up your little sister as cheerfully 
as you can. And that reminds me, dear, of something I must tell 
you. We all think that baby's story need not be told at the Orphan- 
age, or in the village. It is useless, and may cause her annoyance as 
she grows older. It is enough to say she is an orphan, without 
mentioning her rich grandfather. For who knows if the authorities 
beard of him, they might refuse to admit her, and thfen what should 
we do?" 

" Just as you please. I don't suppose it matters." 

^' And then this miniature and gold chain. You had better keep 
them for her till she grows up, and you tell her her story." 

" Till she grows up ? Is my darling to be poor all her life then ? " 

" Probably. I see no chance of anything else." 

" Poor little Sylvia ! " 

" And, Madge, the Squire's wife thinks Sylvia too grand a name — 
she says we should call the child something more simple." 

Madge drew the baby to her breast, and kissed her passionately. 

"Yery well," she said. "We are two lonely, desolate waife. 
She has taken my sister's place — she shall take my sister's name. 
That is simple enough, even for a penniless orphan." 

" Dora Neil. Yes, that will do admirably." 

Then Miss Barbara bowed her head, and left the children alone. 

The next day Sylvia was carried to Plymouth, and admitted to the 
Oiphanage as Madge's sister, little Dorothy Neil. 



After this Madge became invaluable to the two old ladies. At 
noon, every day, she went to the village school ; on certain evenings 

180^ The Irish Monthly. 

she received music lessons from the organist, and for three hours each 
week she studied French with Miss Tranmore, the Squire's accom- 
plished daughter. But the rest of her time was devoted to the service 
of her kind benefactors. She made the beds, and swept the floors ; 
she cooked the dinner, and washed the plates and dishes— did every- 
thing, in fact, that a maid-of-all-work might do. But Miss Barbara 
helped as much as possible. And so, though often tired and wearj, 
the girl was never taxed beyond her strength. 

Madge was clever, and made rapid progress with her studies. 
She was bright, intelligent, and orderly ; and as she grew older and 
stronger, she took upon her the entire management of the cottage and 
its feeble inmates. Her employers began gradually to look to her for 
direction. Whatever she wished was right. Whatever she wanted 
done was done. 

Under her careful arrangement the little shop near the beach 
became more attractive ; the stock-in-trade more useful and likely to. 
sell. The old ladies themselves seemed to grow younger, instead 
of older, and quite enjoyed papering up the many parcels they were 
called upon to make. For they were doing a good business, and 
took more money in a week now than they had done in a month 
before Madge came to live with them. 

And the girl herself was very happy. She led a busy, active life, 
and knew that she was loved by her dear old friends. 

And so the time passed quickly by. And when Ma<Ige was twenty, 
tall, strong, and straight, she had but one trouble in the world, and 
that was that she was still forced to leave her sister — her darling 
Dora — in the orphanage. 

True, she saw her often, and Dora seemed well cared for and con- 
tent. But she longed to have the child with her, to surround her with 
the many comfons that love alone can suggest. 

This, however, was impossible ; and she tried not to repine. Till 
Dora was old enough to earn her bread some way, it was better she 
should remain where she was ; and this fact Madge made the little 
girl understand as soon as she was capable of doing so. 

The events of that awful night, when the children had lost every- 
one and everything belonging to them, rose frequently in poor 
Madge's mind and flUed her with sorrow. 

**If we could only have found my darling's grandfather, how 
different would have been her lot," she would think each time she 
left the orphanage. *' 'Tis cruel to see her being brought up in such 
a severe school, when she should have every luxury that money could 
buy. However the child, if not actually happy, is content. She 
knows nothing of what might have been — I have spared her that pain; 

A Sinking Contrast, 181 

such knowledge would only unsettle ker mind and make her long for 
what she can never have. I have now come to the conclusion that we 
shall never find either Mr. Atherstone or his father. So, when Dora 
is old enough^ she must work for herself." 

So thought Madge— and so certainly thought the two old ladies, 
till an incident occurred that changed, all their ideas, and encouraged 
the young girl to undertake the arduous task of finding Sir Eustace 
Atherstone and placing his granddaughter in his arms. 

One afternoon Madge walked along the dusty road leading from 
Plymouth to the little village where she lived. She had been up to 
Tramnore Court to see the Squire's daughter, with whom she still read 
French two or three times a week. Miss Tramnore was extremely 
fond of the girl, and very proud of her as a pupil. 

"I declare, Madge," she had said that day, **you are wasting your 
time here. You are too good for your present position. I reaUy 
think you ought to go out as a governess ; your music alone would 
insure you getting an excellent place." 

**You are very kind to say so," replied Madge blushing, **and 
I often wished I could do something of that kind. But 1 would not like 
to leave my dear old friends. They are very dependent on me now." 

'' I suppose they are. And I daresay you are right not to desert 
them. But if you eneit think of becoming a governess, remember I will 
help you all I can." 

Madge thanked Miss Tranmore, and took her leave. And as she 
walked home she pondered deeply over her present position and future 

"If by going out as a governess," she thought, "I could earn 
more money and save for Dora, I might — perhaps I ought to go. 
Ihere is little to be done here ; and I sometimes weary of this drear}-, 
monotonous existence. But yet, I could not be ungrateful. I owe my 
Hf e, my health, and strength to those dear old ladies ; and as long as they 
live my time and energies shall be devoted to them. Poor Dora ! if 
only I could help her to a better — a more agreeable way of living." 

Feeling hot and tired after her walk in the sun, Madge wandered 
down on the beach just below the cottage, and, seating herself , on a 
rock, gazed out sadly over the calm blue sea. 

"How peaceful and still it looks; and yet how cruel — how cruel it 
can be," she said shuddering. "Shall I ever — ever forget that terrible 
night? My mother's sudden death; my poor father's sinking down — 
almost before my eyes. Oh, God ! My God, how dreadful it was ! 
And then to think of that child — the injustice she has suffered. She 
who should havQ wealth and luxury, she who should have every 
care and comfort, brought up as a pauper — thrown with common com- 

182 The Irish Monthly. 

panions; subjected to a treatment which, though not actually cruel or 
severe, is trying to one of her frail constitution." 

•* Please," said a sweet voice, "could you tell me the name of 
this stone?" 

Madge looked up, her eyes filled with tears, but could not speak 
for a moment. She was struck-'dumb with astonishment. 

Before her stood a dainty little lady of about ten years old. She 
had a beautiful face, large luminous dark eyes, thick chestnut hair, 
that grew in clustering curls round her forehead ; a clear, fresh com- 
I^lexion, and a merry laughing mouth. She was dressed in pure 
white. A broad Leghorn hat and drooping feathers shaded her from 
the sun. Her pretty feet were covered with the neatest of boots ; hi*r 
tixly hands in the softest of Swedish gloves. 

Madge was filled with wonder. Such a fairy as this was an un- 
usual sight in Oldport, and she could not imagine where she had 
come from. Something in the little girl's expression seemed familiar; 
3'et never in her life had she ever seen her before. She was about 
Dora's height and age, but much more healthy. And, alas ! how 
differently attired. And as a vision of that beloved child, clad in her 
coarse orphan's uniform, rose before Madge, she sighed heavily. 

** You seem sad," said the little stranger gently. " I am sorry I 
disturbed you." 

" No, no," cried Madge, " you only startled and surprised me. I 
did not know you were near me till you spoke. What did you ask 

'* I wanted to know what this stone was called." 

Madge smiled. 

** I don't tliink that is a stone. It is only a piece of glass, or of a 
soda water bottle, probably, that ha^ been knocked about in the sea 
and washed over the stones and rocks till it has got worn into that 

"Really. That's very curious. Thank you very much. I will 
put this amongst my treasures. Good-bye. I see nurse beckoning to 
me. I must go. May 1 kiss you ? " 

And before Madge had time to reply the child stooped and kissed 
her on the lips ; then, with a smile and a bow, flitted off over the 

Madge turned to look after her ; and just above the beach, on the 
road, she saw a carriage and pair. Close beside it stood an elderly 
woman, waving her hand and calling to the little girl. 

" Miss Sylvia, we are late. Come quickly, please." 

Madge grew pale as death, and started to her feet. 

"Sylvia? What did the woman mean? Why did she call the 
. child by that name ? " 

A Striking Contmd, 183 

** Miss Sylvia, dear me, do hurry. There is going to be a thunder- 
storm. Quick, quick.'* 

** Yes, Anne. I'm coming. But Anne, Anne, the stones hurt my 

The woman stejiped down upon the beach, and gave the child her 

Madge hurried forward, and gazing at the nurse, said faintly — 

** Are you — can you be Anne Dane ? " 

The stranger looked at her in amazement. 

" Yes. Why do you ask ? " 

" Because " — Madge trembled, and her tongue seemed tied to the 
Toof of her mouth ; her voice was low and hoarse, her words indistinct — 
*• Because, if you are ^nne Dane who was wrecked in the Cimbria, 
who, or what is that child ? *' 

Anne became Uvid, and gazed wildly round. The rain came down 
suddenly in great thick drops. 

** Miss Sylvia," she cried, ** jump into the carriage — quick." 

The little girl did as she was told. Anne followed her at once, 
and as she closed the door, she said to Madge — 

"I am Anne Dane. I cannot think why you ask; but I u-as 
wrecked in the Cimbria. And this child is Miss Sylvia Atherstone." 

** No, no," shrieked Madge, running towards her with outstretched 
arms, ** she is not — she cannot be — Sylvia is " 

But she talked to the wind. The carriage had wliirled off doi^ n 
the road, and she was alone. The rain now fell in torrents, the 
thunder crashed loudly over her head; and, feeling dazed and 
bewildered, she ran on to the cottage. 

That evening Madge could think of nothing but this strange 
meeting. She related all that had happened to the two old ladies, 
and together they talked it over, and wondered what it all meant. 

''Mifis Matilda," said Madge, thoughtfully, "I have had a 
revelation to-day. I now know what I never before suspected. Anne 
Dane was saved from the wre<>k, and is doing well. That is evident, 
and is not, after all, so very wonderful. But the child— Sylvia — that 
is what I cannot, cannot understand." 

" Well, dear," answered Miss Matilda, ** it is possible that there 
may be another Sylvia Atherstone, daughter of another son. She, of 
course, would be the old gentleman's grandchild as well as our poor 
darling, and" 

'* That is not probable, for she is, I should say, just the same age 
— and — but, oh, Miss Matilda, a wild, a strange idea has taken 
possession of me. Anne has deceived Mr. Atherstone, defrauded the 
Teal Sylvia of her Tights, and put another — a strange child in her place." 

*' My dear Madge. But what child ? Who?" 

184 The Irish Monthly, • 

" You know I told you that my little sister Dora was the same age 
as Sylvia ? ** 

** Yes. But she was drowned, remember." 

"How do we know? We thought Anne Dane was drowned, but 
she's not." 

<* Then you think " 

"I think, I believe," cried Madge in great excitement, "that 
Dora was not drowned, but that Anne and she were saved together ; 
and that this child, this pretty little girl I saw with her to-day, is no 
other than my sister, Dora Neil." 

" Dear, dear,'* cried Miss Barbara, ''what a strange idea ! But how 
can we prove such a thing, even if we knew where to find these people ? " 

Madge paced restlessly up and down the little parlour. 

"How, indeed? How, indeed?" she murmured. "But it shall 
be done. From this hour I shall devote my Ufe, my time, my 
energies, to finding Mr. Atherstone, and proving that he has been 
deceived. My darling Sylvia shall be restored to her rights. Justice 
ehall be done, and " 

" That will be a difficult task, dear," said Miss Matilda. " And 
how, living in this small, quiet place, are you to accomplish it ? '* 

" I shall leave this quiet place. Go " 

Miss Matilda lay back in her chair, and burst into tears. 

" Will you leave us, Madge ? Leave us, who love you, to run 
over the world after such a shadow ? " 

Madge knelt beside the old lady, and putting her arms round her^ 
kissed her tenderly. 

" No, dear. I'll never leave you. Do not fret. So long as you 
require me, I'll stay with you here. But I know— I feel certain that 
some day or other I must, I will restore my poor darling to her 
proper position in life. The thought that my sister, my pretty 
innocent Dora, is usurping her place and defrauding her of her rights 
is bitter — very bitter to me." 

" But you are not quite certain that it is so, dear. Do not worry 
about it, and something will surely turn up." 

The young girl smiled, and pressed Miss Matilda's hand. 

" That is not the plan I go on, generally. I am not fond of wait- 
ing for something to turn up. But I must be content to do so now. 
Ify first duty is to you and Miss Barbara. Therefore we must forget 
tliis strange episode, and go on as if it had never happened." 

Miss Matilda dried her eyes, and looked lovingly at Madge. 

" God bless you, darling. Your words relieve me greatly. I 
thought you were going to leave us, and I felt sad and sick at heart 
You are the one bright spot in our lives, Madge. Without you we 
should die." 

A Striking Contrast, 186 

caAPTER vni. 


Madge was true to her word. She talked no more of leaving Old- 
port, and life in the cottage went on as before. 

So the long years passed. Spring, summer, autumn, and winter 
ame and went in quick succession, without making any difference to 
Madge. But she never forgot that strange meeting on the beach, 
and fondly imagined that some day or other she would see Anne Dane 
<in that very spot once more. Two or three times a week she would 
'ro and ait upon the self-same rock, hoping to see the child Sylvia 
c-oming towards her over the stones. 

"Perhaps I may meet her to-day," she would say. "Then I 
shall question her closely and find out the true state of the case." 

Bat every visit was a fresh disappointment. Neither nurse nor 
« hild ever appeared upon the beach again, and Madge was as far as 
^rer from discovering the truth. 

At last, despairing of ever meeting them, Madge made one more 
effort. She wrote out a long advertisement, calling upon Anne Dane 
to do justice to her master's child, and imploring her to communicate 
with M. N., Oldport, near Plymouth. This she sent to the I^rnes, 
y&ymg for it out of her savings. For days, weeks, months, she 
watched eagerly for an answer. But, alas, none came. Stealing 
away from her work to the news vendor's, where she was allowed a 
peep at the supplement by the good-natured woman who kept the 
shop, Madge would search anxiously for some sign that her advertise- 
ment had been seen. This went on for two years, and then the girl 
lost heart and resigned herself to the inevitable. 

"If only I were rich," she would say, "I might discover this 
woman, and punish her for her treachery. As it is, I am utterly 

One evening Madge stood at the cottage door, silently weeping. 
Eond-hearted Miss Matilda was ill, and as the girl came out from 
the sick-room, and gazed across the sea, her heart was heavy, her 
thoughts full of sadness. The old lady was dying. So the doctors 
9aid. And after fourteen years spent in her service — fourteen years 
during which she had been treated with much tenderness, Madge was 
overwhelmed with grief as she saw the gentle friend fade slowly, but 
surely, to the grave. 

"Dear Miss Matilda," she murmured, whilst tears filled her eyes, 
and ran unheeded down her cheeks, " but for you where should I be 
Vol. xvui. No. 202. 62 

186 The Irish Mmthly. 

to-day— I and — ^my poor Dora ? — and now you are going to leare us.'*' 
And bowing her head th^ g^rl sobbed aloud. 

" Madge." A pair of arms stole about her neck, and a little face, 
surrounded with a halo of short golden curls, was laid fondly against 
her breast. ^' You must not weep, dearest. Miss Matilda is happier 
than we are." 

'^Why, darling?" And Madge clasped the speaker tightly in 

her arms. 

'' Because she is leaving this weary world, and going home to> 
God, She looks so happy, so peaceful, since she received the last 
sacraments, I am sure she is going straight to heaven. Oh, Madge, 
Madge, what a happiness it would be to go in her place--or with her.'^ 

" But, Dora, you are not unhappy, love ? " 

** Not now, Madge. Not when I am with you." 

Madge sighed, and kissed the girl passionately. 

'* Would that I could keep you always, pet. And, perhaps, soon 
I may be able to do so." 

^' I could work, dear. I am small and thin. But I can sew 
beautifully." And, with a shudder, '< I do so hate the orphanage." 

" But they are not unkind to you there ? " 

'^ No, not exactly ; but they are reugh and rude. And you see I 
am not like the 'others, Madge." 

** No, dearest, not at all like." 

''They are, for the most part, big, healthy g^rls, strong and tall,. 

and well made, whilst I," and the poor child hid her blushing 

face. " I— oh, Madge, I am deformed." 

" My darling, who told you so ? " 

'* The girls. They laugh at me and call me humpy." 

'' What a shame ! " cried Madge, with flaming cheeks. '^ But do- 
not mind them, darling ; it is not true. You are small and fragile. 
Your shoulders are a little round because you are weak. That cruel 
shipwreck injured your poor spine ; but the doctor says if you could 
lie you would outgrow it and become as straight as anyone. That 
night upon the sea was— nearly killed you, my delicate child ; ancL 

But Madge could say no more. The sight of those appealing eyes, . 
the sad spectacle of Dora's thin, bent little frame, was more than she 
could bear, and she sobbed bitterly. 

''Even you, with all your love, cannot deceive me," said Dora sadly. 
<* I know I am not like other girls, I used not to mind it so mucit. 
But now, since you told me who I am — since I have heard what I 
ought to be, everything seems harder. I know it is Gh>d's will, and 
I try to bear it ; but still " 

A Striking Contrast 187 

*^ Oh, Dora, Dora, I would die to make you happy. But what caa 
I do ? " And Madge pressed the girl to her heart. 

" Let me stay with you,'* pleaded Dora. << Do not send me back 
to the orphanage." 

" ICy darling, if it lay with me, I would neyer part with you again. 
But you see our po9r old friends." 

" Are we quite dependent on them ? " 

'* Quite. We have not a penny in the world except what they gire 

" But you work well for them, Madge — sweeping and dusting and 
cooking, when you are fit for much better things. The matron says 
you are very well educated, and that you are wasting your time here. 
She says you ought to go out as a govemess." 

*' Dora," said Madge gravely, '* I am not wasting my time. I do 
work for my dear friends ; but that is becausd I think it right. They 
were good to me in my childhood — they took me in when I was 
rescued an wihappy waif from the sea, and loved and oared for me 
all these ye«. Therefore, I cannot— I must not desert them in their 
old age. Were it not so— had I not this sacred duty to perform, I 
jUioold certainly be out in the world seeking for some trace of that 
cruel, deceitful woman who has robbed you, my pet, of your birth- 

** But she does not know I am alive, perhaps. Do not be too hard 
on her, Madge." 

" She must know. I feel she knows. There was guilt in her face 
that day on the beach. If she had nothing to fear, Dora, why did she 
not speak to me ? ' Why did she hurry the child away ? She knows, 
or for some reason dreads to know, that you are alive. But some 
day— some happy day, she shall be unmasked, and you, my pet, shall 

be nch and " 

*' I don't want to be rich, Madge. I only want to be with you. 
And— and — this fine rich gentleman, my grandfather, would not care 
to acknowledge a poor little creature brought up in an orphanage as 
his granddaughter. I am sure he would not." 

"But he must. He shall," cried Madge fiercely. ''If only I 
could find him — if only I could find him. But I am tied here, Dora, 
and know not what to do." 

'* Do nothing, dearest. Forget the whole afCair. Forget that such 
penons as Anne Dane and these Atherstones exist; and let us consider 
what we can do to earn money and be independent. I am nearly six- 
teen, Madge ; and I long — I cannot tell you how much — to leave the 

*' I will speak to Miss Barbara in a day or two. For the present. 

188 The Irish Monthh/. 

whilst Miss Matilda is ill, you are useful, and she likes to have jou. 
She sent for you, Dora — I would not have dared to do so, my darling." * 

"I shall go up to the Court to-morrow morning, and ask Miss 
Tranmore for some work. I can sew beautifully, Madge ; and I 
intend to be a dressmaker." 

"Poor little Dora — ^poor little Dora," murmured Madge, "how 
diiSerent — how different should have been your fate." 

*' You must not complain, Madge ; God has, after all, been very 
good to us. He gave us kind friends ; for although poor, our dear 
old ladies have loved and watched over us well. 

"You have a sweet loving nature, my darling," cried Madge, 
drawing the girl towards her and kissing her tenderly. " You are 
always good and patient. But I fear your life at the orphanage has 
not been a happy one." 

" Yet not unhappy. Had I been — well, stronger" — Dora blushed 
deeply — "and a little rougher, 1 would surely have got on better. 
Still, dear, I was never unkindly treated." 

"Yet you long to leave the place, even at the risk of wanting 
much and working hard. Oh, Dora. Dora, you liave suffered much. 
But believe me, dearest, I was powerless to present it." 

"Of course. I know that well, my darling sister," said Dora 
caressingly. "And now that I am almost a woman, I feel I must work 
and do what I can for myself. So if you will allow me, I'll stay with 
you here, and seek work in the village." 

" You shall do so if I can manage it, dearest ; and I know our 
friends will keep you if they can. Miss Tranmore would help you too. 
However, we shall see. I must go in now, Dora ; Miss Matilda may 
be awake, perhaps." 

" Yes, she has slept long this afternoon. But stay for a moment, 
Madge. There comes the postman — he may have something for you." 
" I think not, dear," said Madge smiling. " A letter for me is an 
imheard of event. We are utterly friendless, you and I, Dora; out- 
side this smaU village there is not a creature knows of our very 

" Then Anne Dane is not the cruel hard-hearted woman you some- 
times make her out,^ said Dora roguishly. "If she doesn't know " 

"Anne Dane. I forgot her for the moment. But she does not 

care to remember. In fact " 

"A letter for Miss Madge Neil," said the postman, " a registered 
letter. So, please to sign this paper." 

Then, as the girl complied with his request, he touched his hat, 
smiled at the look of surprise on her face, and bidding her " good 
evening," passed on. 

A Striking Contrast. 189 

Madge stared at the address, and turned the letter round. 

" Who can it be from ? " whispered Dora. 

** I don't know, dear. I cannot think." 

'' Perhaps it is a mistake ? " 

" No, dear," replied Madge, slowly, " it must be for me. See, it 
has my name in full. It cannot be a mistake." 

'' Then look at it, Madge. Quick. I am longing to know what it 
is about." 

Madge tore open the envelope, and a cry escaped her lips. 

Within the packet were Bank of England notes — five crisp ten- 
pound notes, and round them was a sheet of paper, on which wa» 
written : 

" To Madge Neil, from one who wishes her well in life." 

The young girl flushed hotly; then grew suddenly white as 

"It is from Anne Dane," she cried, with trembling lips. " She 
has seen my advertisement. She knows now — has known for years, 
that you live." 

" But, Madge, perhaps it is not from her. How " 

** My dear, it must be from her. She is the only creature in the 
world, outside this village, who ever heard of Madge Neil. She must 
have seen my last advertisement in the Times. She is stricken with 
remorse ; but alas ! alas ! it only makes her after all these years send 
a little money. If she had but given her address ! Would that she 
had— would that she had." 

" This comes from London, Madge," said Dora, examining the 
post mark. " She lives in London, perhaps." 

"A voice from the wilderness," said Madge dreamingly, as she 
took the envelope ; " from the wilderness, but still distinctly a voice — 
for this small indication will be a help, a small ray of light, dear, that 
may aid us to discover her. Some day, as soon as I am free, we shall 
go to London, and with God's assistance we shall find this woman and 
restore you to your home and friends," 

" If you are determined to do so, it shall be done," cried Dora, 
clinging to Madge and laying her head upon her breast. ''But, 
indeed, darling, I want no other friends than you. They would all bo 
strangers to me, and I hate strangers." 

'' Poor little girl," said Madge gently, smoothing the golden hair, 
*' poor little tender-hearted darling. But one thing is certain now, 
pet. You need not return tc the orphanage. This money makes that 
quite unnecessary." 

'* Oh, Madge, what J03-," cried Dora rapturously. " I positively 
love Anne Dane. Her money has made me happier than I have ever 


The Irish Mmthli^. 

been before. To Uve with jrou has been the dream of mj life. This 
eottage always seemed a small paradise to me. So, Madge, Madge ^ 
Anne Dane is my benefactor after all." And Dora's sweet silvery 
laughter rang out on the evening air. 

«I am thankful to her for having made you happy, darling/' 
answered Madge gravely. '' But, oh, the years of happiness she has 
robbed you of." 

" Do not be unjust, dearest. It has not been altogether her fault, 

" Of course not. She did not cause the shipwreck, or our separa- 
tion in the boats. However, some day we shall know all. Gome 
now, dear, and see if Miss Matilda still sleeps." 

And Madge kissed little Dora's earnest, pleading lips, and drew 
her into the cottage. 

(7b he continued.) 


St. Frudentius, who has been called by Bentley *' the Ohristian 
Horace," was bom in Spain in 348, but he did not exercise or, per- 
haps, discover his poetical gifts until he was over fifty. He had been 
a great barrister, and held high military command. He dedicated 
his latter years to the defence of Christianity and the gloiy of the 
martyrs. The following stanzas are the last of a long hymn to the 
martyr, St. Eulalia : — 

In your teexning baskets bring 
Flowerets of the early spring, 
While the thaw unbinds the fields, 
And the genial winter yields 
Blood-red crocuses to view, 
Mingled with the yiolets blue. 

Garpite purpureas violas, 
Sang^ineoaque crocos metite ; 
Non caret his genialis hyems, 
Lazat et arva tepens glacies 
Moribns nt cumulet oalathos. 

Ista oomantibas e f oliis 
Hunera virgo puerque date ; 
Ast ego serta, choro in medio, 
Texta feram pede dactylo, 
Vilia, marcida, festa tamen. 

5io venerarier ossa libet, 
Oseibas altare et impositum ; 
nia, Dei sita sub pedibus, 
Proepicit hec, popnlosque suos 
Carmine propitiata f o^et. 

But, while youths and maidens yie 
Wreatlis of blooming flowers to tie, 
I, amid the joyous throng, 
Will present my wreath of song ; 
Poor and withered it may be, 
Yet a festive gift for me. 

While we thus with nature's bloom 
Beck her bones and altar-tomb, 
She, beneath the feet of God, 
Guards the land that once she trod. 
Pleased our simple faith to see, 
Gladdened by our melody. 

T. B. B. 

'*Eu88ian'' Field. 191 


WHEN Browning, in more tlian one memorable passage, 
described music, be did it as much witb the exactness and 
knowledge of a musician as the inspiration of a poet. And, on 
the other hand, in many of Schumann's critiques we have as fine 
an enthusiasm of the poet as an estimate and precision of a com- 
poser. But in his well known description of a Chopin Nocturne 
Arthur O'Shaugbnessy oonvejed rather the effect produced than 
ihe essence of the thing. His attempt to embody emotions 
iiwakened by a fascinating musical form, in which, to use Shelley's 
line, "music and moonlight and feeling are one," was cleyer. By 
a reverie full of poetic vistas, he produced something of the fan- 
tastic imagery of a Nocturne, at once wistful and wayward; seizing 
its evanescent ideas of beauty and evolving from its cadences a 
thought or an emblem. In a dream, picturesque in suggestion, he 
wove an arabesque of fancy, delicate as frost-work carved in ivory ; 
^mg in words an illusion of delight, or subtly transfiguring 
•emotion into metaphor. A refined poem was the result, a poem of 
colour, perfume, some witchery, and even ecstasy.* 

But as reflex of a Nocturne the colour is not glowing, the per- 
fume too little sensuous, the witchery not weird, the ecstasy too 
<calm. Neither Chopin's enigmatic interweaving of languor and 
frenzy, nor his tenderness of repose and restlessness of unfulfilled 
-desire : neither the pathos of his yearning nor the ardour of his 
appeal are brought near to us in the poem. O'Shaughnessy missed 
that touch of the impassioned joy in Love of Clarchen's song in 
Egmoniy and the full-hearted anguish of Ghretchen in Faust^ which 
are ever present in true Nocturnes. Nor did he compass Chopin's 
masterful penetrating melancholy, fraught with a reckless vivacity 
unequalled in poetry or music, save in the Sonatas of Beethoven. 

* " Husio and Moonlight" contains an exquisite aUegory of perfect fulfilment 
jind immortality, under the symbol of the phoenix and the aloe. It has been objected 
that myrrh more correctly symbolises the Bird-bride than an aloe. It would have 
been truer to the Arabic fable, but sacrificed half the fable. 0*8hAughnes8y wished 
t<> declare, not only the immortality of Chopin's fame, but also the perfection to 
which he had brought the Nocturne. To present these two ideas he grafted, op 
:ihe Arabic, an African myth in which the aloe is an emblem of this consummation. 

192 The Irish Mwithly. 

Perhaps few who have been moved by the enchantment with 
which Prince Karol won and lost Lucrezia Floriani,* remember- 
that the form which Chopin elaborated, with the deep art of a con- 
summate musician, he owed to the child of a brutal father, the 
pupil of a rapacious master, the victim of a cruel misery — ^to an 
Irishman whose home was Eussia. 

'* One thousand eight hundred and eleven was a comet year; one- 
thousand eight hundred and eleven was the cradle year of many 
great men of Europe ; it re-echoed with the sounds of Lyre and 
Sword, and announced pioneering spirits to the future. This year 
appears in the history of European spirit-life rich with promised, 
splendour. One thousand eight himdred and eleven was the fatal 
year of Franz Liszt."t 

The birth of John Field was brought about, it would appear^ 
without aid of either comets or cradle years, nor any special over- 
flow of a spirit-life's bespeaking splendour. Eather was it like- 
unto that of a great musician and piquant writer : " Pendant les. 
mois qui pr^^derent ma naissance, ma m^re me r^va* point, comme^ 
celle de Yirgile, qu'elle allait mettre au monde im rameau de laurier 
Quelque douloureux que soit cet aveu pour mon amour-propre, je- 
dois ajouter qu'elle ne crut pas non plus, comme Olympias, mere 
d' Alexandre, porta dans son sein un tison ardent. Cela est fort 
extraordinaire, j'en conviens, mais cela est vrai. Je vis le jour 
tout simplement, sans aucun des signes precurseurs en usage dans- 
les temps poetiques, pour annoncer la venue des pr^destin^e de la 
gloire. Serait-ce que notre ^poque manque de poAsie ? "J 

In such wise, modestly, John Field, on the 26th July, 1782,. 
put in a personal claim on the earnings of a Dublin violinist, him- 
self the son of a church organist. They were a family of musical 
traditions, and the prospect of a prodigy which John's early talent 
foreshadowed determined the parents to push possibilities to tlie 
utmost. The grandfather took the child in hand for teaching, the 
father mounting guard over practice. The practising was rigorous,, 
continuous, exhausting; the lessons incessant, prolonged, and 
severe. Bebellion only intensified the exactions, imtil the lad put 

* George Sands' study of jealousy ; into -which it may not be impertinent to read 
Chopin in Prince Karol, the Abb6 Liszt in Albani, and the lady herself in Luorezia.. 
t Bamann : Life of Liszt, yol. 1 , p. 1 . 
X Berlioz : M^moires, vol. 1, p. 1. 

''JStmian'' Fteld. 19S 

into oonorete form the witty Frenchman's description of a Fugue.*" 
Ab he tdd F^tis, later in life, harsh treatment drove him from 
home. But starvation drove him back both to home and practice,, 
with the result that at twelve years of age he made his fii*st 
appearance in London. His father had accepted an engagement 
at the Haymarket Theatre, and brought his son with him. 

Since 1770 the piano had gradually been dbplacing the harpsi- 
chord in public regard : a supersession completed by the teaching 
of Clementi, whom Beckford had brought over from Italy. His 
compositions gave the new taste a fashion, to which his lessoiii^ 
added a solid basis. These were largely attended, his instructions^ 
widely studied, and, with Beethoven's piano compositions, firmly 
established a repute for this instrument which Ohopin and Schu-^ 
mann had only to intensify. 

To Clementi, therefore. Field was consigned, his father paying 
a hundred guineas as premium — ^a sum, we would think, entailing- 
generous sacrifice upon him. In 1799 the boy again appeared 
hefore a London audience playing a concerto of his own composition,, 
which quickly became very much sought after. But the value of 
his studies and the gifts he brought to bear on them can be better 
gauged by his success in Paris, where Clementi took him in 1802. 
There his playing of Handel's and Bach's Fugues created quite an 
enthusiasm for its brilliancy and finish, and established his favour 
with an audience neither quick in its sympathies, nor indulgent in 
its esteem ; particularly when it is remembered that at this time 
l^^eld was anything but engaging in appearance, being over-grown, 
unrefined, and "gauche" in the extreme; and, too, without that 
musical oom>eGration which we have heard " Le petit Liszt ^' 
received from Beethoven, t 

They then went into Germany, Clementi being everywhere 
proud of showing off " his favourite pupil "+ until meeting Albrechts- 
herger, he determined to leave Field to study counterpoint witli 
him, proceeding himself to St. Petersburgh. But the Irish lad,, 
with tears in his eyes besought his master to take him also. It is 
difficult to say whether this arose from affection for his teacher or 

* '* A Fugue \B a composition in which one tone rushes out before the other, and 
tU listener first of aU.*' 
t Bamaim: voL 1, p. 75. 
X Clementi was the teacher of Cramer, L. Berger, Kalkbrenncr, and Meyerbeer.. 

194 The Irish Monthly. 

from a sensitiye ladfs dread of being alone in a foreign capital whose 
language he did not know; In any case, once settled in St Peters- 
hiirgh, dementi seems to have treated him less as a pupilthan as 
41 musical automaton to show off the value of instruments in the 
shop he had opened. And at this hack work he was made a drudge 
rather than a servant. The shrinking, dreamy youth was scantily 
<$lothed, kept indoors for weeks for want of a hat, suffering acutely 
through the Russian winter for want of a top-coat, which Clemenii 
would not buy him. And this while he was receiving large sums 
for duties he left Field to fulfil. 

We would gladly escape belief in this, yet Spohr, in his Selk- 
biog,* is xmmistakable. Speaking of 1802-3 : '' I have a recollectiou 
of the figure of the pale overgrown lad . . . who had out-run his 
-clothes. . . At the piano he stretched his arms over the key- 
board^ till the sleeves shrunk up to his elbows, his whole attitude 
awkward and stiff in the highest degree; but, as soon as his toudi- 
ing instrumentation began, everything else was forgotten and we 
became all ear« Unhappily I could not express my emotion and 
thankfulness otherwise than by a sUent pressure of the hand, for he 
spoke no other language than his own."- And after this Spohr 
happened upon teacher and pupil, with upturned sleeves, toiling at 
the washing tub, scrubbing stockings and other linen ; an occasion 
dementi improved by exhorting the violinist to do likewise for its 
^economy and saving of the material. 

Where was even the flow of the ill-favoured lad's " spirit life " 
in such surroundings P What suppleness did the wrists acquire in 
this numbing cold ; what sensitiveness of touch his fingers gain in 
a scrubbing-tub P What artistic insight could he gather from be- 
labouring out such an Italian's idea of economy P Yet the genius 
of Field burst the trammels of these days. During dementi's 
absence in England, the young player showed he had talents that 
would not be hidden, insomuch that on his return in 1804 the 
master found his pupil had already become a teacher. 

The long years of training were at an end ; but only at the 
beginning were the spirits of reckless emancipation and bitter' 
cynicism they left in trail. 

His lessons brought him money; his playing fame; but of 
neither the one nor the other had he been fitted to appraise the value 

♦ Vol. 1. p. 43. 

''Russian'' Field. 195 

Tlis sQOoess became rapid, the Towards brilliant and easily s^zed, 
iintQ from about 1806 to 1823 he felt the golden ground beneatli 
his feet was solid, and stood without a rival in the Russian capital. 

Though from Clementi he had the secret of exquisite legato 
plajring, a fine deUcacj of touch and an unfailing certainty in rapid 
execEutions, neither the system of education he underwent nor his 
natural aptitude fitted hirn for the larger forms of musical expres- 
sion« Indeed, he seemed rather to breathe upon the notes than 
finger them, even when playing with a strength that left his 
nuances clearly defined. His variety of modification was unlimited, 
and his resources of embellishment exhaustless. To this technical 
perfection he added a poetic enthusiasm which, united to a dreamy 
melflncholy, compelled a fascination pre-eminently his own. He 
led one, in the words of Heine, intx) "a dreamland of poesy wher^ 
the interpreters of visions dwell." Thus Field made for himself a 
style no less than Clementi had done, but of a different order. In 
the latter it was of intellectual pleasure in musical thought — clear, 
regrilar, correct ; in the former it was a style of dainty deUght in 
sensuous emotion — vivid, sensitive, seducing : a union of tenderness, 
jKjetry, and charm. The fullest expression of this he poured forth 
in his Nocturnes, some dozen of which even Chopin will never 
<jaite obscure. Though a pianist more than a composer, yet these 
delicious reveries will quicken the memory of him when Ifis sonatas 
and even his concertos fall into unmerited neglect. The latter were 
eminently popular during Field's lifetime, and of the seventli 
8<^mnann wrote in his Neue Zeitschrift : " "We are delighted with 
it ; can do nothing more reasonable than praise it endlessly. . . . 
I would allow this artist to cover my eyes and bind my hands, and 
would say nothing, save that I choose to follow him blindly. . . . 
Above all, thou last movement, in thy divine tedium, thy charm, 
thy delightful awkwardness, thy soulful beauty, bewitching enough 
to kiss from begiuning to end." 

But there were ashes in the cup wealth held to his lips, thorns in 
the rose-crown fame pressed upon his head. Benown and luxury 
were at command ; the intellect of the capital crowded his concerts, 
its beauty thronged his rooms, as a vampire sucked deadly at his 
heartVblood. Drink marred and sloth ruined the fair fulfilment. 
At the pinnacle of his ambition he cast his genius to the winds, his 
wealth to harpies who made his generosity a crime. For a 
time his fame withstood the shock of his dissoluteness. It 

196 Thi Irish MoiUhly. 


seemed too strong to be shaken, for his pupils waited while- 
he drank, and then played while he slept. Suddenly, in 1823^ 
he left for Moscow, where again his genius was victorious, 
even more so than in St. Petersburgh. People undertook long 
journeys to hear him play, students, at twenty roubles an hour 
crowding his days and nights for lessons at his hands. Though we- 
do not hear of ladies making bracelets of the strings of his pianos, 
as when Liszt's personality proved as powerful as his music, to be 
a " pupil of Field " was then the rage of young Russia. Still 
firmer and more swiftly the Syren bound her toils about this god 
of the moment. The spirit of reckless emancipation grew fierce^ 
with every fell excess, till nature proving less lasting than his fame,^ 
his health broke down, and disease struck him without remorse* 
He had married a Mademqiselle Charpentier, but they were^ 
separated within a year. Teaching became impossible, friendship 
impracticable, as, neglected by everything but his debts, life lay 
shattered in his grasp. A soured reckless man he turned his steps 
towards home. " Oh ! how sad it must be to die in a foreign 
land," Chopin wrote. 

When after twenty-five years' absence he reappeared in London,. 
Moscheler wrote : — " His legato playing delights me, but his 
oompositions are not to my taste.* Nothing is in more glaring 
contrast than a Field's Nocturne and Field's manners, which are- 
often cynical. At a party he drew from his pocket a miniature of 
his wife, with the remark that he had only married her because as- 
his pupil she had never paid him, and he knew she never would."t 

Thenceforth Field was a wanderer. Leaving London, he went 
to Paris in 1833, the year in which Chopin made his impression in 
private circles there, Paris still vibrating with the demoniac 
powers of Paganini. But the charm of his spell was broken. His 
genius was passing into night with no star to illume it. The- 
morning of deeper harmonic utterance, of technical wonders, was 
dawning. Berlioz was girt for the fray with classical formalism, 
in which freedom of form and movement was to be won. With 
all the beauty of his touch and elegance of execution, though his 
music came with his heart between his fingers. Field lacked spirit,. 

*It is to be remembered that Hoecheles confessed he never comprehended 
Chopin's music, nor could interpret it, till they had met, aud he heard him plaj it. 
t life and Correepandunce, vol. 1, p. 261. 

" i?fi!j«t/7« " Field. 197 

energy, and vigour. He roused no depth of passion, swept his 
hearers with no force. Such a school was rising. New possibili- 
ties of technique were developing. Hummel, to all the grace, 
i^finement, and pure taste of Field, added firmness, strength, and 
toeed. Here was an efEeotiveness of greater brilliance. Audiences 
began to look to being roused, shocked, fired. Bravura playing 
wTild be the only response to this. Moscheles took it up with a 
terrific force and whirlwind velocity. He " could swell the soul to 
rage '* where Pield had but " kindled soft desire." Strange com- 
binations, startling effects, undreamed possibilities, pierced the 
volumes of sound the piano was forced to sustain. " Wild, 
electric, volcanic, and heaven-stirring," as Heine said. Thalberg 
<arried on the furore which Liszt, the Titan of the storm, raised 
into an enthusiasm which may be coldly described as frantic, and 
to whom Tausig and Rubinstein but came as anti-climax. 

So Pield, iiven before the wind, passed into Switzerland, 
thence to Brussels, and in 1833 into Italy. But neither in Milan, 
Venice, or Naples could he recall the old spell. Curiosity was 
cold, applause unheard, and failure stood gaunt in his path. He 
fiank under the bitterness. Crushed by disease and despair, tlie 
lonely man crept into a Neapolitan hospital, where he lay nearly 
a year unknown. Here, by merest chance, a Russian student 
discovered the old master. He wrote homo to his friends, who 
offered to bring him back to Moscow. When he was able to be 
moved, the slow and painful journey commenced. Reaching 
Vienna, something of the splendour of his former triumphs, for a 
brief moment, lighted the dusky way to death. The inimitable 
tenderness of the suffering musician's playing, the welling pathos 
of the dying man's nocturnes, transfused them with a moving 
power. They became elegies of unspeakable feeling, and appeals 
for unchecked sympathy. How bitterly Field's unjust sneer at 
Chopin here rang true upon himself, " que c'^tait un talent de 
<hambre de malade ! " 

This gleam of past glory faded, leaving the night denser. The 
very victory itself must have deepened his despair, for, reaching 
Moscow with difficulty, he died there January 11, 1837. 

If, strictly speaking. Field did not itivent the Nocturne, his 
genius first achieved for it an accepted musical expression. Its 
emotional character, its poetic temper, we owe entirely to him. 
He fixed its form, and wrought for it a prolonged flow of sound 

198 Ths Irinh Monthly, 

by his use of the damper pedal and an extended aooompaniment 
of scattered chords, which give the playing a distinguishing- 
peculiarity. Mr. Finch, in " Chopin, and other Musical Studies/'' 
carried away by his loyalty of devotion to the great Pole, has- 
ascribed these two features to the invention of Chopin. In pre- 
senting this claim, which Chopin never made for himself, he over- 
looks the undoubted fact that Field repeatedly sustained his^ 
melody by an harmonious substructure of prolonged tone. And no 
less was he before Chopin in the harmonies he discovered in the- 
use of wide-spread in place of massed chords, the intervals of 
which, however wide, he completed by continuous use of the 

So far perfect, therefore, was the nocturne when the younger 
of " The Dioscuri "* received it, to embroider it with his exotia 
(iolounngs and his wonderful arabesques; gracing it with ex- 
quisite fioriture, informing it with the impetuosity of rubeto^ 
enriching it with new modulations, and deepening it with dramatic 

But it was already an idealised musical dream when h» 
received it from ^^ the most perfect pianist of his time." 

D. MoNCRiEFF O'Connor, 


NLY a rose-tree blooming 
In the scorching heat of June, 
Duety, and faint, and drooping 

In the glare of that summer noon ; 
But a miner's eyes ^ew misty, 

And his thoughts fai* backwards flew^ 
To where, by a cottage in Ireland, 
Another such rose-tree grew. 

He plucked a bloshom slowly, 

And the yellow arid plain 
Faded — and he was standing 

On Irish soil again ; 

^ LiMzt and Chopin. 

A Califomian Rose^ 19i^ 

While instead of the wooden station, 

The canon and gidch between. 
He saw his mother's cottage 

At foot of the old boreen. 

The broad plain lay before him 

In the sunlight bare and red. 
Bat he saw the hillside rising. 

Behind his house instead ; 
And the scent of hawthorn blossoms 

Came faintly on the breeze, 
And he saw, where the pines grew thickly^ 

A line of rowan trees. 

Hardened he was, and reckless, 

In that fierce, mad strife for gold, 
Since he saw the roses climbing 

To the thatch so brown and old ; • 
Yet a thought like lightning pierced him 

Of his mother, with eyes grown dim 
With watching, and praying, and waiting^ 

In vain for news of him. 

One Sunday in Moyrin churchyard, 

After last Mass was said, 
A group of neighbours lingered 

To hear a letter read ; 
Eead often through that morning, 

Now once again begxm — 
Addressed to the Widow Nolan 

From her long unheard-of son. 

And she, inside the chapel, 

Thanked Gk>d with prayers and tears, 
Who had given news from her wanderer 

After so many years ; 
But she smiled o'er the message sent her, 

So like his speech of yore — 
'^ For this draft please send a rosebud 

From the tree beside the door." 

Magdalen Bock. 

•200 The Irish Monthly, 



TO those who will not, or cannot understand, the supematural 
work of the Church of God, there appears to be a dull 
xiniformity in the lives of our Catholic Saints which to them is 
unspeakably repulsive. That saying of St. Paul's, " there is but one 
spirit, but many operations of the same spirit," is quite unintelligible 
to them. Nor can they briug themselves to believe that the sanctifi- 
ration of a soul is a work of infinite design, and that that design 
varies in beauty and originality according to the nature of the soul 
itself, and the mission it is sent to accomplish amongst men. Here 
the spirit breathes, and behold a zeal that sets a continent on fire— on 
this soul the spirit descends, and behold a charity that searches out 
and consumes all grosser things, and like a fiame points steadily 
upwards— and here again behold the white vestal lamp of purity, 
enkindled and kept alive by the same Divine breath. In one saint 
the spiritual and moral elements are so expanded and developed that 
the operations of the intellect appear to be suspended ; and in another, 
you pause in unconscious suspense to decide whether the .moral and 
spiritual beauty or the intellectual grandeur reflects more glory on the 
Giver of both. To this latter cl&ss most certainly belongs the great 
Saint, whose name consecrates this page — a saint whose love fer God 
lifted him almost to the level of that beloved disciple who saw the city 
of God in the Heavens, as Augustine saw the dty of God on the 
earth — a saint, who to-day, after the lapse of fifteen centuries, which 
have blotted out the name^ of all his contemporaries, except those 
who have shared his immortality by having been associated with him, 
is teacher, prophet, and intellectual guide to leaders of thought 
throughout the universities of the world — ah, even to framers of laws 
and sovereigns of men, whose words make or mar the happiness of 
nations. And here at least no complaint can be made of that which 
the world calls monotonous and sluggish tameness, which we call the 
calm, unbroken peace, which is the reward of high and sustained 
sanctity ; for the life of St. Augustine is marked by such striking 
events, and his great soul passed through such extremes of passion 
and doubt, that the pious can draw inspiration from his holiness, the 
sinner hope from his conversion, the philosopher or divine, wisdom 
from hie learning, and the student of humanity will perpetually feel 
fresh interest in t)ie struggHngs of a soul to disenthral itself from the 
fierce promptings of passion and the seduction of intellectual piide. 

The Life and Influence of St. Augmtine. 201 

For St. AuguBtme was a convert ; from a sinner he became a saint, 
:from a doubter and denier he became a believer and a teacher ; and 
it is to study this marvellous and touching change, wrought in such 
strange and simple wajrs by the onmipotence of grace, that we turn 
back now to his familiar stoiy. 

And first we must distinctly understand that his conversion was 
twofold — a moral reformation and an intellectual enlightenment: 
3>robably the only example you will find recorded of it in the history 
of the Church. For be it known that the striking conversion of great 
intellects, such as those of which we are witnesses in a neighbouring 
•country, is generally interpreted as a recognition by the Holy Spirit 
of the holy lives and the noble striving after light which have 
marked the career of these converts. They then were simply lifted 
from the twilight of the valleys to the splendours that shine on the 
Holy Mountain, the natural virtues they practised being raised to the 
rank of supernatural excellences by the Divine power of faith. But 
with St. Augustine there was not only intellectual blindness to be re- 
lieved, but moral depravity to be corrected ; and his conversion is all 
the more glorious in as much as the scales fell from his eyes and the 
shackles of fleshly love from his limbs at the same moment, and his 
noble nature was lifted into the serene regions of faith and purity by 
one and the same operation. 

It is not at all difficxdt to understa'nd how this young rhetorician, 
African by birth, Eoman by education, for the education of Carthage 
was essentially Homan, drifted into these criminal excesses which he 
afterwards so bitterly deplored. A hot ardent nature, into which the 
tropical sun had stricken its fire, lay absolutely at the mercy of those 
fierce passions, which alternately please and pain, but whose torture 
far more than transcends the transient delights which they bring. 
Heligion, with its sweet soothing influences, was unknown to him. 
Those radiant visions, which afterwards haunted him with their pure 
ethereal splendours, until they lifted him from the slough of sin, were 
jet afar off. At home the example of a Christian mother was more 
than overshadowed by the example of a Pagan father, who revelled 
in the iniquities of his child, and whose passions, blunted by age, 
seemed to be newly whetted by the contemplation of similar passions 
which evinced themselves in his boy. Then, too, Sacramental grace 
was absent from his soul, for by a series of accidents, the Sacrament 
of Baptism, which he was about to receive in a dangerous illness, was 
deferred, and he grew to manhood with the great original stedn 
infecting his whole character, and directing even his good impulses 
and instincts into criminal issues and resxdts. With such sad equip- 
ments he was thrown into a world that just then was reaching ita 
Vol. xvm. No. 203. 62 

202 The Irish Monthly. 

perfection of iniquity, for the hosts of darkness were marshalling their 
forces for the last conflict with victorious Christianitj. Young, 
ardent, impetuous, Augustine was thrown into the midst of the 
dissipation and vice of that African city, which, whUst Eome was 
gradually being changed into a city of sanctity, borrowed its worst 
vices, and made itself the home of its lascivious worships, and flung 
open its temples to the deities whose very names were pollution, and 
set itself in angry antagonism to that religion of sacrifice and purity 
which already had Hfted its conquering standard on the seven hiUs of 
its ancient rival. ^ 

It is rather difficult for us to understand the excesses to which 
men yielded themselves freely in these pagan cities. They were 
demoniac rather than human. A Christian preacher dare not speak 
of them in detail, nor can the imagination dwell on them without sin. 
We have some pictures left us of the licentiousness and sensuality, 
the festivals of blood and the orgies of unutterable lust, that charac- 
terized ancient Bome ; yet Carthage was another and a more wicked 
£ome. The civilization of the latter had penetrated to the conquered 
province, and under a warmer sun had given birth to vice, which even 
to accomplished Eome was unknown. A carnival of vice in the streets- 
— vice deified in the temples — ^vice incarnated on the stage — ^poets 
consecrating their divine talent, and orators devoting their sacred 
gifts to the embellishment of vice : such was the normal condition of 
a city which, in the just judgment of Ood, is to-day but a name, whilst 
its great rival assumes with justice the proud title of eternal. Into 
Carthage, thus seething in sin, young Augustine was plunged ; and 
in a short time, as he pathetically tells us, he was ashamed when he 
heard his companions boasting of flagitious actions, that he was lef a- 
guilty than they. And so, at the early age of nineteen, a victim of 
two deadly vices — ambition and sensuality — ^his father dead, his 
mother weeping and praying, Augustine commenced to tread the 
winepress of the sorrow that is bom of sin, not knowing that he had 
any higher destiny than to become famous in the schools and law 
courts — not knowing that there were higher and loftier delights than 
are to be found in the pursuit of sin. And so he wasted tho most 
blessed gift of God — the years of youth, and the strength of budding 
manhood — in a little study and much pleasure, dreams of fame and 
desires that raged and could not be quenched, '* a little folding of tli& 
hands to rest," in a sensual paradise ; and not a thought of his 
immortal soul, nor of the God in whom as yet he believed, nor of the 
treasures of wrath he was laying up for himself against the day that 
was to come. 

It was just at this time, too, that he embraced the Manichean. 

The Life and Influe)ice of St. Augustine. ' 203 

heresj, one of the most singular inventions of human folly that ever 
claimed the credence of men. Its founder, Manes, an eastern mystic, 
a slave by birth, a painter by trade, a prophet by profession, claimed, 
like Mahomet in later times, that he was specially deputed by 
Heaven to bring a fresh revelation to men. And as the latter showed 
his disciples a certain book which he declared was written in Heaven, 
so the credentials of Manes were certain pictures which he pretended 
were painted in the skiee. He perished in a fearful death ; but his 
disciples, with all the energy and enthusiasm of falsehood, filled every 
chair of rhetoric in Carthage, and claimed as converts some of the 
most distinguished men of that city. They spoke of the Father, the 
Son, and the Paraclete, but with some mysterious meaning in those 
words which no Christian could accept ; declared the marriage tie to be 
immoral, and wine the incarnation of evil ; and invented some 
theories of nature, which were tolerated patiently, because they were 
too grotesque to be refuted ; and like all religious charlatans, they 
were for ever crying ** truth, truth," when the truth was not in them. « 
If one did not know the infinite capacities for folly that lie latent in 
the human mind, we would be surprised to hear that such a great 
intellect as that of St. Augustine not only embraced this strange 
religion, but became for nine years its most able and zealous professor. 
Bat the secret was that these Manichean doctrines were very flatter- 
ing to his pride, and very favourable to the indulgence of the passions 
that consumed him. Their falsehood and sophistry afforded him 
ample groimd for exhibiting all that logical power and rich eloquence 
of which even then he was a master. The severe doctrines of 
Christianity left no room for conceits and sophism which he could 
build at pleasure around the loose and ill-defined errors which he 
professed ; and he not only hated that austere religion, every syllable 
of whose doctrines and discipline upbraided him and made him 
ashamed, but he disliked the simplicity of the Scripture, nor would 
he believe that the wisdom of the Most High was revealed in 
language that would not be tolerated in the grammar schools of 
Carthage. '* He cried aloud for wisdom, and wisdom fled far from 
him, for he would not put his feet into her fetters, nor his neck into 
her chains." 

But it must not be supposed for a moment that Augustine drifted 
helplessly along with the torrent of iniquity without a struggle. A 
great soul like his does not yield itself wholly to abasement without 
protest ; the higher faculties of the mind, not yet destroyed, declared 
against this animalism, and the great intellect was striving with all 
its might against the darkness which enveloped it. I know nothing 
more pitiable than the spectacle of a fine soul warring against its 

204 The Irish Monthly. 

lower nature, if it be not the spectacle of a lofty mind striving vainly 
to bre€ik through its spiritual darkness, and emerge into the light. 
To know what is right, and yet be unable to do it ; to hate what is 
wrong, and yet be unable to avoid it ; to lift oneself bravely out of 
the slime, and then to fall back helplessly— to fight against over- 
whelming passion, and then to yield shamefully, and after a moment 
of fierce delight to tear and rend oneself with a remorse that is hope- 
less and a despair that is helpless — surely this is the saddest of fates. 
Yet it finds its parallel in the spectacle of a soul holding its hands 
for ever before its eyes to peer into the darkness, and search its way 
into the light, yet evermore turning away despairingly to a gloom that 
is all the deeper because of the sudden gleams of fitful splendour. Yet 
in each sense such was now the condition of Augustine's soul. Love 
and light ! love and light ! this was the eternal cry of his lips and 
heart. Love for an object so high and sublime that the intellect 
should never weary in contemplation of its transcendent excellence — 
' love for an object so perfect ^at the conscience should never scruple 
its warmest attachments— love so strong that every fibre of the heart 
should cling to the loved object, so that Death itself could not break, 
nor time diminish, the strength of its affection — love so vast that the 
soul might ever wander through its happy realms without exhaustion, 
and there find its perfect rest and fruition — and lo ! in answer to this 
high demand there was only the love of a perishing creature, and the 
low levels of sin and death. There was some ideal beauty for ever 
before him, beckoning to him, attracting him, almost maddening him 
with the impossibility of reaching it, and behold ! when he stretched 
his hands towards it, it was a phantom, and he touched only the one 
void of wisdom, the riddle of Solomon, '^ Sitting on a stool at the door 
and saying : Come and eat willingly the bread that is hidden, and 
drink of the sweet stolen water ! " And light ! light ! to understand 
himself, and the dread environment of Nature. Who was he ? What 
was this awful mystery of life, in which the imseen God had placed 
him ? What was the secret of the grave ? Who were those around 
him with the marks for ever on their faces, and the veils over their 
hearts ; good and evil, right and wrong, who hath stated their limits, 
who had defined their natures ? Would he ever see clearly ? Would 
he ever know certainly ? Would this restle^^s intellect ever repose 
in the serene contemplation of truth so perfect that it would admit no 
shadow of doubt or denial ? 

But to all this importunate questioning came as answers only the 
last words of a dying philosophy, the devilry of imported Eoman 
worship, the well-coined phrases that slipped from the lips of sophists 
and poets. And with aU this hunger in his heart, this wild unrest in 

The Life and Influence of St. Augustine. 205 

hiB intellect, Aagnstine went round from law court to lecture-room, 
from temple to theatre ; and the young Carthaginians worshipped 
and envied him, and asked one another : '^ Were jou present at the 
lecture of Aurelius Augustine to-daj ? " or " Did you hear the dispute 
between Faustus and Augustine? Why he tore the threadbare 
arguments of the old Manichean to pieces." But he kept the veil 
drawn tightly over his heart : God alone saw its workings. So it is 
with all of us ; well for us it is that the eye that searches us is the eye 
of a Father and a Friend. 

All this time, however, two powerful influences were at work to 
bring back the erring soul to its true mission. That Divine Being, 
whose presence made cool and pleasant the flames that scorched the 
bodies of His martyrs, whose love to the eyes of enraptured virgins 
made sweet and easy the absolute sacriflce they offered up, whose cross in 
after years was to become the Sacred Book whence Doctors should 
draw their inspirations, was watching and waiting for the soul of him 
who was destined to become a ** vessel of election." For although 
Augustine did not as yet apprehend the full meaning and beauty of 
Christian truth, he had always cherished the most extraordinary 
reverence for its Divine Founder, and the name of Jesus Christ was 
to him a symbol of everything that was high and holy. He declares 
in his Confessions that, although he felt himself strongly influenced 
by the writings of Cicero, one thing particularly displeased him in the 
works of that great author, that he found not there the name of 
Christ; and '* whatsoeverwanted that name," he writes, ''however 
learned or polite or instructive it might be, does not perfectly take 
with me." And this sweet influence was insensibly drawing him 
awaj from his Pagan beliefs and practices, giving him new and 
larger views of that wisdom after which he thirsted, silently ubraid- 
ing him for his follies and excesses, for ever contrasting the grandeur 
of humility with the meanness of pride — the dignity of purity with 
the shame of unbridled concupiscence. What a difference between 
the simple majesty of Christ ^and the proud folly of philosophers— 
between His words, weighty with solemn meaning, and their 
utterances, so weak and inflated — His example so lofty and perfect, 
and their lives so secretly depraved and imperfect ! And how that 
Divine figure haunted him, not with terror and fear, but with the 
same benign influences that rained on the soul of Magdalen and St. 
John. Wherever he went that apparition was before him, chiding 
him, attracting him, making him angry with himself, and dissatisfied 
with the world ; and he would make the most valiant efforts to over- 
come the temptation that assailed him, and then sink back into 
despair again, for the time fixed in the Divine decrees for his 

206 The Irish Monthly. 

eonTersion had not yet come — ^the gold was yet to be more tried and 
searched by fire before it conld receive the impress of its King. 

And day by day, night after night, prayers were ascending before 
God's throne for him, prayers that wearied and did violence to 
Heaven by their strong^ and persistence. There is something 
almost supernatural about a mother's love. It is the strongest 
reminder we have of Ood's boundless mercy. It is so weak, yet so 
powerful ; so patient and so persistent ; it has such a superb contempt 
for the logic of facts, and the consequence of sin and punishment ; it 
is so ready to turn vice into virtue, and to accept the faintest aversion 
from sin as the promise of the highest perfection ; it is so faithful, so 
perfect, so unselfish, so true, that next after Gk)d's love for us, it is the 
best and holiest thing we mortals possess. And if ever this beautiful 
love existed in human soul, it surely was in hers whose name is for 
«ver inseparably connected with that of St. Augustine— his sainted 
mother, Monica. How she watched over him in his childhood and 
boyhood — how she strove by her example and teaching to destroy the 
evil effects of her husband's bad ^cample on the child — how deeply 
she suffered as the first reports of her son's perversity came to her 
ears — how fervently she prayed that his heart might be touched and 
renewed unto penance — all iliis St. Augustine himself tells us, adding 
his own high appreciation of his mother's unselfish devotion. And a 
certain remorse was added to the mother's prayers, for she 
remembered that she, too, had sinned by ambition, and perhaps had 
been instrumental in sacrificing the purity of her child to those 
longings after future fame which she had shared with him. Oh, if she 
had only known how Augustine would be tempted, if she could only 
have foreseen the dangers that are strewn in the path of the young 
and the pitfalls that are dug for their every footstep. Well, it is use- 
less to be regretting a past that cannot be recalled, and, after all, 
Heaven is merciful, and she has seen a certain vision, in which she 
has been told that the mighty gulf between her and Augustine shall 
be bridged over, and he shall stand side by side with her, and they 
shall kneel together, and their prayers shall mingle, and the merits of 
the Mighty Sacrifice shall be shared between them, and he shall be her 
almoner, and the peace of the future shall wipe out the memory of 
the past. Then suddenly she is told that Augustine, tired of Garth- 
age, is about to depart for Home, and all her hopes are in a moment 
shattered, because now she believes that he is lost to Ood, and lost to 
her for ever. 

And yet this step of quitting Carthage, although accomplished in , 
secrecy (Augustine having left in the night time, when his mother 
was praying in a neighbouring church), was the first great step to his 

The Life and Influence of 8t. Augustine. 207 

<K>ziver8ion ; for having opened his school at Borne, after* reooyering 
fro^i a violent fever, lie was so disgusted with the conduct of the 
students and their habits of deception and dishonesty, that he applied 
for a chair of rhetoric in the city of Milan, and there was rejoined bj his 
mother. Now in this city was '' a man of Ood," chosen like Ananias 
of Damascus to teach and illumine this great darkened intellect that 
was sent to him. 

jl^ttracted by the fame of St. Ambrose as a preacher, Augustine 
went to hear him ; and having heard him and admired his eloquence, 
the deep truths which he preached, and against which Augustine 
would have closed his ears, gradually sank into his mind, and gave 
the fint great shock to those prejudices he had conceived against 
Catholicily. For, like all those who rage against the truth, he little 
understood it, and he found <* that it was not against the Catholic 
religion that he had barked, but against a chimera invented by its 
^aiemies." And there, Sunday after Sunday, when St. Ambrose, 
«aoended the white marble pulpit that still is shown at Milan, he saw 
beneath him the widow and her child, she calm, patient, prayerful ; 
and the young professor, whose lectures half the youth of Milan were 
attending, modest, externally humble, but pride for ever stiffening 
his neck and steeling his heart against the first great act of lowly 

Irreligion and vice, those twin giants that ever work in unison, 
guarded the portals of his heart. If one yielded for a moment, the 
other was all the more alert. If the powerful eloquence of St. 
Ambrose shattered eveiy argument which in the secrecy of his heart 
Augustine had fashioned, here was the sad companion of his guilt to 
protest against his embracing that religion which glorifies purity and 
vii^;inity ; and if ever, and it was often, his soul, raging imder its 
base subjection, clamoured to be free from the degradation of vice, 
here was the vain philosophy that captivated him and made him 
ashamed of the simplicity of the Gbspel, and that doctrine of 
humility which is always the stumbling block to intellectual pride. 
Was there any hope for him at all ? Here, on the one hand, was the 
heresy which he not only believed but professed ; pride that waxed 
stronger with every year of success ; the strong^ of manhood allied 
with the strength of sin ; and above all, this illicit love, which was 
4X>iled around his heart like a serpent ; and on the other, only the 
prayers of his mother and the Sunday sermon of St. Ambrose ! But 
I am wrong. There was One, omnipotent, all wise, also with him ; 
^and He who bade the winds and waves be still on the sea of (Galilee 
was now about to calm the tumult of this mighty mind. And in His 
^wn simple. Divine way. He choose as His ministers a Pagan and a 

208 The Irish Monthly, 

child. Alipius, a dear bosom friend of Augustine's, was a joiing- 
Pagan, who in the midst of infamy had alwajs worshipped puritj y 
and knowing the terrible torture that Augustine suffered, he would 
reason with him, preach to him, extol the beautiful virtue, paint in 
darkest colours the hateful vice. Maddened by his own helplessness^ 
tortured by his passionate desire to be free, Aug^tine would listen 
patiently for a while, and then would rush away from his friend, 
crying : " Leave me ! leave me ! Not yet ! not yet ! " And his friend 
would stare and wonder at him, and be silent in the face of such 
anguish. Then there came to the soul of Augustine a celestial vision 
of Chastity, clothed in white light, with a glittering band of children 
around her — pure, ethereal, and divine — and she pointed to her- 
children and said : '' Behold, what these are doing, why canst thou 
not do likewise ? They, the unlearned — ^you, the accomplished ; they, 
BO weak in nature — ^you clothed in the strength of your manhood ; 
they so frail — you, so powerful ; " and the vision vanished and left 
him in an agony of shame and sorrow. At last, one day a traveller 
came, Fontimanus by name, and told of a wonderful sight he had 
seen — a desert peopled with men, who led the lives of angels, who 
sacrificed not only all sinful love, but all legitimate himian affection — 
young men, calmly saying f areweU to their afi&anced, and passing from 
the gay cities to the silent sands, and the brides that were to be, to- 
morrow espousing themselves in mystical union with the Lamb, leav- 
ing all things to follow Him. And Augustine, not able to contain 
his emotion, fled into his garden and cried to Alipius : — '' What are 
we doing ? Did you not hear ? The ignorant, the imleamed carry^ 
the kingdom of heaven by storm, and we with our boasted science 
grovel on the earth ? Is it not a shame that we have not the courage- 
to imitate them ? " Noble words, Augustine, at last I at last ! And 
he flings himself under a fig tree in anguish, and he, the philosopher, 
the orator, the professor, sobs as if his heart would break with un- 
accoimtable grief. And he hears the voice of a child in a neighbour- 
ing garden, singing its play song ; but he has never heard that 
childish melody before. He listens, and catching the singular re- 
frain : — " ToUe, lege— toUe, lege ! " Who ever heard a child utter 
such strange words before ? But, great God ! who knows, can it be 
that these words are a heavenly message to himself ? And, trembling 
all over with emotion, he takes up a book lying on the grass before^ 
Alipius, and opening it by chance he reads : — *' Let us walk honestly^ 
as in the day ; not in revelling and drunkenness, not in chambering 
and impurities ; but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make not 
provision for the flesh in its concupiscences ! " And suddenly, as whem 
in tropical climes the sunshafts break upon the darkness, and chase> 

A Grave in Spring. 209 

the shadows from yallej and mountain, a great wave of light flooded 
his souly and a strength and a sweetness descended upon him, and the 
tears of anguish, still wet upon his cheeks, are chased bj tears of joj 
such as angels shed when the wandering sheep are gathered into the 
Master's fold. Paul had spoken to Augustine ; the convert of 
Damascus to the convert of "M'lUn ; and the latter wondered at himself 
and the mighty change that had been wrought in him. Was he really 
the Augustine who only yesterday saw doubts and difficulties in 
Catholic truth ? Was he really the slave who had uttered that pitiful 
and pusillanimous prayer ; '^ give me chastity, O Lord, but not yet ! " 
Why, it is now as clear as noonday that the Catholic religion is not 
only the perfect revelation of the Lord, but it is the culmination of 
that philosophy which is taught in the Platonics — and therefore it is 
a religion not only for baoes and sucklings, but it is strong meat for 
the mightiest of the kings of thought at whose feet he had sat and 
studied. And as for chastity, why if every fibre of his heart should 
be torn asunder, and tears of blood shall be shed, he will no longer 
be shamed by children, but consecrate by an inviolable vow body and 
soul to the service of Him who hath loved him with an everlasting 



THE sunshine gleamed through the slight April shower^ 
And kissed the leaves all clad in tender green : 
Their tears fell ofE them in a glimmering sheen 
Of pearly drops. Each little wet-faced flower 
Dried quickly, as, to greet the sanlight's power. 
It raised a drooping head. Again were seen 
The song-birds flitting roimd, their wings to preen, 
They sought the suimiest spots within the bower. 

Hope, like a freshening breeze within my heart, 
Sffrang up, to see God's earth so fresh and fair. 

I, too, seemed in this joy to have my part. 

And of the Spring's sweet promise took my share. 
A ray from Heaven shone through my.sorrow there, 

And turned to smiles the tears that fain would start. 

M. F. M. 

^10 The Irish Monthly. 


AMONG the poems which the Mother Prioress of Stone Convent 
in Staffordshire (Mrs. Drane) names ^^ Songs in the Night/' 
is one, The Return of the Flocks enshrining a very lovely and 
mystioal idea. The words of its name always come into my mind 
when I think of our Cistercian monks of Mount Melleray, St. 
Bernard's monks, who, when they were obliged to fly from Pianoe, 
brought to an Irish mountain-side a rich store of blessings, equal 
to those received from the Island of Saints in early Christian days 
by the forefathers of their Order. In 1831 the monks of La 
Trappe arrived in Ireland seeking for a home, and they found it 
on the side of the Knockmeildown mountain in Waterford, on the 
borders of Tipperary. 

It has always been the peculiar and beneficent method of the 
Cistercians to seek for a wilderness, and here with praise and 
prayer and unceasing labour to weave their holy spells over 
swamp, and rock, and barren tract, until the beauty and fruitful- 
ness of the primeval Paradise is won back to that particular spot 
of earth which has happily become subject to their toils &nd their 
benedictions. St. Bernard never chose a site more characteristic 
of his intention than did his followers when they first planted 
cross and spade on the slope of the great Waterford mountain. A 
wealth of wild beauty, a splendour of form and colouring were 
there; and the high crags, round which the eagles himg and 
swooped, towered in that aerial skyey region towards which the 
souls of GFod-loving men yearn as showing mystic paths and 
openings into the higher and fairer regions in which they have 
built their everlasting home. Suggestive in the very bareness and 
ruggedness of its noble features, the harsh mountain was more 
delightful than gardens and pastures to the simple and laborious 
ascetic, and he went to work upon its possibilities with an indomi- 
table will. . 

The difficulties most likely to beset him in the very beginning 
were providentially smoothed out of his path. The courage and 
earnestness, and perhaps even a touch of fascinated interest such 
as a large-minded Protestant might feel in the poetic traditions of 
these devoted men, infiuenced Sir Richard Eeane, the landlord of 

. The Irish Cistercians. 211 

the difltriot, to afford them an opportunity of becoming an 
industrial ponver in the oountrj by giving them a lease of six or 
seven hundred acres of apparently unoultivable land on which to 
establish themselves under cloud and crag and between bog and 
£toii7 wilderness. But having no money, credit, or worldly goods 
of any description, in what way did they intend to proceed? 
Without visible weapon or instrument how were they to engage in 
the struggle which was to cast out the demon of barrenness from 
the magnificent Nature which they had ventured to approach ? 
Every Irishman who can shoulder a pickaxe or shovel can answer 
the question. At a sign from their parish priest, the big-hearted 
Waterf Old men and their lads forgot the sad truth that it required 
all their own toil, humanly speaking, to keep the wolf from each 
particular cabin door, and they rose up in a swarm, and left their 
own fields behind them to labour on the mountain on behalf and 
under direction of the pale-faced strangers who had come to them 
for hospitality in Christ, and in the name of the early Saints of 
Erin who had fasted and prayed with them in their foreign homes 
as brothers in the days when Christianity was young. 

That is more than fifty years ago, and the miracle has been 
wrought. Long patient skill, unbroken endurance, holy forbear- 
ance, saintly frugality, have won against the savage forces of 
Nature; epirit has conquered matter; rock, and morass, and 
shingle have flowered and multiplied fruits under the mystic sway 
of their gentle and indefatigable masters ; and the truth is made 
manifest that lies hidden in the revealed Word, assuring an 
incredulous world that if it has but faith it may move the 
mountain. The Waterford mountain, with the quaint name, 
though no longer a savage monarch, is still a king, enfolding in 
his purple a culture and civilization which would put many a 
naturally teeming valley to shame. The wilds of Knockmeildown 
are become the gardens of Mount Melleray, acres of pasture and 
cornfield, a land flowing with milk and honey. 

The vocation of our Irish monks of La Trappe includes many 
Iranohee of usefulness and benevolence. Our St. Bernard prays 
for the world, who either cannot or will not pray for itself, or 
which, praying and being anxious to pray, has not time to pray 
enough; prays for the suffering, the sad, the shipwrecked, the 
doubting ; for all especially who cry out to him for the alms of his 
prayers. He is like the watch-tower and the beacon-light to those 

212 The Irish Mmthly, 

on the high seas, who will sooner or later be on the shoals or the^ 
rocks, even if now the tide runs merrily and the ship is tight and 
safe. He is, besides, cultivator of the soil, employer of labour,, 
teacher of youth, instructor and comforter of those who come to 
seek ghostly counsel of him, to whom his house is ever open and 
Ids hospitality without stint. 

At Cappoquin, three miles distant from Mount Melleray, there 
is a comfortable inn, under good management; and from this place 
a delightful car-drive on a summer day will bring one to the gates 
of the Monastery, through the ripening wheat, on the golden 
borders of which extends the yet untamed moor, dark and for- 
bidding, or wayward, gracious, and inviting, lavish of its crimson* 
and purples, and tawny browns to the colour-loving eye. On the 
verge of the green pasture-lands the moor-fowl cry, and the bog 
lies in all its suggestiveness, sullen, and pathetic, and strong, as if 
conscious of its own intrinsic worth and the wealth it covers, imder 
a rugged exterior, with all its pools of water alive and gazing in 
the sky like eyes that are now wistful, now mirthful, and now 
shadowed with profoimdest gloom. 

Working in the fields are found the monks and their agricul- 
tural pupils. Outside the gates you will see the guest-house, 
where a respected matron receives ladies who may come to seek 
spiritual help. The Monastery itself is a large, quadrangular 
building, and the church, though not remarkable in point of 
architecture, is interesting and venerable as a religious interior. 
The buildings are 162 ft. in length, 30 ft. in breadth, 32 ft. high, 
and include dormitories, kitchen, chapter-room, scwristy, and other 
apartments. The fourth side of the quadrangle is filled in by the 
church, 180 ft. long, 30 ft. wide in nave, 62 ft. in transept, 30 ft. 
high. The tower is surmounted by a spire of wood sheeted in 
copper, and rises 140 ft. from the ground. 

The first thing that strikes one on entering the door of Mount 
Melleray Monastery is the hospitality of these frugal monks, who 
themselves never eat but twice in twenty-four hours, and whose^ 
unvaried meals consist of vegetables, porridge, and brown bread 
only. A recent traveller up Knockmeildown relates that his first 
glimpse of a Trappist monk caught that gentle ascetic in the act 
of hastening from kitchen to guests' refectory with a teapot in his 
hand. Indeed, the arrived guest has only to walk upstairs and sit 
down at a plentiful table, where his himger will be satisfied before 

The fykh Cidercians. 213 

lie is allowed to proceed further. And I may say in passing that 
for their kindly hospitality the Trappists make no charge. If the 
visitor should be pleased to leave the Monastery without seeking 
for the modest alms-box, into which he may or may not drop an 
offering before he departs, nobody will take note, or indeed be 
aware of the fact, but himself. And this generosity does not 
spring from an over-supply of riches ; for I believe that the monks, 
with all their heroic endeavour, do not find their task of cultivating 
:an Irish mountain and acting as voluntary teachers and trainers 
of Irish youth, a remunerative one from a worldly point of view, 
and have often to receive assistance from houses of their Order 
established in richer lands. Of the gentlemen who frequently 
retire to Mount MeUeray to make a spiritual retreat, each gives in 
return (in the alms-box) wh£(,tever he may think proper or may be 
able to afford. I suppose there are very few who are willing to 
giye not at alL 

From the apostolic and agricultural school of the monks (for a 
class who can pay modestly for their training), many youths go 
forth to play a noble part in the world ; but to my mind the free 
school for the little children of the coimtry-side is the most interest- 
ing feature of Mount Melleray. Into this school they walk every 
day up a path between blooming flower-beds, the schoolhouse being 
situated in a garden, the exqtdsite neatness of which not one of the 
little pupils would dream of interfering with. It was my good 
fortune to find Brother Augustine at work teaching school — a f resh- 
oomplexioned bright-faced, benevolent- looking St. Bernard, large 
and mafestio in his robes and cowl of black and white. The school 
is more like a combined greenhouse and aviary than the ordinary 
dull apartment of desks and forms. Brother Augustine accustoms 
his children to live with and love Nature, and it is his proud boast 
that not one of his little wild mountaineers woidd rob a bird's nent 
•or harm the petal of a flower. As they write and spell, the birds 
that live in the schoolroom hop about their feet or fly from cage or 
perch to alight on St. Bernard's shoulder ; and the good children 
are rewarded by a special permission to be feeders of the pets for 
the day. I need hardly say that the brave pioneering Trappists of 
the early foundation are now, with a few exceptions, no more. 
Their graves are yonder in the cemetery, long narrow moimds, each 
marked with a cross. The present Irish Trappist is a thorough 

214 The Irish Monthly. 

'Every class is represented in the Community, and all needs are- 
supplied from within. They are fanners, tailors, masons, slaters,, 
bakers, brewers, shoemakers, etc., etc. One himdred students ar& 
in the boarding-schools, coming from France and America, as well 
as from all parts of the three kingdoms. The pension is only £30 
a year. Music, art, elocution, are not overlooked in the education, 
they receiye along with their farm training. The culture favoured 
by the monks is reflected even outside the Monastery gates, as one- 
sees by the aspect of the usual National school, the conventional 
bareness and barrenness of which is here a little relieved by the- 
presence of a few flowering plants in the windows and other little 
signs of civilisation. As a rule nothing is more dismally unsug- 
gestive of real education than the aspect of an Irish National school 
scrupulously conducted on the prescribed principles. 

I cannot leave Mount Melleray without one more backward 
glance at Enockmeildown mountain. The view from the summit 
(2,700 ft. high) I know to be magnificent as far as eye can reach 
on every side, taking in the rock of Cashel, and the ruins of the^ 
ancient cathedral and home of its kings, the ocean and harbours of 
Youghal and Dungarvan, and a vast extent of winding and pictur* 
esque and characteristic sea-coast. About the middle of last century 
red deer pastured on the sides of Knockmeildown, but they ar& 
gone. Wild plants and flowers grow about it, and on the very 
highest point is the grave of a man, his dog, and horse : a lover of 
lightning and electricity, a scientific discoverer — ^Henry Eeles — 
whose last request craved that he might be so buried, close to the 
clouds, the home of his beloved lightning. 

When you visit Moimt Melleray and ascend Enockmeildown, 
there is one spot on which I know you will pause and hold your 
breath, where a deep lake or tarn, three-quarters of a mile in cir- 
cumference, lies in a basin scooped out of the mountain which rise& 
over it perpendicularly to a height of 600 ft. The water is deep, 
and dark, and cold — no sapphire was ever darker, bluer, colder ;. 
the Sim does not reach it on the warmest sunmier day ; its chill ia 
80 deadly that to bathe in it extinguishes life. Only the eagle, as 
if fascinated by its deep-set gleam, hovers over it, dips and swoops, 
but quickly rises again, and, screaming, soars into the sun. 


The Blessing of Dublin. 215 



CHILL and dead 
lies the King of Dublin's son, 
At his head 
Sits grey Alpin, stem and still ; 
Neither eat nor drink he will, 
Till the earth have had her fill, 
And Yalhal be won. 

Patrick came, 
Lauding loud of holier things, — 

Flashed the flame 
From the Viking-eyes : " Can He^ 
Maker of all things, make he 
That which is no more for me ? — 
Thy King of Kings ! 

^* Speak the word. 

Let the sovereign deed be done. 
Then thy Lord 
Lord of mine is — Lord of all, 
Each a liegeman at his call, 
Bows in battle, gold in hall. 
For him — my son." 

Patrick prayed, 

Moving as the sun moves round. 
Naught dismayed, 

King and jarls thrice followed him,. 

Heard, with understanding dim, 

Of the mystic murmured hymn 
The strange weird sound. 

Then great dread 

Game upon them, and, behold ! 
Stood the Dead 

In their midst, erect, with gaze 

Fixed on them in mute amaze ; 

lit with red returning rays 
The visage cold. 

216 The Irish Monthly. 

Said the King, 
Standing with his warman nigh, 
** For this thing 

We are vassals to thy Lord, 
Followers fast by field and fiord, 
True at trjsting, staunch at sword — 
Sea, shore, or sky ! 
** I pronounce 

Tribute to this King of thine, 
Each an ounce 

Weighed aright of ruddy gold 
, Every year shall be thrice told 
From the Northman's Dublin hold 
At Maeha's shrine." 
Patrick raised 
His right hand in benediction, — 
** God be praised ! 

If the toll be paid each year, 
Not the world need Dublin fear. 
Else, three times the Gaelic spear 
Shall bring affliction. 
*^ Gifts eleven. 

Guerdons, in return, shall fall 
From high heaven : — 

Goodly wives the wives shall be, 
The men live manful and die free, 
Beauty still the maidens' ft'e 
Of tJie pure proud (Jail. 
^* Feats of swimming 

Mark the youth, sea-loved, sea-strong, 
Bright horns brimming, 

Welcome aU to bounteous board ; — 
Gift of war-triumphant sword, 
Gift of trophies, many a hoard, 
Make its glory long. 

•^^ Champions brave, 

Gallant Kings to bear the crown, — 
On land or wave. 

Gift of commerce from all parts. 
Gift of ever- widening marts, 
Gift in Church of reverent hearts 
Bless stout Dublin town. 

The Blmhhg of Dublin. 217 

" Througli the haze 

Whence, in long succeeding lines, 
Come our days — 
.1 behold ascending spires ; 
When, 'neath darkness, all retires — 
One of Erin's last Three Fires, 
The Fire of Dublin shines. 

** Tara proud 

Over woods upstanding airy, 
Not thus crowd 

Qracious gifts around thy name, 
From Tara here this day I came, 
Gh:eat its mighty monarch's famo — 
My curse on Laeghaire." 

Patrick spoke ; 

Benean, I, have shaped the lay 
With measured stroke 

In the right resounding rhyme, 
That his words, in every clime, 
Should re-echo through all time 
Till the Judgment Day. 


When, after the Paschal oontroversy at Tara, the Celtic monarch Laeghaire 
(pronoonced Laery) refused Christianity, though he permitted its propagation, St 
Patrick went to Dublin. Its ruler was named Ailpin, in Irish, which was very 
probably a Gaelic form of Half dan. Through the conversion of the Norse- 
men (Gall) came the Blessing of Dublin, as related by St. Benean. The poem i» 
found in the *' Book of Rights," the authorship of which is ascribed to this saint, 
though there are some interpolations of later date. This poem is distinctly declared 
to be his composition, and he, the chosen disciple and successor of St. Patrick, was 
» oompetent witness. It is true, as objected, that the g^reat Norse Kingdom of 
Dublin was founded later in the end of the' eighth century, but then it is also true 
that in tlie year 790 Dicuil conversed with monks who had resided in Icel&nd, so 
that there must have been Christian Norsemen at an earlier date than is generally 
Mipposed. It is now held, as stated by Dr. Soderberg, that the legend 
off ''Balder the Beautiful'* is really a stray story of the life cf Christ. 
That intimate relations between the Scandinavians and Irish exifited long 
before the eighth century is evident from the fact that, in the second century, 
Bania, wife of the monarch TuathaH, was daughter of the King of Finland, and 
Una, mother of Conn of the Hundred Battles, was a Danish princess. 
XJnder the names of '* Fomorians " and " Tuatha de Dananns,'* the Scandinaviana 
made settlements in Ireland before even the Milesians, and probably regparded these 
as piratical invadeis. Possibly the Norse invasions of later times arose from a 
desire to recover their lost territory. There is no historical reason for contestinfc 
the existence of a Scandinavian settlement in St. Patrick's time ; but, whatever bo 

Vol. xvnz. No. 202. GJ 

218 The Irish Monthly. 

the date assigned to the poem, it is manifest that it is a testimony and tribute, 
borne by Irish Churchmen, to the early Christianity and high qualities of the great 
Hibemo-Norse race, so generally and so unscrupulously maligned. 

The ** Black Book of Christ Church" tells that St. Patrick said mass in 
certain vaults, and foretold the erection of the Church. Christ Church was built 
over these vaults by the Norse King Sitric, ▲.n. 1038. The existence of St. 
Patrick's wells shows that tradition confirms the account of his presence in Dublin. 
The strange reference to the '' last three fires of Erin '* is a poetic allusion to a 
time when all Ireland should be a desert, save three inhabited places, of which 
Dublin would be one. This probably is the meaning of the three fires, borne on 
towers, in the arms of Dublin. 



THIS learned priest and true-hearted Irishman died on the 14th 
of March at the Presbytery, SS. Michael and John's, Dublin, 
in the 78th year of his age and the 55th of his sacred ministry. 
The newspaper obituaries have given an additional year to his 
priestly life; but he certainly was not ordained before his 23rd 
year, and he himself read, without correcting, the date that we 
assigned to his ordination — 1835 — ^in a somewhat extended account 
of his life and writings, which appeared last August in this Maga- 
zine (volume xvii, page 427). That paper dispenses us from the 
necessity of dwelling at present at any length on Father Meehan's 
most useful literary labours, and it also saves us from the regret 
expressed by some poet whom the Author of " Loma Doone " 
quotes in dedicating a book to a deceased friend : — 

Promitti manibus, submitti Manibus, iste 
Luget, et immemorein te momini68e, liber. 

The following humble and amiable little note regards the 
article in question : — 
Deab F. Russell^ 
Many thanks for the kind notice of a very insignificant individual. Of late 
1 have had incessant attacks of dyspepsia, which makes me regard your memoir aa 
iny epitaph — not written with a pen of iron. 

Ever gratefully yours, 
July 27th, 1889. C. P. M 

We may quote another of Father Meehan's letters which belongs 
to an earlier date, for it implies that his correspondent was till then 
ignorant of the name of the Author of " The Monks of Kilcrea," 
of whom a full account is- given at page 325 of our thirteenth 

Innocence, 21^ 

▼olume. The "Feb. 20" of the following letter must, therefore, 
be five or six years ago. It refers to some documents and verses 
appended to one of Father Meehan's works, probably his " Irish 
Franciscans." The reference to Cardinal Moran as Bishop of 
Oasory puts the date still further back. 

"The Author of The Monks of KUerea is Mr. Arthur Grerald Geoghegan, 
formerly an excise officer, but now liying retired in London. 

*'Dr. Moran, Biahop of Ossory, has a copy of Lynch's * laves of the Irinh 
Bishops.' The late Br. Todd, T.C.D., found the original, if I mistake not, in the 
Library of Rome. His copy was, I think, purchased by Dr. Moran. 

« I translated the epicedium. When I was a chap in the Roman College under 
Padre Divico (GKxi rest him !) I turned lots of Ovid's Tridtia (then our class-book> 
int<J Italian verse, which pleased my beloved teacher. You know that the Roman 
mffians cast him out. I met him in Liverpool when he was going to America, 
broken-hearted and persecuted by the villains who called themselves the Battaglione 
del CoUegio Romano." 

This is by no means the last time that Father Meehan will be 
mentioned in these pages ; but at present we shall only put on 
record the edifying fact that he was preeminent for his charity to 
the poor, giving largely out of his scanty income, and for this 
purpose refraining from expenses in which his Kterary and anti- 
quarian tastes might have engaged him. This may be more to 
his advantage now than even the authorship of " The Flight of 
the Earls," though such labours also are useful and meritorious. 
May he rest in peace. 


WHITE rose must die aU in the youth and beauty of the year, 
Though Nightingale should sing the whole night through^ 
Though summer breezes woo, 
She will not hear. 

Too delicate for the sun's kiss so hot and passionate, 
Or for the rude caresses of the wind, 
She drooped and pined — 
They mourned too late. 

Birds carol clear : 

" Summer has come," they say, 

** 0, joy of living on a summer's day I" 

White rose must die all in the youth and beauty of the year. 


220 The Irkh Monthly. 


The Osservatore Roniano has lately been allowed to publish 
«oine verses which Leo XIIL wrote upon the death of his Jesuit 
brother, Cardinal Joseph Pecci. The poem takes the form of a 
dialogue between the living brother and the dead. And first 
ilefundm loquitur : — 


lustitise factum satifl est ; admissa piavi ; 

lam caeli me templa tenent stellantia ; sed tn 

Com tot sustineas, tarn grandia munia, debes 

Tanta plura Deo, quanto majora tulisti. 

Sume anlmum ; fidens cymbam due aeqaor in altum : 

Numine propitio tibi sint cum fenore multo 

Felices initi pro relligione labores ! 

Attamen ut yaleas olim sublimia caeli, 

UltriccB fugiens flammas, attingere, prudens 

Mortali, Joachim, vitae dum vesceris aura, 

Quidquid peccatum eet, lacrimis delere memento. 


Dum vivam, fessosque regat dum spiritus artus, 

Enitar gemitu lacrimiflque absterg^ere culpsts. 

At tu, qui Superum sccurus luce bearis, 

Confeotum aerumnis, devexa aetate labantem 

Erige, et usque memor de caelo respice fratrcm, 

Quern turbo heu ! dudum premit horridus, horrida dudum 

Eluctibus in mediis commota procella fatigat. 

These lines have been translated in The Tabkt, Tfie Daily 
Chronicle^ and The Olobe. By a strange oversight the Editor of 
The Tablet appears to have admitted the attempt of a foreigner 
who knows English well enough to imagine that " past " rhymes 
with " beor'st," and that ** estranged my past " is sense and a fair 
equivalent for " admissa piavi " in what he calls in prose " the 
necessarily stiffened language of a versed translation." More 
curious than the phrase " while thou draw thy breath " is the line 
** so thou may'st cool thine eyes in heaven's breeze," which stands 
for the Pope's simple expression " that thou mayest at length be 
able to reach the heights of heaven." 

The Daily Chrmicle has, it seems, discovered in these lines " a 
glaring false quantity " — not merely false but glaringly false, and 

The Popes Last Poem. 221 

yet sundry microscopes have failed to detect it. But this critic 
^las succeeded better in rhyme : — 


JuBtLoe is satined ; my soul, now shriven, 
Has passed within the stany courts of Heaven. 
But thou, my brother, who alone dost bear 
So high an office and a world-wide care, 
The more thy gifts, the more will Qod demand. 
Frail is thy bark, yet boldly leave the land ; 
With GU)d for pilot and the mighty main ; 
Great is the toil, but great shall be the gain. 
Yet that thou may^st ascend the starr}' spheres 
And shun hell flames, O in this vale of years, 
Brother, wash out each mortal sin with tears. 

While my pulse beats, with many a tear and groan. 
For each infirmity I will atone. 
But thou, who dwell' st in the calm light of Heaven, 
Look back and aid thy brother, tempest-driven, 
Bowed down with toil and moil, oppressed with age, 
The whirlpool's eddy and the whirlwind's rage. 

"Hell " and "mortal" are intruders here, for "the avenging 
flanies " might include the fires of Purgatory, and venial sin is 
more in question than mortal. The translator has incorrectly 
rendered the admissa piavi, which the poet-pontiEE explains by 
recalling all the prayers and masses ofPered up for his brother in 
all parts of Christendom since his death in the beginning of 
February, which give reason to hope that his soul has by God's 
mercy Uown already to everlasting peace in heaven. 

The best version, perhaps, is that given by The Globe^ though 
The Daily Chronicle has several more successful couplets : — 

God's justice satisfied, my sins forgiven, 
I rest within the starry courts of heaven. 
But thou, still bearing thy great station's care, 
Owest more to God, the more He bids thee bear. 
Take heart, and boldly sail thy ship to sea : 
Trust but in Bim and He will prosper thee. 
So may thy toil, for Church and Faith endured. 
Be of rich harvest blessedness assured. 
Tet, to pass through the fires that purge of sin. 
And the pure heights of Heaven pure-souled to win, 
Forget not, brother, through thy life's last years 
Each fault to blot by penitential tears.. 

222 The Irish Monthly. 


Yea, while the breath yet fills this feeble frame, 
Shall groan and tear assail my soul of blame. 
And do thou, brother, thou in God's blest light, 
Kaise me low-drooping to thy spirit's height ; 
From Heaven look down upon me, brother dear, 
Support my weariness, my sadness cheer, 
While the rough tempest's power and wild sea's will 
Toss my frail bark and drive me onward still. 

The aUusion to purgatory in the first line might be better 
represented thus : — 

Justice is satisfied, cleansed every stain. 
And now the starry courts of heaven I gain. 


SOEROW hath built a palace in my soul, 
With windows giving on Eternity, 
And thence I see Time's drearj' waves drift by, 
SwoUen with human tears, and onwards roll 
To chilling shores of t)eath, their final goal. 
Dark burthens on the heaving waters lie, 
Tossed to and fro beneath an iron sky, 
Wrecked hopes, wrecked hearts, wrecked lives that onc» 
were whole. 

Poor ships ! so soon destroyed by envious waves, 
So soon to founder envious rocks between, 

Or else becalmed for aye on arid sand 
Near those dim gardens filled with nameless graves 

W^herein we lay te rest what might have been ; 
Anchor not here : there is a Better Land. 

E. S. 

Notes an New Books, 223 


1. "My Time and what Tve done with it," by F. 0. Burnand 
^Xx^ndon : Burns and Oates) is a very clever, a very interesting, but a 
very strange book. As for its cleverness, that is surely to be expected 
±rom the Author of " Happy Thoughts," and the Editor of Funeh. 
There is plenty of wit and plenty of interesting incidents. One 
wonders how far it is an autobiography, as it is called on the title- 
page. Some of the changes in the hero's fortunes agree with what is 
known of Mr. Burnand himself, whose portrait is the frontispiece of 
this new popular edition. The story originally ran through one of 
the London magazines — Temple Bar^ we think — and then reappeared 
.as a three-volume or two-volume novel. The publishers' advertise- 
ment of the present edition represents it as containing sketches of 
Public School and University life, and also Anglican Seminary life. 
The public school in question is n6 doubt Eton, called Holyshade by 
an allusion to Gray's famous ode : — 

" Her flemy'a holy shade." 
Bulford and Cowbridge are evidently Oxford and Cambridge. God 
l>lese the author for the unworldliness and courage that have turned 
the last pages of this book into an explicit act of faith. 

2. The Catholic World is giving earnest encouragement to the 
formation of Catholic Eeading Circles in the United States. Some of 
those interested in the movement have drawn up a list of good stories 
published by American Catholic publishers. "Uriel," by Mother 
I^phael (A. T. Drane), which is out of print at home in Burns and 
Oates's catalogue, is here assigned to the Vatican Library, New 
York. As this list is confined to American publications and republi- 
cations. Miss Hosa MulhoUand is represented, not by MarceUa Grace, 
or any of her well known stories, but by Retty Gray^ or Nohody^s 
Bairn. With this story two others are ascribed to her which are not 
liers at all — Victor^ Laurel and Kathleen^ 8 Motto. How has this 
mistake occurred ? Our American friends ought not to suppress our 
Irish author's name altogether — as we had ouce to complain of Mr. 
Noonan of Boston— nor to ascribe to her books which are not hers, 
as seems to have been done in the present instance. 

3. It would have been an additional recommendation for an 
American book commeuded in our March notices — " Rational Reli- 
^on," by the Rev. John Conway, Milwaukee— if we had mentioned 
that the Author was one of the Dunboyne studelits of Maynooth not 
xoany years ago. 

4. Another Irish priest, the Rev. Arthur Ryan, President of St. 

224: The Imh Monthly, 

Patrick's College, Thurles, has given us in a handsome volume of 
some three hundred pages, "Sermons 1877-1887" (Dublin: M. H. 
Gill and Son). These thirty discourses are on a great variety of 
subjects, and they are all animated by a very earnest and practical 
spirit. They are by no means either cold or commonplace, and they- 
will furnish useful and pleasant spiritual reading in Catholic house- 
holds. Father Eyan has very few competitors in this field. Tlie- 
posthumous sermons of the Rev. Joseph Farrell (the " Certain Pro- 
fessor") are almost the only ones we have had of late years from an 
Irish priest, till this new volume from the President of Thurles. An 
Irish priestly heart speaks through all. Writing on St. Patrick's Eve^ 
we must again recommend another book by Father Arthur Eyan 
which we announced last month — "St. Patrick, Apostle of Ireland "^ 
(Dublin: M. H. Gill). It consists of a Life and a Novena. Th» 
former gives in fifty pages a very careful and vivid summary of all 
thftt is known or prudently conjectured about the career of our great 
Apostle. The prayers of the Novena are very fresh and unconven- 
tional, and could only have been written by a warm-hearted Irish 

5. " Scenes from the Life of St. Benedict, dramatized by a Bene- 
dictine Nun" (London : Bums and Gates), is the best piece of literarj- 
work of this particular kind that we have seen for a long time. The- 
convent dramas and edifying plays that we have examined seem to 
us very poor. This Benedictine Nun has reached a higher degree of 
literary merit. It is a pity when good themes are spoiled by persona 
wl^, neyertheless, will have a reward on account of their good inten- 
tions. Here, in addition to good intentions, we have considerable 
capacity for dramatic blank verse. 

6. The best collection of hymns that we know is ** St. Patrick'* 
Hymn Book " (Dublin : Brown and Nolan). It has been compiled by 
a Missionary Priest for the use of Associations of the Sacred Heart, 
Sodalities of Children of Mary, etc. Besides all the best hymns of the- 
usual collections, it has some thirty beautiful hymns that have not 
before made their way into a popular hymn-book. The extremely low 
I)rice shows that the publishers reckon on a very wide circulation. 

7. How is it that in some small English towns exquisite specimens 
of typography are produced, which the three capitals can hardly rival ? 
Torquay furnishes the latest example. The dainty book, which Mr. 
F. H. Hamilton, using Dr. Cruise's great work with full acknowledg- 
ment, has devoted to the Imitation of Christ and Thomas a Kempis, is 
printed at Torquay. In every respect it is very elegantly produced, 
and it is worthy of such care. The fifth edition has just been pub^ 
lished by M. H. Gill and Sons, Dublin, and Bums and Gates, LondoUi. 

MAY, 1890 





MISS Matilda's sleep that afternoon was long and deep, for 
never again did slie open her eyes to look upon sister or 
children, 'but passed away in silent peace. 

Prom the hour of her sister's death Miss Barbara drooped and 
pined. She fell into a state of melancholy and depression, greyr weak 
in mind and body, and was an object of constant care and attention. 

Madge watched over her with all the love and tenderness of a 
loving daughter, whilst Dora helped with the housework and looked 
after the little shop. 

But at last, as winter changed into spring, the poor lady caught a 
severe cold, and in a few short days followed her beloved Matilda to 
the grave. 

Madge mourned deeply for the Joss of her kind friends ; and yet 
ahe could not but rejoice at the freedom that their death had given 
her. She was now her own mistress ; and after many years of patient 
waiting was at liberty to leave Oldport, and go forth into the world, 
in search of Anne Dane. 

80, without delay, she resolved to give up the cottage and start 
for London. The sale of the stock that remained in the shop, and the 
simple furniture of the house, brought her some ten or twelve 
poundB. This, and the money sent by Madge's anonymous friend, 
was the sum total of her fortune. But with that amount the girls 
felt they could make their way to the metropolis, and live with 
economy till Madge got on as a daily governess, and Dora as a 
dressmaker's assistant. 

Vol. xvni. No. 203. 66 

226 The Irish Monthly, 

All these arrangements took some time to make ; but at last they 
were complete. Ilyerything was sold. The cottage passed into the 
hands of strangers ; and Madge and Dora, having packed up all their 
belonging^, were looking forward eagerly to their much-talked-of 

During the days of the sale, and whilst Madge wound up her 
afEairs, the two girls stayed at the house of a respectable woman, who 
had known them from their childhood. She had a married sister who 
let lodgings in London, and to her Madge wrote asking if she could 
give her a couple of rooms in her house. 

But when Mrs. Shinner's reply came, the girl was horrified at the 
sum demanded for the smaU accommodation she required.. It was 
more than Miss Matilda had paid for the cottage in which they had 
all lived comfortably, and she feared she could not afEord to spend so 
much upon her rooms alone. 

" Lor' bless you, that's nothing for London," said their hostess. 
^* Just you wait, Miss Madge, till you see how dear everything is. 
You'll be astonished." 

^'But there must be cheaper places than this, surely,'' replied 
Madge. " I must try and find on^, Mrs. Fleet. I must, indeed." 

" Well, miss, take my advice and go there first ; it's a respectable 
place. And my sister's an honest woman. You didn't ought to go 
wanderin' through London, promiscuous like, you an' Miss Dora. 
You didn't ought to, indeed." 

"Perhaps not, Mrs. Fleet," said Madge, sighing. "It is a large 
rent, but I suppose I'd better take the rooms for the present." 

And she wrote o£E engaging them at once. 

" And now, my darling," Madge said to Dora on the morning of 
their departure' from Oldport, " we have two farewell visits to pay- 
One to the cemetery to place our last flowers upon our friends' graVe ; 
the other to Miss Tranmore. Are you nearly ready to start ? " 

" Yes. I have just finished," answered Dora. And she held up a 
beautiful wreath of primroses and violets. " Is it not pretty ? " 

"Lovely, dearest. You have the fingers of a fairy. You could 
make anything, I beKeve." 

" I wish I could, Madge. And I do hope that Mdme. Garniture, 
of London, may think as highly of me as you do. Miss Tranmore 
says she has promised to give me plenty of work if she finds I can do 
it well." 

"I am not uneasy about that, Dora. But I'm afraid the work- 
room will try you. It is sure to be hot and stuffy. And you are not 
strong, my pet." 

" No. But I think I shall be able to bear the heat of the room. 

A Striking Contract, 227 

for the sake of what I shall earn," answered Dora, smiling. ** I am 
longing to make piles of money for you, Madge.*' 

" And I am bent on getting you a fortune before the year is out. 
T>5^ot by work, but by restoring you to your rights. Something tells 
me I shall soon find Anne Dane." 

Dors laughed. 

'^I am not so sanguine, dear: And if you did find her, it would 
probably be of no use. We have no proofs, remember." 

'* That's what Miss Tranmore always says. She declares Anne 
Dane would never confess or acknowledge you as the lost child, and 
that I may just as well not look for her." 

*' And I think she is right. Although, I must say, I'd like to find 
her, even if it were only to know what she has been doing all these 
years, and how she was rich enough to send you fifty pounds ; also 
why she sent it, and yet will not write and let you know where she is." 

'' I know where she is," said Madge quietly. '' I have known it 
4dl along." 

'* Madge ! " Dora looked at her in astonishment. 

" Well, dear, do not open your eyes so wide. We both know. 
We feel certain that Anne Dane must be with Mr. Atherstone. So in 
that way we know indirectly where she is." 

'• Yes, indirectly. But there may be any number of Atherstones 
in liondon. Miss Tranmore says it is an enormous place — a wilder- 
ness, and that people don't know their next-door neighbours. In fact, 
she says it's like looking for a needle in a bundle of hay to set out 
to find anyone there, unless you really know where they live and who 
they are." 

"Perhaps so. But I may as well live in London" as in Oldport. 
And I am determined to find Anne Dane. If I could only meet her 
and confront her with you, and that portrait of your mother, Dora, 
she would be obliged to recognize you as Sylvia Atherstone. That is 
the one proof we possess. And I don't think it's a bad one." 

"No," said Dora, drawing out the miniature which she always 
wore round her neck since leaving the orphanage, " I can see myself 
that I am like it. Dear little mother, you were prettier than I. 
Xour shoulders were straight, your figure well-formed. But still 
your child is wonderfully like you. What was my father like, 

"Tall and noble looking, with, oh, such a kind face and sweet 
gentle eyes," said Madge, with much animation. "I was only a little 
girl when I saw him, Dora, but I shall never forget him. He was so 
good to us all— 80— so kind to father. Oh, if I could but let him see 
jouy our troubles would soon be at an end, darling." 

228 The Irish Monthli, 

"I wonder where he is, Madge ? " 

** Somewhere in the Bush, dear. Father said he enjoyed his free» 
careless life there so much that nothing would tempt him to go> 

<'It seems strange that he should like it so much." 

"Not at all, dear. It is a glorious country. If you only saw the- 
flowers, Dora — ^the exquisite ferns, that only grow in hot-house& 
here, growing by the roadside ; the gorgeous scarlet lilies thirty feet 
high, the splendid trees, the beautiful birds. Oh, my dear, if you 
saw all this, you would not wonder that people should love Australia.'' 

** Perhaps not," said Dora thoughtfully. *' But if I were a father 
and had a little daughter in England, I think I would leave even 
the most beautiful land to see her, and take her in my arms." 

"But he may have heard you were drowned." 

"So he may. But who then is the child you saw with Ann^ 
Dane ? I thought you believed she had taken my place — that she 

"The real Dora Neil. I sometimes think so. But I may be 
wrong. I hope I am. I could not bear to think of my sister 
usurping your place." 

"And I would rather think she did, dear. I often wonder what 
that little girl wa« like, Madge, whose fate was so curiously mixed up 
with mine. It would make me very happy to think of her grown up 
tall and beautiful, enjoying the comforts of my grandfather's house, 
instead of lying cold and dead at the bottom of that cruel sea." 

" You have a tender, loving heart, my pet. But remember that 
if my sister is really in your place it will make it mi^ch harder for. me 
to prove that you are Sylvia Atherstone, and punish Anne Dane." 

" Yes. I know that, but except that I should have money to help 
you, I don't want to be Sylvia Atherstone. I am not fit to be. a fine 
lady, and I am quite happy with you." 

" God bless you, my darling. Your love is very precious to me,"^ 
said Madge, drawing the fair head upon her breast, and kissing the^ 
sensitive lips. " Your happiness is the one thing I wish for. But I 
have a duty to perform, Dora, and do it I will." 

"Dear, strong, determined Madge," answered Dora smiling. 
" But come, dear. Let us go to the cemetery at once. Our hours are 
passing, and we have much to do." 

" Quite true, dear. We have not much time, and I must see Miss 
Tranmore. I have several things to ask her. So come along. I'll 
carry this." And taking the wreath, Madge drew Dora's hand within 
her arm, and they left the house together. 

It was a warm day. One of those close, heavy days that sometimes 

A Striking Contrast 229 

«ome upon us in the early spring. The road to the cemetery was 
long and dusty ; and when the girls had laid the wreath upon the 
grave, Dora felt tired and weary, and begged Madge to go on to the 
Court without her. 

" I saw Miss Tranmore yesterday, dear, and I bade her good-bye. 
She will not expect to see me again. I do not feel able to walk so far. 
So I'll wait under this tree till you return." 

" I am sorry you cannot come on to the Court, dearest. You might 
have rested and had some milk in the housekeeper's room. You will 
be lonely here." 

•*Not at all. I like solitude, remember. And I — well^ I don't 
<3are for the housekeeper's room at Tranmore Court. So away you 
go, Madge. I'll dream of my future greatness till you return." And 
Dora laughed softly. " Good-bye,* Miss Neil." 

" Good-bye, dear. I'll not be very long." 

And Madge kissed her hand, and started ofP at a brisk pace. 

As her sister disappeared from sight, a cloud passed over Dora's 
swoet face, and she lay back with a sigh upon the grass. 

'' It is strange how that old feeling comes back," .she murmured, 
'^ always tired, tired. Just as I used to be at the orphanage. And I 
thought — I felt sure, that when I had my Madge to love me and take 
care of me, it would pass away. But it has not. Oh, God, make me 
strong. Grant that in our hard struggle for life in London I may not 
be a burthen on my darling." 

And clasping her hands, Dora raised her blue eyes appealingly to 

The air was soft and balmy ; not a sound was heard save the sweet 
ranging of the birds, and the burr of a steam plough in a neighbour- 
ing field. 

"Surely England is a good country to live in, too," thought 
Dora dreamily, as she gazed out over the the beautiful landscape. 
** And yet my father prefers the wilds of Australia— at least we think 
he does. He may have come home long ago, for it is wild, in spite of 
what Madge says about the flowers and the birds. It is wild — very. 
It is all so strange. Such an odd thing my story. That I, poor 
little I, should have a father and grandfather, both rich, strong, and 
powerful, and yet be dependent on Madge for everything I possess. 
But it shall not be so long. I'll work, and work, and with God's 
help support myself." 

Suddenly the girl sat up and looked anxiously around. The sound 
of a distant cry, the tramp of horses' feet, the noise of approaching 
wheels fell upon her ear. On it came, nearer, rapidly nearer, till at 
last she saw a carriage dashing down the road towards her. It was 

230 The Irish Monthly. 

some way off still, but, from the mad action of .the horses and tha 
swift pace at which they were going, she quickly realized that they 
were running away. 

Dora sprang to her feet, and, running into the field where the 
plough was at work, called loudly to the men to come and stop the 
runaway horses. 

** You are dreaming, young lady. There is no such a thing about 
here," said one of the labourers roughly. " Go along and leave us to- 
our work." 

" Yes, yes, they are coming down the road. Quick, there is not a 
moment to lose." And catching his arm she tried to drag him along. 

He resisted, and pushed her aside with an oath. Then, as the 
carriage turned a comer and came into view, she started away with a 
cry of horror. 

"There, see. If you wiU not stop them, I must." And she sped 
quickly away. 

" Good God ! she'll be killed," cried the man. " Go back, miss, 
go back." 

In a few strides he overtook the terrified girl, and thrusting her 
' out of his way, ran on to the road. 

As the horses came madly on, the carriage swaying to and fro, its 
occupants calling loudly for help, the man jumped suddenly from the 
hedge. The animals swerved a little ; their pace became less rapid y 
and making a violent effort he sprang at their heads, and seized one 
of them by the bridle. At first he seemed powerless to stop them, 
and was dragged along in the dust. But he held on bravely ; and on 
his fellow workman coming to his aid, they at last brought the frantic 
creatures to a standstill. 

The coachman, who had dropped the reins and was holding on to 
his seat like grim death, soon recovered himself, and jumping to the 
ground, ran to the horses' heads. 

Within the carriage were an elderly lady and a young man of 
about twenty or twenty-one. They were both white and frightened, 
and their voices shook with emotion as they thanked their deliverers. 

" Come up to Ashfield Park this evening, my men," said the lady. 
" You have behaved nobly. We owe our lives to you. My son and 
I are grateful, deeply grateful ; and we thank you from our hearts. 
But you — we must give you some reward, some substantial reward, for 
what you have done for us." 

"Thank you, my lady," answered one of the men, bowing and 
touching his hat respectfully. " We only did our duty." 

"Well, you did it nobly, bravely,", she replied smiling. "And I 
am indeed thankful for our escape." 

A Striking Contraai. 231 

*^ Yes, Lady Aahfield* I am truly thankful that my' comrade and 
me was able to save you and his lordship/' he said. '* But had it not 
been for this little lass, your ladyship, we'd never have seen or heard 
anything till too late, not with the noise of the plough and the 
distance from the road." 

"Beally?" cried the lady, stretching out of the carriage and 
shaking Dora warmly by the hand. ''Thank you, dear, thank you. 
But you look very white. Were you frightened ? " 

'' Yes," said Dora faintly, and clasping her hands tightly together. 
" But, but, thank Gk)d you axe saved. I did very little, I assure you. 
I was too weak and small to stop the horses, and I only just called 
and made the men come." 

"You showed wonderful presence of mind, dear. Didn't she, 

'^Yes, mother, she certainly did. But I am afraid," said the 
young man kindly, '' that the effort has been too much for her. She 
looks ill and faint. If she is not too nervous to trust herself in the 
oarriage with us, after what she has seen, I think we should drive her 
home. She seems xmable to walk, and the horses are quiet now. 
Aren't they, Smith?" 

"Yes, my lord," replied the coachman. " They are right enough 

" Will you get into the carriage beside my mother ? " asked Lord 
Afihfield, turning to Dora. *' And we'll drive you wherever you wish 
to go." 

" Oh, please, I can't," she answered. ** I " 

" What ? Are you nervous ? " 

" No. But I am waiting here for my sister, and if she came and 
found me gone she would be alarmed. I must not go, please. 1 can 
flit and rest till she comes. So pray, pray do not mind me." 

** But these men would tell her." 

" Oh, no, no, I would rather wait. I would indeed.'' 

"Yery well. You shall do as you like. But I hope you will 
como and see my mother to-morrow." 

" Yee," said Lady Ashfield, " please do." 

**But I cannot. We— Madge and I go to London this after- 

"To London?" 

" Yes. We are going there to live and work." 

" Is Madge your sister ? " 

" Yes, that is." Dora blushed as it suddenly flashed across 

her ftat after all Madge, her darling Madge, was not her sister. For 
years, all her life, in fact, she had called her by that sweet name, and 

232 The Irish Motithly. 

had forgotten that she was not so in reality. But noW) with Lord 
Ashfield's inquiring eyes fixed upon her, she remembered that she 
was not speaking the truth in saying that she and Atadge were 

^' What is your name, dear ? " asked Lady Ashfield, wondering at 
the girl's confusion. 

''My name." Dora paused, then smiling, she raised her beautiful 
eyes to the lady's face. " I am called Dorothy Neil." 

" Have you been long in Oldport ? " 

''Not long. I was brought up at B orphanage. Madge 

lived in Oldport with Miss Matilda and Miss Barbara Parry.*' 

" Then you are one of the children saved from the wreck of the 
Gimbria some fourteen years ago ? " 

" Yes. I was a tiny child at the time." 

" The Gimbria ! '*• cried Lord Ashfield. " Why, that was the name 
•of the steamer in which Sylvia Atherstone was wrecked." 

Dora started and grew white to the lips. 

" Yes, the very same," replied his mother. ** She and her nurse 
were fortunately picked up by a passing steamer. This child and her 
sister were washed ashore at Oldport. I have lived so much abroad 
that I only heard of them the other day. If I had known sooner, I 
would certainly have told Sir Eustace. He would surely have helped 
them, had he been told. The very fact of their having been in the 
same wreck with his beloved grandchild would have made him love 

"Yes, I am sure it would," said Lord Ashfield smiling. "For 
truly he idolizes his beautiful Sylvia." 

" Oh, pray teU me," asked Dora in a shaking voice, " do you know 

*' Sylvia Atherstone ? Oh, yes, very well." 

•* But is she really the Sylvia I mean, my The child that 

came home fi'om Australia? " 

" In the Gimbria. Yes." 

" And," continued Dora eagerly, "was her nurse Anne Dane?" 

'* Certainly," answered Lady Ashfield smiling. " But you cannot 
remember either of them. You are just about Sylvia's age." 

** I am Sylvia," rose to the girl's lips. But she suddenly reflected 
how foolish it would be to make such a statement to strangers, who 
would propably think her mad. So she choked back the words, and 
said in a lov voice : 

" Yes, the same exactly. I was sixteen my last birthday." 

"You look younger," said Lady Ashfield. " But then Sylvia i 
toll and" 

A Striking Contrast. 233 

''A^d straiglit," cried Dora. "I hope, oh, say she is straight, 
please. I was injured in the wreck. But she " 

** Was more fortunate, dear child. She escaped all injury, and is 
straight and strong." 

" Thank Gbd for that, thank God for that," murmured Dora half 
to herself. '^ Straight and heautiful, she is more fit to be a fine lady 
than a poor, weak little girl like me. And oh," she added aloud, 
** Madge will be so glad to hear that " 

Then she stopped abruptly, as she remembered how much Madge 
longed to know where Anne Dane lived, how anxious she was to 
discover her grandfather, and restore her to his arms. 

" Well," said Lady Ashfield, " why do you stop? Madge will, of 
course, be pleased to hear that Miss Atherstone is well. And Anne 
also, for I suppose she has not forgotten them." 

*' No," answered Dora, *^ she has not. And oh, dear Lady Ash- 
field, coidd you tell me where Sylvia and Anne Dane live ? " 

" Certainly. Sylvia lives with her grandfather." 

"And Anne Dane?" 

"Is her maid, I believe." 

"But where? Li what place do they live?" Dora questioned 

" Generally in the country. I declare jou.are quite curious about 
them." And Lady Ashfield laughed. " But, I suppose, that is only 
natural. So I will give you all the information I can. The Ather- 
stones, and I presume Anne Dane, are abroad now, and do not return 
for another year and a half. They will be in London then, as Sylvia 
is to be presented." 

" But where are they abroad ? " cried the girl- " What is their 
address ? Dear lady, do not think me rude. Forgive me if I ask 
too many questions. But Madge is longing to see, to know where 
Anne Dane is." 

" Indeed ? I suppose she was kind to her on board ship ? Well, 

it is very nice of Madge to be grateful. But I really cannot tell you 

where she is at present. My son and I left the Atherstones in Paris 

a month ago. They were going on into Italy. Where, I don't 

exactly know." 

Dora sighed heavily, and murmured sadly. 

** Poor Madge ! And I thought I should have good news to tell 

" Well," said Lady Ashfield, "in about a year and a half Madge 
may have the happiness of meeting her old friend. At the eild of 
that time call at my house in London, 16 Belgrave Street, and I will 
tell you where the Atherstones are." 

234 The Irish Monthly, 

" Oh, thank you," cried Dora, smiling brightly, " Madge will be^ 
so glad." 

'' And now, dear, tell me, what is Madge going to do in Lon- 

" Teach music. She is so clever." The girl's eyes shone with 
proud delight. ** Miss Tranmore says she plays most exquisitely." 
'"Who taught her?" 

" The organist of the church and Miss Tranmore." 

** That is very good. I may be able to get her some pupils. Fo 
tell Madge to come to see me in London next week. I should like to 
help her and you all I can." 

" Thank you so much. You are too kind, too good." 

** Not at all. You saved our lives, remember, by your presence of 
mind. I wish I could be of real assistance to you. What are yon 
going to do ? " 

Dora blushed deeply, and tears rushed into her eyes. 

" Alas ! there is not much I can do," she said sadly. ** I learned 
but little at the orphanage. But I am determined not to be a burden 
upon Madge, I can sew well. I shall try to be a dressmaker." 

" A dressmaker ! " cried Lord Ashfield in a tone of horror. ** Such 
a thing is quite impossible. The air of the work room would kill 
you. And association with the apprentices would be torture for you. 
You are not fit for such a life." 

"It is the only thing I can do," said Dora gravely. "It will be 
torture I daresay. But it must be done." 

" But surely there must be other ways," he cried impetuously. 
" It is not right that a young lady should lower herself, and mix with 
common work girls." 

Dora laughed merrily. 

"I don't.think I shall mind that," she said. " The children at 
the orphanage were not ladies, and I got on very well with them for 
nearly fourteen years." 

•* Yes, but then country girls are quite different from those in 
town. I do not think you should lower yourself in such a manner,'* 
he said earnestly. " I don't, indeed." 

" I shall not lower myself, Lord Ashfield," replied Dora with 
much dignity. " My father was a gentleman, my mother a lady. I 
shall not forget what I ewe to their name. But did I refuse to do 
what lay in my power, in order to help Madge ; did I sit idly by, lest 
I should lower myself by working as a dressmaker, I should feel 
myself unworthy to be their child." 

"Bravely spoken, dear," said Lady Ashfield approvingly. " And 
you are quite right. No honest work can lower anyone. A lady^ 

A^ Striking Contrast, 236 

bom remains so, no matter what her employment is. I always respect 
and honour a poor lady who works for her own independence, instead 
of living in idleness at the expense of some hard-working friend." 

"Why, mother, you are quite eloquent," cried Lord A-shfield. 
" And I must confess I stand rebuked. But all the same, I do not 
think Miss Neil's choice of work a good one. The life will not suit 

"Well, we must consider what is to be done," she answered. 
" Gome and see me soon, dear child, and I will help you all I can. 
And now, Ashfield, we must say good-bye to our deliverer. It is 
late, and we have a long drive before us yet. Good-bye, little Dora, 
till next week." 

And drawing the girl towards her, Lady Ashfield kissed her on 
the forehead. 

" Gk)od-bye, Miss Neil," said Ashfield, raising his hat, and holding 
Dora's hand for a moment within his own. " I am very grateful to 
you for your goodness to us this afternoon. I hope we may soon meet 
again. Do not forget my mother's address, 16 Belgrave Street. 

"Good-bye," said Dora faintly, and as she raised her large 
earnest eyes to his face they were full of tears. " God must have sent 
you and Lady Ashfield to me to-day. It will make everything easy 
for Madge and me, when we have such friends to look after us in 
liOndon. Good-bye." 

Then Lord Ashfield stepped into the carriage beside his mother, 
and the horses, now perfectly quiet, started at a brisk pace down 
the road. 

"What a sweet face that child has," said Lady Ashfield, looking 
back and waving her hand to Dora. " She is really quite pretty." 

" Pretty ! " he cried earnestly. " She is beautiful." 

"Beautiful. Oh, no." 

"Oh yes, mother, she is beautiful," he insisted. "That simple 
child has the face of an angel." 



Dora's account of the runaway horses, and her conversation with 
Lady Ashfield and her son, was listened to with much interest by 

That after all these years of waiting they should at last come 
across people who knew the Atherstones and Anne Dane, was great 

236 The Irish Monthly. 

happiness for the girl. And the promise of help from a lady of 
position filled her "with hope for her own success in the arduous life 
she was about to enter upon. 

She longed to see Lady Ashfield at once to question her closely 
about Anne Dane ; to ask more particidars about the supposed Sylvia ; 
and if she should find it necessary or useful in carrying out the great 
object she had in view, to take the lady into her confidence. But as 
«he and Dora were obliged to go to London that afternoon, and Lady 
Ashfield remained a week longer in the country, she was forced to 
postpone the much desired interview whether she wished it or not. 

Miss Tranmore had given Madge a letter of introduction to a Mrs. 
Prim, who kept a school at Kensington, and required a governess to 
help her with her pupils. To this lady, therefore, the girl went on 
her arrival in town, and was immediately engaged at a very moderate 
salary. For this she was obliged to take a large part in the teaching 
of the school. She taught music to the older girls, and eveiything 
else including the elements of French to the small children. 

The hours at Penelope Lodge were nominally from nine to four. 
But when the bell rang for the scholars to go their way, they handed 
their finished exercises to Madge, and whilst they rushed o£E gaily to 
their homes, the weary governess had to sit down to correct their 
work, and make up the mark books accordingly. And so the poor 
girl soon found that she had but little spare time, as for one reason or 
another she never left the schoolroom till past seven, and it was 
generally eight o'clock before she got home to Dora and supper. 

So the days passed quickly by, and it was with deep regret that 
she was obliged to delay still longer her visit to Lady Ashfield. 

But at last one day, at the end of her first month in the school, 
she was informed that she might leave early on the following Satur- 
day afternoon. This was pleasant news for Madge, and she resolved 
to take advantage of her holiday and go to Belgrave Street. So at 
three o'clock Dora called for her at Penelope Lodge, and the two girls 
set out together to pay their much-talked-of visit to Lady Ashfield. 

They were both in good spirits and much excited. Madge had 
determined to tell Lady Ashfield the true story of the wreck, and felt 
certain that in a short time her darling would be rescued from her 
present wretched life and restored to her proper position. 

For much as Madge had suffered in her badly-paid situation, poor 
Dora had sufPered infinitely more. The hours in Mdme. Garniture's 
dressmaking • establishment were long and wearisome, the work 
monotonous, the rooms hot and stifling, the girls vulgar, coarse and 
frivolous. And sweet delicate Dorothy pined and grew thin in the 
*m wholesome atmosphere. But she never complained. Her heart 

A Sinking Contrast, 237 

waJ9 set on helping Madge, and no matter how tired she felt in the 
evenings, she had always a smile of welcome for her dear sister on her 
letnm from the school. Nevertheless Madge was not deceived by this 
foroed gaiety, and she became more and more anxious to find the 
Atherstones, and put an end to her darling's troubles as speedily a& 
possible. Through Lady Ashfield she felt sure she could do this. 
And so she longed most ardently to see and speak to her. 

''I hope Lady Ashfield may not have forgotten me," said Dora 
nervously. *' It is so long. 1^ seems almost a lifetime since that day 
in Oldport." 

^'Itis only a month, dearest," said Madge gently. ''You saved 
her life and her son's by your presence of mind. No one, not e^n 
the coldest, most thoughtless person, could forget that in a few short 

" And I am sure she was neither cold nor thoughtless. She had a 
kind though a proud face. And Lord Ashfield ! Oh, Madge, he had 
such a strong, straightforward look. He would never forget, I am 
sure. He is too noble for that." 

And Dora's pale cheek flushed, and her blue eyes sparkled. 

Madge looked at her curiously. 

" You seem to have made him your hero, darling — your ideal." 

Dora laughed, and her colour deepened. 

"Is that wonderful, Madge? He was so good and kind, and 
looked so splendidly handsome, yet so unconscious. His manner to me, 
poor little weakly me, was as polite and — and gracious as though be 
bad been speaking to his equal." 

"And so he was, dear.* He felt what you were. He could not 
mistake you, for you are a true lady, my pet, in spite of your poor 

"I don't know about that, Madge. A lady should not -feel 
nervous and frightened when speaking to strangers. A lady should 
forget herself and her looks, and I can't." 

"That is only shyness natural at your age, dearest. I am sure 
the highest lady in the land has felt that at sixteen." 

" But I always remember my deformity," said Dora in a low voice* 
" I know it is wrong and foolish. But " 

Madge stopped short, and looking Dora's tiny figure up and 
down with dose attention, said gravely : 

" My dear child, you are not deformed." 

" Oh, Madge ! " 

" Oh, Dora ! I would not deceive you for the world. And what 
I tell you is true. I think I told you so long ago at Oldport. You 
are not deformed. You are small; you are thin; slighter than 

238 < The Irish Monthly. 

anyone I ever saw. Your shoulders- from weakness are round — one 
perhaps a trifle, mind I say a trifle higher than the other. But that 
is not remarkable, and would disappear very soon if yon could rest 
and grow strong. Then your face, my pet, makes up for everything ; 
it is lovely. Your eyes are the purest of blue, your hair like 
threads of gold." 

" Enough, Madge," cried Dora, laughing. " In your anxiety to 
comfort me you are going too far. But nothing you can say will 
change my opinion of myself. I h&ve known it," — ^sighing — •* for 
many years. But I never felt it so keenly as on that day when Lord 
Aehfleld spoke to me, and I read pity in his eyes." 

'^ What a shame ! He is not such a hero after all, then, my dar- 
ling. It was weak and stupid." 

'^Hush, Madge, I cannot listen to you. Such words do not 
describe him. They should never be used when speaking of him." 

'* Well, dearest, when you are recognized as Miss Atherstone " — 

'^ That would mak« no difference. I am as near him as Dora Neil 
as ever I could be. But oh, Madge, when I heard that Sylvia — for 
she will always be Sylvia to me — was tall and beautiful, I put her 
next him in my mind, and I thought she will look well by his side. 
She, if she is as good as she is said to be beautiful, will be worthy to 
be his wife." 

'* Dora, you are a dreamer. And in your dreams you have given 
this young man too high a place. You know nothing of him, and yet 
you have endowed him with all kinds of virtues that, perhaps, he 
does not possess. When you meet him again, you will probably find 
him full of faults, a mere frivolous worldling." 

'*No," replied the yoxmg girl gravely, "that could never be. 

With such a noble face he could not be that. If we ever meet 

But here we £ure at Belgrave Street. Oh, Madge, have you courage 
to go in ? " 

** Certainly. I came to see Lady Ashfield, and if I can manage it 
I will do so." 

And walking boldly up the steps she rang the bell, Several 
moments passed and not a sound was heard within the house. No 
one appeared to open the doer. 

** How strange ! " said Madge. ** Where can all the servants be?" 

"Perhaps the beU did not ring," suggested Dora. "Try again, 

Madge did so, and this time more successfully, for almost imme- 
diately footsteps were heard coming up the haU. A chain rattled 
noisily, a bolt was withdrawn, and a dirty looking old woman put out 
her head. 

A Striking Contrast. 239 

"Wot does yer want ? " she inquired, staring hard at the visitors. 
-** We want to see Lady Ashfield, please," said Madget 

" Lady Ashfield ain*t at 'ome. She " 

'^ Bat she would like to see us. She told us to come." 
*' I tell yer 'er ain't at home. She's in f urrin' parts. 
" Where ? " asked Madge. 

** I'm blest if I know. Mrs. Downside, the 'ousekeeper, knows, 
but she's hout She sends papers and letters and cards to some out- 
landish f urrin' place. But I'm not much of a scholard. So I don't 
right remember it. Will you leave a card, miss ? " 

" Oh, no, it doesn't matter," cried Dora. " We have no cards. 
But when did Lady Ashfield go abroad ? " 

" Nearly a month ago. 'Er father topk ill, and she went off all of 
a sudden." 

" When will she be back ? " said Madge. 

" Don't know. Not for many a month, I'm thinkin'. Perhaps 
more nor a year." 

"Oh, Madge, what a pity we did not come here at once, the very 
day after we arrived in London," cried Dora. " I am so sorry." 

" So am I, dear. But we could not help it. I was obliged to go 
to the school fiirst," said Madge sadly. '^ It was a certainty. Lady 
Ashfield's promised help was not. She has probably forgotten all 
about us." 

"I cannot believe that. And Lord Ashfield— he would not, he 
could not forget." 

"But, my dear, he could do nothing for us — at least, perhaps after 
all he might. Through him, Dora, we might find the Atherstones. 
Tell me," Madge said, turning to the old woman, "is Lord Ash- 
field m London?" 

"No. 'E's at Oxbridge or on the continong. I don't rightly 
know," she replied. " But 'e's not in Lunnin, I know that." 

"Thank you," said Madge. " Gk)od morning. Come, Dora, there 
is no more to be done. Let us go home." 

" Oh, Madge, I am so disappointed." And, forgetful of time and 
place, Dora burst into tears. 

"Come, darling, you must not weep," said Madge soothingly. 
"I, too, am bitterly, keenly disappointed. But we must not give way 
to despair. We may come across the Atherstones some other way." 
" Always those Atherstones, Madge," cried Dora impatiently. " I 

hate their name. I don't care if I never see them. But " 

"My dear child, you forget how much depends on our finding 
them. Of what value are these Ashfields except as a means to attain 
the end we have always had in view ? If I thought they could not 
» me to that, I should never wish to see them, I assure you." 

240 The Irish Monthly. 


Dora's voice was full of indignation, and hejp eyes flashed angrily, 
as she looked at her sister. Then her lips trembled slightly, and a 
faint colour rose to her pale cheeks. '' But, of course," she added 
softly, "that is not wonderful. You do not know the Ashflelds as I 

" Well, darling, we must both forget them as fast as we can," 
said Madge cheerfully. " Come, Dora, dry your eyes, dear, and let 
us go home to tea." 

As the two girls turned away and disappeared into the Grosvenor 
Eoad, a hansom dashed up to 16 Belgrave Street, and a young man 
sprang out and ran up the steps. 

The old woman was standing at the door gazing about her, but on 
seeing the cab stop, she fled into the hall, and began scrubbing her 
face and hands with her apron. 

" 'Is ludship, as I live. Goody, Qt>ody, an' Mrs. Downside hout 
for the day. Wothever shall I do ? " 

" Where is the housekeeper ? " asked Lord Ashfield as he entered. 
** Tell her I want to see her for a moment." 

"Please, yer ludship, she's hout," said the old woman, making a 
low curtsey. " She's gone for the day." 

Lord Ashfleld walked up and down the hall. 

" That is most awkward. I had a message to give her, a most 
important message from my mother." 

" She'll be in by eight or half-past, yer ludship." 

"Too late. I cannot wait. My grandfather is dying. I have 
many things to do this afternoon, and I must go by the evening mail 
to Paris. I am very sorry not to see Mrs. Downside. It may make a 
considerable difference to those poor girls," he murmured. " I can- 
not get that child's lovely, pale, sad face out of my thoughts. She 
haunts me, and yet I am powerless, utterly powerless. Our gratitude, 

our seeming forgetfulness, is terrible, and yet. But they may 

come. I must give this woman my message. Perhaps she may 
deliver it properly. And to make quite sure I'll write from Paris. 
Look here, Mrs." 

"Partridge, my lud." 

" Well, Mrs. Partridge, I want you to give a'[message to Mrs. 

"Yes, my lud." 

" You are to give her this packet, and tell her that Lady Ashfleld 
wishes her to give it with her love to two young ladies who may call 
here any day. My mother does not knew their address, and " 

" Is one dark and the other fair, my lud ? '* 

" One is fair, certainly. Fair as a lily^" 

''Little Dorritr . 241 

" She's been, my lud." 

"Been? Whea? Did she leave any address? I might have 

*• She left no address, my lud, an' cried sadly, poor little lady, 
when she 'eard as 'er ladyship was away. She an' 'er s^jster 'ad just 
turned the comer when yer ludship drove hnp.** 

'* How provoking ! Why didn't you tell me ? Why? But, of 
course, you could not know. Pray excuse my heat. But Lady Ash- 
field is anxious, most anxious, to hear from those young ladies. So 
tell Mrs. Downside that when they come again she must be kind to 
them, and having learned their address, send it on at once to her 

" Yes, my lud. Til not forget." 

'* Have these young ladies been here before ? " 

•* I don't know, my lud. I don't open the door but seldom, an* 
thej might 'ave come without my knowin' of it." 

*' Yes, of course. I'm sorry I missed them. Do not forget my 
message. By Jove, I must be off. How the time does pass ! Good 
evening, Mrs. Partridge." 

And Lord Ashfield jumped into his cab and drove away. 

{To he continued). 


DEAR "Little Mother" with the patient face, 
Beneath the shadow of thy prison wall 
Thou hast grown up a blossom fair and small, 
To bloom within the gloomy, barren space. 
Dear loving heart that wovest dreams of grace 
Around the ruins of thy father's fall, 
And his poor failings loving names could call, 
Making homelike his dreary dwelling-place. 

I see him come— thy brave and gentle knight — 
Into thy childish life, to make it glad 
With his grave tenderness and gentle ways ; 
Ah ! little Dorrit, in a while thy days, 
Because of him, were desolate and sad ; 
But in the end thy life grew glad and bright. 

Mart Fublono. 
Vol. xvm. No. 203. 67 

242 • The Irish Monthly. 



** I am Thy servant, Lord, and the son of Thy handmaid : Thou 
hast broken my bonds asunder. To Thee will I offer a sacrifice of 
praise." Such are the opening words of the Fifth Book of the '^ Oon- 
fessions.'' Emancipated at last, as David from his sin, as the children 
from the furnace, he must sing a canticle of gratitude to his Deliverer, 
and lay upon the altar an oblation of praise and prayer. And surely 
if ever a human oblation could be an atonement to the Most High for 
sin, it was the noble offering that St. Augustine now made. He laid 
his heart and intellect on the altar of the Lord. Purity filled the one, 
faith exalted the other. He had found the Beauty, ever ancient, ever 
new, after which his soul had thirsted ; and except the inspired melodies 
of the Psalmist, convert too like Aug^tine, there is no record of human 
speech so beautiful, so exalted, so sublime, as those soliloquies and 
meditations in which he poured forth the ecstasies of his soul towards 
the great Invisible Being, whom unknown he had worshipped and 
loved. I do not know if there be any record that tbe veil of the 
Unseen was lifted for St. Augustine as for St. Paul and St. John. But 
I find it difficult to understand that anything less than the vision of the 
Eternal could have inspired a human heart with such seraphic love 
as that which clearly burnt in the heart of our saint, and winged with 
celestial fire every line he wrote, every word he uttered. And, yet some- 
how, we are attracted more by the oblation of his intellect than by the 
sacrifice of his heart, and by the stupendous work that intellect accom- 
plished when the light of Divine Faith was shed upon it. The history of 
the Church is full of examples of mighty minds that were barren and 
fruitless tUl the sunshine of Faith fell upon them ; but St. Augustine 
stands for ever as the most brilliant testimony of the power of purity 
and faith to bring forth the flowers and fruits of graceful eloquence and 
solid wisdom which the Church of .Cod treasures even more carefully 
than his corporal relics, and which an unbelieving world would not 
willingly let perish. And the singular fact is on record that, although 
St. Augustine spent the best years of his life in heresy, when his mental 
powers were fresh and vigorous, there has not been preserved for us one 
single line that he wrote during that period— not one utterance from 
forum or platform; but the riper products of his genius are most 
jealously guarded. For, after all, what without faith is human wisdom ? 
Or what is the " tinkling cymbal" of human eloquence compared with 
the trumpet tones of a voice resonant with Divine power and vibrating 
with the consciousness of the truth and importance of its utterances ? 

The Life and Influence of St, Augustine. 243 

And 80 Augastdne, the licentious student, is completely forgotten, and 
would be unknown were it not for his own most truthful and pathetic 
** Confessions," as Augustine the orator and professor is completely 
liidden by the glories that surround his name as a doctor and a saint. 
Por, as an eagle of the mountains, born and reared in a strong cage, 
is utterly unable to feel or exercise his strength, and beats its wings 
feebly and is blinded by the faintest ray of light, and begins to love 
ita captive degradation ; but once free it feels new strength with every 
new pulsation of its wings, and soars at last into the empyrean, and 
plunges fearlessly into the most frightful abyss, and poises itself 
oTor the roaring torrent, and looks steadily on the face of the sun itself : 
80 the soul of our saint, imprisoned in the den of vice and irreligion, 
was utterly unable to exercise its moral and mental energies, but, once 
emancipated, it rose into the very highest spheres of thought, 
and plunged into the deepest and darkest problems of existence, and 
lifted itself into the realms of "light inaccessible," and gazed steadily 
on the mystery that shrouds the majesty of the Eternal. 

Nothing was too great, nothing too small, for this searching intel- 
lect. It swept calmly over all those mixed questions that torture the 
eonls of men — time and space, freewiU and Divine foresight, the 
existence of evil and of a benevolent and all- wise Providence, the 
inspiration of Scripture— all passed in review before him, and he 
knew what the loftiest intellects had said about them, and then 
touched and transfigured them by the magic of his own great mind. 
No one has ever told the world the limits of human knowledge and 
the infinity of Divine Faith in clearer language than he. Plato told 
him all about God— told him even of the Word Only-begotten, who 
reposed from eternity in the bosom of the Father, led him to the very 
boundary line of the Christian Eevelation, but stopped there. There 
was the gulf that no pagan intellect could bridge over — there was 
tlie abyss across which for thirty years he had strained his eyes in 
vain for a way whereby he could pass or a guide who would take him 
by the hand and lead him, until at last he saw in Christ the " Word 
made fleah," and came to the knowledge of God through Him who 
is the "way, the truth, and the life.*' And that knowledge once 
attained, behold everything underwent a transformation in his eyes. 
The Scriptures, which he had derided for their simplicity, suddenly 
unfolded their sacred majesty in word and meaning. The philosophy 
be had adored became the dark, obscure parchment scroll, across 
which, invisible but to Christian eyes, the name of God was written ; 
and Nature tmfolded her thousand charms to him, and with her 
thousand voices echoed the peaceful exultation that filled his heart. 
For now, like the great Saint of Assisi in later times, he began to love 

244 The Irish Monthly, 

his life and the world, whose every aspect and accident revealed i\x» 
gentle presence of its King. He tells us in the " City of God" that 
in the colours which blend and mingle on the bosom of the great deep 
he saw the love of God always considerate for His wayward child ; 
and in the slender filament which binds together the glossy plumage 
of the dove, he recognised the hand of Omnipotence which has 
fashioned the soul of the seraphs. 

I have passed over by design the valuable' services rendered by St. 
Augustine to the Church in his controversies with the Donatists and 
Pelagians; for although it must always be remembered that his 
writings about the Church's dogmas and discipline were and are of 
Bupreme importance, I prefer to linger on these wider issues, where 
he comes directly into contact or conflict with modem thought ; for, 
whereas the whole tendency of modern thought is to dissociate philo- 
sophy and religion, it was his constant task, as it is his highest glorj-, 
lo have united them. And it would be quite impossible to exaggerate 
his splendid services, not only to the Church, but to religion, in this 
great department of science. His works are a storehouse of informa- 
tion and reasoning, from which every succeeding generation has 
borrowed material for attack or defence. One by one the Christian 
apologists have approached him, and bowing before his lofty genius, 
have taken from his hands the material from which they have con- 
structed works which make their names memorable amongst men. 
And these, not only Catholic writers, but such men as Paley, Butler, 
Chalmers, MacCullogh, who each in turn wrote on Natural Eeligion 
and showed the revelation of God, not in Scripture only, but in 
Nature itself. From St. Ambrose, his master, down to the great 
statesman who to-day holds a high and unique place not only in 
politics but in literature, every great illuminative intellect has been 
indebted to our Saint ; and if we had no other answer to that eternal 
impeachment that our Church is opposed to reason and inquiry, the 
name of St. Augustine alone ought to be accepted as a sufficient^ 

We are quite familiar with the derision and scorn which men try 
to pour on what they are pleased to consider a decaying faith, with 
neither virile thought, nor fanatical enthusiasm to preserve it. We 
are grown quite accustomed to the cry " your day is over ; your torch 
is extinguished ; behold we light it anew at the fire of reason, and 
like the athletes in the old lamp-bearing race of Greece, we shall pass 
it on from hand to hand to the end of time.'' Our answer comes clear 
and defiant. " Take your tiny lamp of reason, and go search the 
abysses ; make your minds a blank from ^ hich all traditionary ideas 
aie blotted out, and go find the truth. We make yen a present of all 

The Life and Influence of St, Augustine. 245 

that human ingenuity has devised to help you in your research —the 
figments of philosophers, the dreams of visionaries, even the solid 
discoveries in natural science. Take years of labour and research, 
not only in your individual meditations but in the dust and mould of 
the world's libraries. Call aloud to your gods to hearken to your 
cries and rain down light from high Olympus. And when you are 
old, and your hair is gray, and your hands are feeble, come to us 
whom in the day of your strength you derided. That subtle objection 
of yours, which you launched so airily and confidently against 
Christianity, behold here it is, anticipated and answered, fifteen 
centuries ago by St. Augustine ; and that brilliant fancy which leaped 
up like an inspiration, when your braiu was duU from much study, 
and the midnight oil was burning low, why it passed the lips of St. 
Augustine in one of his long conversations with Monica and Alipius 
near the sea at Ostia, or in one of those numberless homilies at Hippo, 
when clustered around his episcopal chair, men wondered at his wis- 
dom and wept. There is something sublime in the spectacle of the 
great mind stretching far back into the past and appropriating all the 
wisdom of the East and Greece, and then reaching down the long 
centuries to our own time, and colouring the thought of men, who 
cannot fail to admire his commanding genius, although they will not 
accept his authority for their faith. There is nothing local or con- 
tracted about this great mind. He spoke and wrote for the wdrld 
and unto all time, and perhaps the best proof of the importance that 
attaches to his writings is, that there is no author, the authenticity of 
whose works, and the meaning of whose words, is so often called into 
<Xuestion: where he can be quoted, there is no longer controversy. 
lie is one of the judges in the higher court, where questions of 
supreme importance are debated, and issues of the mightiest moment 
are decided ; and from his judgment there is no appeal. One of the 
fiercest controversies that has ever raged in the Church turned on the 
assertions of an arch-heretic, who declared that he liad read St. 
Augustine's works ten times and had found his doctrine there ; and a 
sect of heretics has built up one of its so-called fundamental doctrines 
on a single text from his scriptural comments, where his words are 
distorted, and his meaning misunderstood. And yet this great mind 
hows in humble submission to the Church, the Mother and Mistress 
of all the faithful, and submits his works to her judgment, to be cor- 
rected, or even suspended from publication, if she thinks that in any 
wiiy they can favour error or unbelief. Nay, even the Holy Gospels, 
which were to him as the bread of life, and which bear on the surface 
indications of their supernatural origin, he will not accept but from 
her hands. And she with her great discernment places her hands 

246 The Irish Monthly. 

iipon his works, and gives tlieni to the world with her mighty 
imprimatur. Every succeeding Pontiff who is compelled by the 
exigencies of his time to note the peculiar and ever-shifting errors that 
are put before the world disguised under the name of philosophy, 
points to 8t. Augustine, and his great pupil and successor in the 
schools, as the exponents of her philosophical creed. And well she 
may. Por in the supposition that she had not the great eternal 
promises which are the support of her prerogatives and the credentials 
of her mighty mission, she might shelter herself behind the works of 
St. Augustine and Aquinas, and consider her position impregnable. 
If I were not speaking of a saint whose charity was so wide and deep 
as his learning, I am afraid I should say with anger to those weak- 
lings in the faith, whose minds are disturbed by every chance 
conversation with a sceptic, every chance reading of a padded article 
in a monthly review : ^* these things too occurred to St, Augustine ; he 
sdw through them ; he rejected them ; where his great mind was at 
rest, you have no reason to be disquieted." 

And now, for one moment, let us go back to one calm scene, 
immediately after his conversion, when his mother and he poured 
their souls freely to one another after the long years of spiritual 
separation. There is a famous picture by Ary Scheffer, familiar to us 
all in photographs and engravings. It represents that evening at 
Ostia when St. Monica and St. Augustine quietly talked over one of 
those sublime problems that always occupied his mind ; mother and 
son are seated together — the mother's hands folded in her lap, and 
her child's hand clanped between them. On the worji features of the 
mother, and the well-cliiselled, intellectual features of St. Augustine, is 
peace, deep peace— that peace which the world never gives. But 
insensible to the beauties of Nature around them, in that country 
where every landscape is a sublime picture, the eyes of mother and 
son are fixed on the skies. Behind the blue dome of immensity is that 
Being, whose love had surrounded them, whose mercy had exalted 
them, seeing only the tear of the mother, and blind to the iniquities 
of her child. It is a beautiful picture — a picture that to look at is to 
pray. But we must not linger over it. We, too, must lift our eyes 
and hearts to the skies. To Him, who is on high, whose humility has 
exalted and given Him that name which is above all names, our 
thoughts must soar, our love be directed, our affection centred, if we 
hope to enjoy the peace of St. Augustine and Monica here, and to call 
the former our father and our friend, in the presence of his Master 
and Friend, in the sinless bliss, the perfect peace, the calm joys of 
our heavenly Home. 

P. A. Sheehak. 

A renetian Ballade. 247 


T AGOONS may tempt more pensive eyes, 
^ But give me life on Lido's strand — 
The glory of its opal skies, 
The tropic lustre of the land, 
The wide waste of the waves where, fanned 

By balmy breezes, wander free 
Bright crimson sails in stately band — 
Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 

Like blocks of burnished gold, they rise — 

Those hills by fairy vapours manned, 
Sweet are their cygnets' melting sighs, 
And sweet the shell's song on the sand : 
The islets in a beauty bland 

Spring from the waters dreamily. 
Evoked by some magician's wand — 
Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 

And as the saffron sunlight dies, 
A silver streak on either hand 
In swan-like motion hither hies, 
Pale reflex of the moon. I stand 
By splendour such as this trepanned 
Far from the cares of men, and flee 
To Fancy's welcome Vaterland — 
Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 

clime by glory's arches spanned. 

No nobler nook, it seems to me, 
Have eyes of poets ever scanned ! — 

Fair is the broad Venetian Sea. 

Eugene Davis, 

248 The Irish Monthty. 


AT certain times in one's life it is well to perform an operation 
similar to what is known in parliamentary jargon as the 
Massacre of the Innocents ; that is, when the Q-overnment try t(j 
reduce within workable bonnds their proposed attempts at legisla- 
tion by giving np certain measures which they see they have no 
chance of passing. Our idecw of what it is possible for us to 
achieve vary a good deal with the various stages on life's journey. 
It was a very young man, " a marvellous boy," who wrote : — 

** The fooliflh word Impostible 
At once for &je disdain." 

'W^e come after a time to learn that many things are impossible, 
and to deem it a part of wisdom to aim only at the possible. 

These reflections need not go further, for at present they only 
point to the modifications that editorial plans and purposes must 
undergo in the course of eighteen years. Whatever our plans and 
purposes may have been originally, it has turned out that one of 
the chief functions of The Irish Monthly has been and will be 
to preserve the memories of Irish men and women who in divers 
ways may have earned a right to be remembered. Therefore in 
the official statement published in The Press Directory the last 
words are : — " It makes Irish biography a speciality." 

Many materials are at our disposal for biographical sketches 
which, we are sure, will interest many of our readers for the sake 
of their subjects; but before drawing upon these resources we 
deem it a duty to bring to some sort of conclusion* a sketch, of 
which no iewer than seven instalments have appeared in our pages, 
the latest of them being as far back as August, 1882 (Ibish 
Monthly, vol. 10, page 529). Those who have it in their power 
to refer back to the beginning of this sketch may And the reasons 
why out of all the members of the Irish hierarchy this Magazine 
has chosen to tell the rather uneventful story of Dr. Blake of 

* See *' Pigeonhole Paragraphp " of our present Number for the brief conoliudon 
of one of our stories which was loft unfinished in our pages. 

Dr, Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Rodrevor, 249 

That story had been brought down to the time when Dr. 
Blake, after refounding the Irish College in Borne and building 
the Church of St. Andrew in Dublin, was appointed Bishop of 
Dromore. We have already quoted from Dr. Blake's diary in 
Borne a passage in which, on the 25th of September, 1825, he 
summarise a letter he had written to a Dromore priest, who had 
been his fellow-student of old, and who had helped him in his 
immediate preparation for the functions of the priesthood — the 
Very Bev. Arthur M'Ardle, Vicar-General of the diocese of 
Dromore, and parish priest of Loughbrickland. This letter was in 
reference to the appointment of Dr. Thomas Kelly, whose imme- 
diate predecessor was Dr. Hugh O'Kelly. The last sixty years 
have seen fewer changes in the see of Dromore than the first 
thirty years of this century which is now rapidly nearing its end. 
Dr. Matthew Lennan was its bishop in the first year of the century, 
as he had been for the preceding twenty years. Dr. Edmund 
Berry's episcopate was almost as long ; but Dr. O'Kelly, appointed 
in 1820, died early in 1825. His successor, Dr. Kelly, then only 
six years ordained, was not, like him, a native of Dromore, but of 
Armagh, to which he was transferred in 18*32 in succession to Dr. 
Patrick Curtis. More accurately, he was made coadjutor to the 
Primate in December, 1828, retaining the bishopric of Dromore 
till the Primate died in July, 1832. In the following January 
Dr. Blake was appointed Bishop of Dromore, and consecrated on 
St. Patrick's Day, 1833. 

The seventeenth of March that year was Sunday. If such a 
ceremony took place nowadays, we should find a full account of 
it in The Freeman^ 8 Journal on Monday morning. I have had an 
opportunity of consulting a library* which has the good fortune to 
possess an almost complete set of that journal from its first number, 
more than a hundred years ago. One is shocked to find the 
Newry consecration described only on the following Friday, and 
then in half a column taken from The Neicry Telegraph and 
coming after a poor column and a-half of advertisements, the last 
of these advertisements being the announcement of a sermon to be 
preached the following Sunday in Meath Street for the Free 

*Tbe fine library of Holy Cross College, Clonllffep the ecclesiastical seminary of 
tlie Archdiocese of Dublin. Father C. P. ^[eehan has just set a good example by 
be:iaeath]ng all his books to this library. 

250 The Irish Monthly. 

Schools of St. Catherine's parish, by the Eev. Dr. Whitehead^ 
Professor of Natural and Moral Philosophy in Maynooth College 
— a name which it will interest some of our readers to find in this 
unusual context, for they have not heard of him before as a 

Dr. Blake was consecrated by his predecessor in the See of 
Dromore, Dr. Kelly, then Archbishop of Armagh, assisted by Dr. 
Edward Keman, Bishop of Clogher, Dr. Browne, Bishop of Kil- 
more, and Dr. Crolly, Bishop of Down and Connor, who was soon 
to be Primate. Dr. Crolly preached (says the reporter) " in his 
own peculiar and happy style a most appropriate, impressive and 
eloquent discourse." The new Bishop entertained the Bishops 
and clergy at Traynor's Hotel — ^Newry readers will be puzzled by 
this little bit of antiquarian lore — and, strange to say, the clergy 
entertained the bishops and their own Bishop in return on the 
following day. 

While putting these notes together, an accident places in our 
hands an old copy of that Newry newspaper that we have just 
quoted. The Newry Telegraph still lives, though its "Number 
1653 " was dated September 16, 1828 ; and, as it only appeared 
on Tuesday and Fride^y, it must then have been more than eight 
hundred weeks old. As Newry was thenceforth to be Dr. Blake's 
home, we venture to make this an excuse for quoting from the old 
newspaper the appointment of the first Town Commissioners. At 
a public meeting convened for the purpose, with Isaac Glenny iu 
the chair, Trevor Corry— historical names these for the only 
readers who will look at these local details — Trevor Corry proposed 
a list of 21, which may be given here : — " Denis Maguire, Smith- 
son Corry, Arthur Russell, Thomas Gibson Henry, Matthew 
D'Arcy, William Hancock, Charles Jennings, John H. Wallace, 
Patrick M'Parlan, Andrew Halyday, John Caraher, Adam Corry, 
James Spence, James Lyle, P. C. Byrne, William Carter, Peter 
Murphy, Rowan M^Naghtan, Constantine Maguire, Samuel Boyd, 
and John Arthur O'Hagan.*' Why quote these names, some of 
which no doubt have interesting associations for those who dwell 
on the banks of the Clanrye, but not for those who live near the 
Lee or the liffey ? For the purpose of noting that, though Dr. 
Blake's cathedral town was the frontier-town of the Black North, 
here we have, the year before Emancipation, the Conmiiseioners 
chosen alternately from Catholics and Protestants. The first is a 

Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill of Bosfrevor. 25 1 

Catholic, member of parliament for a short time after Catholio- 
Emanoipation, the only Catholic M.P. till the present member^ 
Mr. Justin Huntley McCarthy. Every alternate name is that of a 
Catholic, ending with the father of a great Irish Catholic lawyer, 
as the third on the list was the father of another Irish Catholic 
lawyer, distinguished not at the Irish but the English bar. 

From the day Dr. Blake came to Newry he never after left his 
diocese except on the most urgent business. To be sure Newry 
was then much further away from Dublin than it is nowadays. 
" The Post Office Annual Directory for 1833 " lies beside me, and 
it informs us that in those days the Newry " Lark '' started from 
the Londonderry Hotel, 6 Bolton Street, Dublin, at seven o'clock 
in the morning and reached Newry at four o'clock in the afternoon. 
In those days the postage of a letter from Dublin to Newry was 
seven pence — ^very moderate compared with eleven pence for a 
Cork letter, sixteen pence to Yarmouth in England, and twenty 
pence to Kirkwall in Scotland. Compare that with our penny 
postcard to San Francisco. " And yet we are not happy." 

« « « 

Thus far I had written concerning the commencement of Dr. 
Blake's connection with the diocese of Dromore, when, suddenly 
and unexpectedly, news comes of the death of the Dromore priest 
who helped him best and whom he valued most. None of his 
jfeUow-priests will demur to this description of the Very Eev. 
Patrick O'Neill, parish priest of Rostrevor, whose devoted curate, 
the Rev. Andrew Lowry, telegraphs to me on this 17th of April,. 
" Father O'Neill, aiter a brief illness, died last night." 

These biographical notes were partly resumed for the purpose 
of making use of some letters of Dr. Blake's which Father O'Neill 
had lent to me. The remainder of this paper shall link together 
the names of these two saintly men. 

Although to one who at the earliest possible age became a 
member of his lordship's flock in the second year of his episcopate, 
the venerable Bishop seemed to have already been amongst us 
from time immemorial when Patrick O'Neill became one of his 
priests, in fact only a dozen years, half of his term, had gone by 
since the Consecration Sermon preached by Dr. William Crolly. 
Father O'Neill (or " Mr. O'Neill," as we used then to say pretty 
generally in the Black North) was not a native of the Dromoro 
diocese, but of Kilmore. He had made his studies in the Irish 

25 ^ The IriHh Monthly. 

College of Rome. He at once from the beginning of his priest- 
hood gained the reputation of being in a remarkable degree a 
holy, zealous, and efficient priest ; and the esteem and affection in 
which he was held increased with every year of the life that has 
just ended. 

His work lay first in Newry for a long term of years, and 
then in Eostrevor. Between these two divisions of his sacerdotal 
career, the state of his health induced Dr. Blake to give him a 
short year's rest, which he spent in Rome. This was the occasion 
of the following letters, which we find written in a clear, firm, 
nent, and minute handwriting, which makes it hard to believe that 
the writer was eighty years old. Amid the good old Bishop's old- 
fashioned formality his affectionate heart betrays itself : — 

"Violet Hill, Newry, 

" November 14, 1855. 
** XIev. and Dbae Sib, 

** When you were leaving Ireland to proceed towards the Holy City, one of the 
wishes which I had most at heart was that God would protect you on your way 
thitlier. That wish, through the Divine Goodness, has been accomplished ; glory 
and everlasting thanksgiving be to His holy name. Another wish I entertained 
was that your stay in Rome would be conducive to the streilgthening of your con- 
stitution and to your advancement in whatever might render you still more useful 
to the great purposes of our sacred ministry, and still more deserving of the Divine 
protection ; and I now look forward with hope for the realization of that cherished 
sentiment. Your escape from the imminent dangers of shipwreck and death I 
regard as a special favour from Gt>d. I have had reason to be well acquainted 
with the perils of a voyage from Marseilles to Civita Vecchia. Twice I have 
been exposed to them, when land carriage was more expensive and uncommodione 
than it \& now ; and twice I was within a hair^s breadth of being drowned. The 
sea there has always been remarkable for its numerous and dangerous rocks and 
storms, and for the accidents which were apt to occur in it, the dread of which 
when I was returning from Rome in the years 1829 and *46, induced me to prefer 
the Genoa road and the Simplon to the passage by sea, and I recommend the same 
precaution to you. 

*' I perceive from your letter of the 10th Sept. that you were then in Tivoli, 
enjoying, I suppose, the delightful charms of that place, and renovated in spirits by 
the friendly hospitality of the always amiable and kind Dr. Kirby. From the 
9th to the 22nd of September you had scarcely time to gfrow fat upon the figB and 
grapes, which, notwithstanding the general failure of the vintage, were still not 
exhausted j but if health has been improved, I dare say your only reg^t on 
account of the blight is because, as you remark, the people have become somewhat 
discontented by it. You have not mentioned whether you intended after the 
Retreat to become a member of one of the classes which were to coAmience on the 
4 th of November. I would wish to know that, and if the answer be in the affirma* 
live, I would like to know what course of studies you mean to pursue. Considering 
the shortness of the time between this and the first of May, I think you might 

Dr. Blake of Dromore, and Father O'Neill o/Bosfrevor. 253 

wake better use of it, by oonyersixig with Dr. Kirby and other learned theologians 
mod preachers on the snbjects thej consider most interesting, and by collecting saeh 
books as are most esteemed by them on account ol their matter, style, and 
pmctical ntility. 

*' I have not as yet reoeived the renewal of my Episcopal faculties, ordinaiy 
and extraordinary, for which I supplicated the Holy See in my letter to his Emineneo 
Cardinal Fransoni, dated the 27th of last September. As the period at which 
tiiose I have now will very soon expire, I am anxious to receive the renewal as soou 
as possible— whilst I am writing, perhaps it is on its way; but, if not, I beg, 
through your services, to have them forwarded to me as soon as possible. 

'< Our old friend and parishioner, Mr. Charles Jennings, departed from this lif<> 
at 5 o'clock on last Sunday morning, and was buried this day. 1 ofSciated at hi:» 
funeral exequies, but I was unable on account of the rheumatism in my Umbs to 
accompany his remains to the grave. His widow and sons and daughters are uU 
hete, and I hope will, by their united efforts, contribute to the future happiness of 
each other. 

** Our two convents are going on prosperously, no complaint of bad health in 
cither, but both are very desirous of your speedy return. The Sisters of Mercy will 
after a few days receive a postulant. 

**The Right Rev. Dr. Lpahy and all your old friends here, clerical and laity, 
are as well as when you left them, and are constant in their attachment and best 
wishes for you. 

** Hoping very soon to receive another letter from you, I will now conclude by 
Tequeating that you will, in the most reverential and affectionate terms, present my 
▼ery humble but kindest respects to the Venerable Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda, 
and my most affectionate regards to our very dear friend, Br. Kirby, and to any 
others who may honour me by their kind enquiries. 

•* Farewell, my dear and rev. friend, let us pray for each other. Be assured tlitit 
X am faithfully and affectionately, 

** Ever yours, 

** Bf . BUIKK. 

** P S. — Please to inform me :— Do letters with an envelope pay double p<;Htago 
at the Roman post office ? Here they do not.— M.B." 

*• Violet HUl, Newry. Ireland, 

•*AprUl4, 1856. 
** Rev. Aifi) Dbab Fbienb, 

** Before I was dressed this morning, my domestic brought me your affectionate 
letter, dated the 5th inst., because he knew it would give me pleasure to receive it, 
and great indeed has been my satisfaction in reading it, on account of the interest- 
ing information it contains of the progressive discoveries- and improvements of tho 
metropolis of the Catholic world, and the g^tifying intelligence it communicates of 
your own state of health, and that of our venerated friend, the Very Rev. Dr. 
Kirby. The gratification would be complete Lad you mentioned in your letter how 
Boon I may have the happiness of welcoming you home. 

* *' In return for the very satisfactory account you have favoured me with, I feel 
great pleasure, because I am sure it will give you joy, in aesuring you that God has 
been pleased to blees the labours you underwent here in founding the Convent of 
ICert'y with so many marks of His divine favour and approbation as I would have 

254 The Irish Monthly. 

•considered in the beginning almost incredible. Miss Hossell^s profession on the 
Tuesday after Dominica in Albis, and the Right Ber. Dr. Leahy^s instmctions and 
influence, have added powerfully to the zeal and exertions of the Hot. Mother 
Superioress of that community. Within the last two or three weeks postulants 
have been receiyed into it, and on this day two postulants have applied to me. 

*< We lamented, at the commencement, that we would want subjects for its 
duties ; our difficulty now is to have cells enough for their reception, and com- 
modious schools, and, above all, a decent and neat, if not a fully becoming chapel, 
for the sisters and inmates. To provide a little more room for the sacred offices and 
duties of a religious community, the rev. mother has converted one of the parlours 
into a chapel of aid, and has endeavoured to do the best she can for the other local 
wants of the institution. In the meanwhile, a weekly subscription has been kept 
up ; but I fear it will require too much time to make it sufficiently productive for 
the wants of the place. Infirmities prevent me from the active exertions I would 
be inclined to make for bo useful an institution ; and I am loth to suggest to Dr^ 
Leahy anything but what he may find it convenient to execute. His good wiU I am 
fully sensible of, and I therefore leave him to his own discretion and judgment. 
But what I have said will enable you to understand that we need additional cordial 

** You remember, I suppose, that when you were on the eve of your departure 
from Ireland, I gave notice to our clerical brethren of Newry that the appointments 
I then made were only provisional, and I have taken care since to repeat that 
notice, so that as soon as yon return you will be exactly, as to office, rights, 
privileges, and emoluments, as you were before those appointments were made. 

** I feel most gprateful to the venerable superiors of our Irish College in Borne 
for the kind consideration they paid to my recommendation in your favour. I know 
not what had been done with regard tp the person on whose behalf Dr. James 
Brown interested himself, and therefore am desiroue of knowing from you any 
particulars you may be able to communicate. I have now in my little seminaiy 
four or five very promising candidates, one of whom is a brother of the R^v. Mr. 
M'Givem, who studied in Rome, and is now a valuable curate in the parish of 
Ballynahinch, under Kcv. Daniel Sharkey. As I have mentioned Rev. Mr. 
M*Givem with praise, and do very much esteem him, it may not be amiss in order 
to preserve good temper and to prevent cavillings amongst our clergy, that the title 
of Doctor, though a right to it may have been legitimately obtained in the most 
approved manner, be not assumed by the individual who has obtained it until he is 
either a bona-fide profensor or author, or dignified by his station in the church over 
his compeers. I have learned from practical observation and renuirks the ex- 
pediency of adopting this suggestion, but I state it only as a matter of private 
opinion, and would not attempt to offer it as resting upon any authority. 

** I would have followed your example in contributing towards the erecting of 
the magnificent column now in progress in Rome as a public testimonial of the 
pre-eminent honour due the Immaculate and ever to be venerated Mother of Gk)d, 
but the extreme poverty of the majority of our people rendered it impossible for 
them, while provisions were so dear and property taxes enforced, to contribute as 
formerly to the proper support of their (jlergy. But better times are, I hope, before 
US ; and though, as you know, I have reduced my income by one-half of its fonner 
amount, yet I am disposed to contribute towards the column, and also towards our 
College in Rome after a little while. 

*< I beg you will in the most respectful terms present the assurance of my very 

3f\ Blake o/Dromore, and Father O* Neill of Rontrevor, 255 

Immble and most heartfelt respectful respects to our venerable protector, the Most 
Sminent Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda, and most respectful and affectionate 
««9ieem to the Very Rev. Dr. Eirby and any others who still honour me by their 

'* I need not repeat it, but still I am often charged to assure you of the constant 
and cordial esteem of your old friends here, clergy and laymen. 

" I now pray God to bless and protect and bring you safe home to us again, 
And I remain, 

" BcT. and dear friend, 

*' Ever yours most faithfully, 

<' M. Blaxb. 
*' The Bev. Patrick O'NeUl." 

" Violet Hill, Newry, 

May 30th, 1856. 
*« Rkv. Am) Deab Sib, 

*' I assure you I would feel gpreat regret in declining to g^rant any favour which 
yon would be anxious to receive from me, becailse I appreciate very highly your 
past services in the parish of Newry ; but if you will consult your own sound and 
faithful memory, you will perceive that I cannot accede to the request contained in 
your letter of the 19th instant, without appearing to fall off from my estimate of 
your acknowledgfed worth. You will remember that in obtaining my consent to 
your visit to Home for the benefit of your health and the recreation of your mind, 
yon promised to return in May ; and, relying on your word, and the solicitude you 
habitually felt for the welfare of this diocese, I refused to ma1<e any permanent 
appointment for the discharge of the duties we owed to our Nei^Ty flock until the 
termination of the period mentioned by yourself. In consequence of that pro* 
visional arrangement, many things for which I should be anxious, have since 
remained in abeyance, our improvements have been somewhat suspended, your 
clerical brethren of this parish, though full of esteem for you, have felt themselves 
aofmewhat disappointed, especially within the last few weeks, and neither they nor 
I were prepared for your request to have leave of absence until September. Your 
«tate of health being now renovated, makes you perfectly able to resume your 
meritorious functions, and I need not observe to you that in this diocese we have 
no overflowing of missionary help of any kind, and, least of all, of such help as we 
should most desire. 

** I daresay it will surprise you to learn from me that I intend to go to Dublin 
next week, in order to purchase vestments and other articles necessary or useful for 
the divine service in Newiy. I am not entirely free from the grasp of my old 
tormentor the rheumatism. My limbs are still affected by it, and I am unable to 
dress or undress myself, or to walk without two sticks ; but the main vital organs 
are still sound in me, and though I am very weak, my spirits are sufficiently 
buoyant and cheerful. I would scarcely feel the weight of 82 years spent in labour 
and difficulties but for the never-ceasing accompaniment of rheumatiism. 

** My stay in Dublin must be short, for the visitations of the diocese have been 
already annoimced, and only yesterday, the Octave of Corpus Christi, I administered 
the Sacrament of Ck)nfirmation to 365 well prei)ared children, and I preached to 
to them and a large congregation in our cathedral of Newry. His lordahip, 
JDr. Leahy, my partner in labours, will commence his apostolic exertions on next 

256 The Irish Monthly, 

Sunday. Thus, you perceive, we are all on the alert ; the signal has been g^von ; 
the trumpet calling un to action has sounded. To the field of action thm 
■ without delay ! ELasten to stimulate, as jou have done before, your Tenerable 
associates bj your example. A life of ease wotdd not become you. Surely I need 
not add one word mote. 

<< Our young students in this seminary are progressing admirably in their 
studies and in ecclesiastical discipline. They almost all are unable to meet the 
expense of a journey to our college in Home ; there is only one amongst them who 
informs me that his parents could afford to send him. Will you be so [good as to] 
give me your opiuion whether I should send him or not. I pray you also to present 
my most respectful affectionate wishes to the venerable president, Dr. Kirby, and 
any other friends who still honour me in Rome with their remembrance. 
" Believe me to be ever faithfully, 

•* Rev. and dear sir, 

** Your servant in Christ, 

***MiCHA.KL Blakb. 
« The Rev. Patrick O'Neill." 

« Violet Hill, Newry, 

" June 30th, 1856. 
** Rkv. and Dbab Sib, 

** Your kind and interesting letter of the lothinst. gave me reason to think that 
before that letter would have reached me and an answer from me would be returned, 
you would have left the Holy City and would arrive, or be on your way to Paris. 
Your last letter, dated the 22nd inst., which I received this morning, leaves mo 
doubtful whether I should direct my letter to Rome or to the French capital, but I 
have no doubt that in one or other of these cities you will receive it. The 
announcement of your speedy return to Ireland gave me sincere pleasure, and I 
believe has been hailed with similar feeling by all your clerical and lay friends here 
and in Dublin. Our circumstances in Newry were in some respects left in an 
unsettled state by the arrangement I made shortly before you quitted Newry, and to 
some questions that have been asked me, I thought it expedient to give undecisive 
answers. But you may be assured that I will always act in a friendly manner 
towards you, for you have always deserved my esteem, and it will always afford 
me comfort to befriend you. 

** I sincerely regret that the young gentleman whom our venerable friend, Dr. 
James Browne, sent to the Irish College in Rome has been prevented by ill health 
from continuing his studies there, although by retiring from the place he there 
occupied he has left a vacancy for one of my students. Your letter of the 22nd did 
not come to me by him, but by the French mail. I feel grateful, however, to him 
for his offer to be the bearer of it, and I pray God for his speedy recovery. At this 
season of the year I believe you would not advise me to send a candidate into the 
climate of Italy, but when you are here with me we shall confer on that and other 
matters. I approve very much of your intention to provide useful books and 
whatever else you may have future occasion for here. In Ireland it is only by a 
sort of chance we can find them, and they are usually very dear, while on the 
continent they can be easily procured. What works would be most desirable for 
you I dare say you know better than myself ; but while I rejoice that such 
standard works as the Dogmatic and Theological works of Petavius and BeUarmine 

Lr. Blake of Bronwre^ and Father O'Neill of Bostrevor. 257 

aro about to be reprinted by thje sure and celebrated press of the Propaganda, my 
mind is saddened by the thought that some powerful and effectiye efforts are not 
aaade lor redeeming the character of our treatises on liioral Divinity from the 
charges of laxity. We haylB, it is true, the elaborate institutes of that prodigy of 
theological learning, Benedict XIY ., besides his celebrated Instructions de Synodo 
D&ooesana, but at our conferences, or even in our schools, the precious food of 
these is not very familiar to us. If yon can by enquiry or observation be enabled 
to select some imezceptionable moral theology on the various branches of that 
eetenoe, composed by some divine like Petavius or Bellannine, in becoming style, 
eoaod matter, reduced logieaUy from the pure principles of the CaihoUe Chureh, you 
would greatly oblige aU our venerable dergy by making it known to us. At 
present our conferences do little good for want of some work of such a character, 
and imtQ we have such a one, the Oummingtee and other bigot* of this detcription, and 
the infidels of the day, will treat our holy religion with scorn and contempt. 

«< Hoping to see you soon, I remain most sincerely, 

« Kind and dear sir, 

" Ever faithfully yours, 

"M. Blake. 
*• The Rev. Patrick O'NeilL 

'* P.S. — I have not the honour of being personally acquainted with His Eminence 
Gacdinal Bamabo, but the character of His Eminence has {>een long known to me 
and always admired by me. I coDgratulate with aU the nations of the earth' 
on the felicity of having so great and so good a personage appointed by the wise 
and ever-provident mind of our most Holy Father, Pope Pius IX., for our 
protector and our guide. 

*' I would feel much honoured and gratified by having my most respectful 
thoQgh unworthy homage presented to His Eminence. 

« M. Blake." 

In these letters the old Bishop mentions not only his coadjutor 
bat his coadjutor's future coadjutor ; for time hcu9 gone on, and 
many years have passed since then, and the young Doctor 
M^Gtiyem of those days, who was counselled to hold in abeyance his 
d^reeof Doctor of Divinity, is now Coadjutor Bishop of Dromore. 
It has been noted as a proof of the sagacity of '^ J. K. L.," 
the famous Bishop of Kildaxe and Leighlin*, that in one of 
his last letters he singled out a young priest called Paul Cullen as- 
a fit successor in his See. And here we have Dr. Blake singling 
out for commendation the young priest who was to be his successor 
at one remove. 

* Is it not atrocious that within the last three or four weeks, at a .Protestant 
meeting in Dublin, some Beverend Mr. Bambaut should have had the brazen 
audacity to say that Dr. Doyle died a Protestant ? Father James Maher, Cardinal 
OnUen's uncle, has left a minute account of the edifying death of his bishop and of 
the fervour and humility with which he received the last sacraments of the Church. 
If it had not been reported in the newspapers without contradiction, we should not 
Jiave considered even a Beverend Mr. Hambaut capable of such a piece of eilly 

Vol. xviu. No. 203. 68 

268 The Imh Monthly. 

We have given these letters of Dr. Blake out of their proper 
place, because after being in our hands for several years we had 
just given them to the printer when the person whom they oon- 
oemed passed away from the mortal state in which such things 
could interest him. Why not have finished Dr. Blake's story, 
such as it is, when there was at least one reader who would be 
interested in its most trivial detail P But such disappointments, 
small or great, are constantly occurring in human things; and 
among grey-headed people there is many a regret (only more 
bitter and more enduring) correspdnding with that " Child's First 
Grief " which we used to admire before the critics had taught us 
that Mrs. Hemans had only a thin vein of inspiration : — 

"Ah, while my brother with me plajjdd, 
Would I had loved him more ! " 

This would be a very perfect rule of charity — ^namely, if we could 
'manage to act and feel towards each of those around us as if he or 
she were to be taken away from us at once, and perhaps as suddenly 
as Father O'Neill was taken away from the thousands who loved 
him and depended on him. 

For that "brief illness" which the telegram of his death 
mentioned occupied only the afternoon hours of one day. How- 
ever, before reaching the end, let us go back to the beginning, and 
give the dates of Father O'Neill'B life more minutely, as his death 
lit this precise moment has chanced to link him more closely with 
the holy prelate with whom he was closely linked in life, and as, 
since his name came into these pages, we have seen his body laid 
in the earth before the altar at which he had offered the Holy 
Sacrifice some nine thousand times, the last time being on the very 
<iay of his death. 

Patrick O'Neill was bom near BallyjamesduS, in the County 
of Cavan, on the 10th of June, 1820. He first went to a country 
school in the neighbourhood, and afterwards at Oldcastle, in County 
Meath, where one of his class-fellows was the present Bishop of 
Meath, Dr. Thomas Nulty. About his twentieth year he entered 
the Irish College at Rome. If even for poor Byron Borne was 
** the city of the soul," what was the Eternal City for this pious, 
warm-hearted Irish youth ? On the completion of a full course of 
theological studies, he was ordained priest on the 13th of April, 
1846, so that his last mass on the day of his death may veiy pro- 

Dr, Blake of Dromore^ and Father O'Neill of Bostrevor. 259 

l)ably have been precisely on the forty-fourth anniversary of his 
first mass, which is often preceded by a day or two of special pre- 
paration after Ordination. 

We do not know the circumstances which secured for the diocese 
of Dromore the lifelong service of the young Kilmore priest. 
Though not a filius^ but only an affiliate, an adopted son of the 
diocese, he soon became Dromorensibtis Dromoreimor. If each 
diocese has a special guardian angel of its own, the Angel of Dro- 
more must have rejoiced exceedingly on that Jime day in 1846 
when Father O'Neill, fresh from Home, took up his abode in the 
^* parochial house " — ^the -nBXXiQpreshytenj is not used there, perhaps on 
aooount of its presbyterian sound. Two years later, he was 
appointed Administrator of Newry, which anxious and laborious 
position he fiUed for sixteen years with consummate ability, 
prudence and zeal, in the constant exercise of the highest priestly 

The "old Bishop," Dr. Blake, had meanwhile shared with 
another the too heavy burden of his cross, as Our Lord with Simon 
of Gyrene. Of Dr. John Pius Leahy much will have to be said 
when the prohibition, Ne laudes hominem in vita sua^ is removed. 
But he, too, would attribute to Father O'Neill a large share in the 
good works of his episcopate. Indeed in the beginning of that 
episcopate he bore the following testimony on the occasion of that 
prolonged visit to Eome to which Dr. Blake's letters also re- 
ferred: — 

"Newiy, September ITth, 1855. 
" Mt Bbar Mb. O'Nkill, 

«• I gladly avail myaelf of the opportunity afforded by your approaobing 
departure for Rome to giye expreseioii to the esteem in which I hold your many 
YirtneB, and to the gratitude I feel for the inyaluable assistanco I have received 
frooD you sinoe my appointment to the episcopacy. Your exemplary conduct, yoor 
genutne piety, and your imtiring zeal, while they powerfully contributed to promote 
the honour «f Ood and the salvation of hundreds, have also secured for you the 
reve re n ce and affection of the Catholics of this extensive parish. To you they owe 
the intaraduction of the Christian Brothers and the Sisters of Mercy, and it must 
ever prove to yon a source of the purest gratification to reflect that the incalculable 
good you have there effected will contibue to fructify long after you shall have 
been removed to the reward of your labours. You are now about to visit that great 
ctly where the blood shed by its many martyrs will no doubt inflame your zeal 
lAto a still more glowing ardour, and where the vast aoquurements of so many 
eminent divines will communicate to your mind a still larger treasure of eoolesias- 
tieal knowledge. I hope yon will soon return to the scene of your toils, refreshed 
.and animated for new exertions, and I beg of Ood, through the merits of onr 
Divine Savioor and the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, that He will preserve and 

260 the Irish Monthly. 

increase in you the grace He Idmself has given, guarding yon from danger hy 
infusing into your soul a spirit of sincere humility, a consciousness of your own- 
insufficiency to think even of what is gtx)d, and an unceasing recourse for light and 
strength to Him without whom we are mere fools with all our wisdom, and' 
oowards with all our courag^e. 

" I am, my dear Mr. O'Neill, 

*' Most sincerely and affectionately yours, 
"J. P. Lbahy, 

"Coadjutor of Dromore.'* 

If it were in my power to rearrange these hiirried and confused 
notes, I should separate those whom God joined, and treat apart 
of the priest and the bishop. More has still to be said of Dr. 
Blake and of Father O'Neill ; and, as the proper order of topics- 
cannot be observed, it may not be quite amiss even to increase the^ 
disorder by ending for the present with a letter addressed to Dr. 
Blake when Father O'Neill was only a child of seven years of age, 
and yet inaugurating an ecclesiastical career which has not yet 
reached its term. Monsignor Meagher, Canon Fricker's predeces- 
sor in Eathmines, thus introduces to the founder of the Irisb 
College at Rome Father Matthew Collier, now the venerable P.P. 
of St. Agatha's, North William Street, Dublin, living beloved and 
venerated amongst us still, although spoken of in the following 
terms so long ago as two years bef orei Catholic Emancipation : — 

** Dublin, May 10th, 1827. 
" Very Rkv. and Dbab Sib, 

'* It is with no ordinary pleasure I have learned that a young gentleman, Mr. 
K. Collier, has been selected out of my seminary by His Grace the Archbishop to 
become one of the earUest members of the national ooUege which you have so 
fortunately succeeded in establishing at Home. I feel the more gratified at this 
selection as I have enjoyed eyery means of becoming intimately acquainted with 
his character, whUe the result has been a conviction of his singular merit. He has 
been for nearly three years under my care, and it is with a sentiment far superior 
to that of mere reoonmiendation that I can aver I never discovered in his conduct 
one single trait that did not contribute to mark him out as a child of benediction. 
It could not be otherwise, reared as he has been under the eye of the saint of our 
days, Fr. Henry Young. The only disadvantage with which he had to struggle is, I 
trust, now removed — namely, a delicacy of constitution arising from a tendency to 
outgrow his strength. This has often obliged him to relax his application to study, 
and though I am confident he will be found competent to commence his course of 
philosophy should it be deemed expedient to make him embark at once in the study 
of the sciences, yet as he conceives an ardent wish to complete his knowledge of the 
classics, particularly of the Ghreek, in which he was beginning to make rapid pro* 
gfress, he wishes that I should entreat of yon to allow him, if possible, to prosecute 
those studies for a short time longer. 

'< As I cannot forget the hearty wishes which you were pleased to express for 

Dr. BUke ofDromorey and Fath^ O'Neill of Bostrevor. 261 • 

^e socows of the project of education whidi I formed on your departnre from 
Pablin, perhapa it may not be deemed intrusive to inform you that it still goes ofi. 
to prospur. The seminary contains about ninety children, and is daily on the 
increase. Hy plan is to secure patronage by exerting every energy to promote the 
litemy improvement of the children, and to lead them to God by habituating them 
hetimee to a punctual discharge of every reUgious duty, by endeavouring to make 
them, if possible, in love with the happiness and amiableness of virtue, and by 
dispelling what young minds are but too apt to consider as the gloomy discipline of 
xeUgion. I have had many dif&culties to encounter, but my hopes are still 
sanguine that Divine Providence will enable me at length to establish on a perma- 
nent footing a system of education for the middle ranks of society, which may 
prove an introdnetion not only to a literary but to a devout life. I am almost 
ashamfid, sir, to have thus intruded on your valuable time by a mention of my 
affairs, but it presents me with an opportunity of begging that you wiU recommend 
at the shrine of the Aposties that our good Otod may enable me to water this littie 
mustaidseed, and that He will Himself for His glory give it an abundant increase. 
" I would venture to extend the length of this already overgrown letter by an 
aooount of some of these most extraordinary events which are passing here, but that 
Hr. Collier will satisfy you more amply on these heads. You will rejoice to hear 
that the religious of George's HiU continue in number and efficacy the same as 
when you saw them ; all except poor Mother Knowd, who has suffered of late much 
from rheumatism. Ere I conclude, sir, may I entreat that you will have the good- 
ness, whenever opportunity offers, to remember me in the kindest terms to Bev. Mr. 
Shea, to my dear friend and fellow-student, Monsignor Yanioelli of St. Feter*s, and 
to mj revered friend. Signer Tomatori of the Missions. To* each of these gentie- 
men I would have felt it a duty to write did not severe indisposition prevent me 
at present, graying that our Lord may be pleased to grant you every blessing, 
<* I remain, rev. and dear sir, 

** Your obedient humble servant in C. J., 

**Wi£. Ma^QHBa." 

In giving this letter and the others we have not strayed from 
our I subject : for the link between Father Collier and Father 
O'Neill is Dr. Blake, first as President and then as Bishop. To 
Dr. Blake we shall return, with a few more words also about the 
^ood priest whose sudden death has changed the current of our 
thoughts more perhaps than we ought to have allowed it to do. 
But for the present we must end by expressing our conviction that 
Erin, the land of the Soggarth Aroon, has never given birth to a 
priestlier priest or a more Irish -hearted Irishman Uian the beloved 
jpastor for whom Bostrevor and Killowen are now in mourning. 


The Irish Monthly. 


[The intention of the writter of these yerses is to give the divine facts com- 
memoratod in the Bosarj in a form which may aid in imprinting them npon the- 
minds of the young at a time of life when the memory is strong and more tenacious 
of rerse than of prose. He has endeavoured to make the narrative as simple in 
point of expression, and to adhere as closely to the actual words of the Gospel, as> 
was compatible with a rhythmical composition.]. 

Our holy mother, Mary, 
A virgin pure was she ; 

Espoused unto St. Joseph 
In the land of Galilee. 

Thk Frva Joyful Mystkbieb. 
I.— Thb AirNt7iroiA.Tiow. 

" How can it be," said Mary, 
<' And I a spotiess maid?"— 
" The Holy Ghost will come to thee, 
God's power will overshade. 

Now God sent down to Mary 

His angel Gabriel. 
*' Hail, full of grace," the angel said, 

" The Lord with thee doth dwell. 

« And blessed art thou, Mary, 
Amongst aU womankind," — 

But Mary at the angel's word 
Was troubled in her mind. 

" Thy holy one shall therefoie be 
The Son of God. Behold 

Elizabeth, thy cousin, 
Though now in years grown old,. 

<< Shall also be a mother 
Ere many months ye see, 

Because no word to God on high 
Impossible can be." 

" Oh, be not troubled, Mary, " Behold," said humble Mary, 

And let thy fears be done : " The handmaid of the Lord,. 

Behold thou hast found grace with God, And let it unto me be done 
And thou shalt bear a son. According to thy word." 

*' It is the name of Jesus 
That thou shalt name him by ; 

He shall be great, and shall be called 
The Son of the Most High. 

" And God a throne will give him — 
King David's throne of yore— 

And of his kingfdom there shall be 
No end for evermore.' * 

The angel parted from her, 
And in that day and hour 

The Son of God took human flesh 
By his almighty power. 

OJory to God the Father, 
And his eternal Son, 

And ghry to the Holy Ghost 
For evet'y Three in One, 

II— Thb Visitation. 
Now in those days did Mary Elizabeth beheld her. 

Arise, her steps to bend And rising at the sight. 

Through Judah's hills to visit Filled with the Holy Ghost she spakc^ 

Elizabeth, her friend. In wonder and delight. 

In haste she made her journey 
Along the nVountain road, 

And entered where EUzabeth 
And Zachory abode. 

** Oh, blessed amongst women," 
She cried aloud, " art thou ; 

And blessed is the holy fruit 
Whom thou art bearing now. 

The Children's Ballad Boaartf. 


And how can such a maryel 
Of oondesoenslon be, 
That thoB the MoUier of my Lord 
Should come to visit me ? 

« Since on his lowly handmaid 
Hifl eye hath deigned to rest : 

Bahold, all generations 
Henceforth shall call me blessed. 

" For as thy salutation came 
Upon mine ear to sonnd, 

I fdt within my bosom 
For joy mine infant bound. 

'* And blessed art thou/ Mary, 
Because thou didst believe : 

For all that Qod foretold to thee 
Fulfilment shall receive." 

** My soul doth magpoify the Lord ' 
So Mary raised her voice ~ 

** In him my Grod and Saviour, 
My spirit doth rejoice ; 

" The mighty One and Holy • 
Great things to me hath done ; 

To them that fear him ag^ by ago 
His mercy shall be won." 

And Mary there resided 
UntU three months were gone, 

When Saint Elizabeth brought f ortli 
The holy Baptist John. 

Ghry to Qod the Father, 
And hie eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
Forever, Three in One. 

Iir.— Thh Nattvitt. 

The Emperor Augfustos 
Had issued his decree 

That all the people of the land 
ESnroUed by name should be. 

Now Joseph was descended 
From David's royal race. 

And David's city, Bethlehem, 
Was his appointed place. 

From Nazareth to Bethlehem, 
In winter's bitter cold. 

With Mary, his espoused wife. 
He came to be enrolled. 

An angel stood beside them. 

And bade them not to fear, 
" For tidings of great joy," he eaid^ 

** Are what I bring you here. 

** This night is bom your Saviour 

At Boyal David's town : 
In swaddling clothes you'll'find him 

Laid in a manger down." 

An army of the host of heaven 
Was with the angel then. 

" Glory to God on high," they sang, 
<< And peace on earth to men." 

And save in one poor stable, 

No shelter could they find. 
And Mary there brought forth her Son, 

The Saviour of mankind. 

In swaddling clothes she wrapped him. 

And laid him in the stall — 
A manger was the cradle 

Of the King and Lord of all. 

Now in that region shepherds 
Were keeping watch by night, 

Wben suddenly around them shone 
A glory heavenly bright. 

In Bethlehem the shepherds 
Beheld their infant Lord ; 

With Mary and with Joseph 
Devoutly they adored. 

With praise and glory unto God 
They did from thence depart ; 

But Mary pondering all these words 
Preserved them in her heart. 

Olory to Ood the Father, 
And his eternal Soti,\ 

And glory to the Holy Ohont 
For every Three in One. 


The Irish Monthly. 

IV. — Tbx PsaBSHTlXXOV. 

Xow Hary after forty days, 

Ab Moeee doth award, 
Brought Jesus to the Temple 

To preflent him to the Lord ; 

Andy as the law commanded, 

A saorifioe to bring, 
Two pigeons or two turtle ddves, 

Their humble offering. 

And while unto Jerusalem 
In joy they took their way, 

On Mary's breast, or in the aims 
Of Joseph, Jesus lay. 

Now in the oity Simeon dwelt, 
A man devout and just ; 

For Israel's consolation 
He looked with humble trust. 

That morning to the Temple, 
By the Spirit he was led ; 

He took the infant in his arms, 
Gave praise to God, and said : 

** Now dost thou let thy servant 
Depart in peace, O Lord, 

Mine eyes have thy salvation seen 
According to thy word. 

** Thy people's glory and a light 

On every land to shine." 
Then spake he unto Mary : 

'* Behold this child of thine 

** Is for the fall of many 

And for the rising set, 
And for a sign that is to be 

With contradiction met. 

** And through thine own soul, liary, 

A piercing sword shall go. 
That thoughts from many hearts revealed 

Compassionate may flow." 

And Anna, too, a prophetess 

Of eighty years , was there. 
Who served the Temple night and day 

In fasting and in prayer. 

She also made confession 

Of the Lord unto his face, 
And spoke of him to all who hoped 

Bedemptiou for their race. 

Ghry to God the Father, 

And his eternal Son^ 
And glory to the Holy Ohott 

For ever. Three in One. 

v.— Thb VniDisQ OF Jesus in thb Tioiplb. 

In Nazareth, a city 

Of distant Galilee, 
Dwelt Jesus, Mary, Joseph, 

The Holy Family. 

And ever, as the solemn day 
Of Paschal time was near, 

Tliey went unto Jerusalem 
To worship year by year. 

And when the years of Jesus 
Had now to twelve increased, 

A carding to the custom 
They went unto the feast. 

And when the days were ended. 
They turned their home to find, 

But Jesus in the dty 
Bemained alone behind* 

They deemed that he was with them. 

And journeyed for a day, 
When missing him their hearts were filled 

With sorrow and dismay. 

Among their friends and kinsfolk 
They sought for him in vain ; 

And then unto Jerusalem 
Betumed in anxious pain. 

And when three days were over, 

Their Jesus then they saw 
Conversing in the Temple 

With the doctors of the law. 

Hearing them and questioning 

And giving his replies ; 
And all who heard him marvelled 

At his words divinely wise. 

Father Pat. 265 

His psrents alflo wondered, Betamixig with them he fulfilled 

And Maiy said : '* My son, A child's obedient part. 

To ns who sought thee sorrowing. But Mary treasured all these words 

Say why thou thus hast done P *' And kept them in her heart. 

And Jesus answered sweetly : Olory to Bod the Father ^ 

** Why did ye seek for me ? And hie eternal Son, 

And knew ye not my Father's work And glory to the Holy Ohost, 

Hy task on earth must be P " For ever. Three in One,* 



"''T" WISHT yer riverence ^ud spake to my Kttle boy. Me 
-■- heart's broke with him, so it is, an' I can't get any good of 
bim at all." 

" What has he been doing ? " 

" Och, I declare I'm ashamed to tell ye, sir, but he's always at 
it, an' he doesn't mind me a bit, though I do be tellin' him the 
earth 'U maybe open some day an' swcJley him up for his 

" Dear, dear, this is a sad case. Where is the little rogue ? " 
And Father Shehan swung himself off his big bony horse, and 
passing the bridle over a neighbouring post, stood looking at Widow 
Brophy in affected perplexity, 

" I'd be loth to throuble yer riverence, but if ye'd step as far 
ss the lane beyant,'' jerking her thumb over her shoulder, " ye'd 
£ee him at it." 

She led the way, an odd little squat figure of a woman, the 
firill of her white cap flapping in the breeze, and her bare feet 
paddling sturdily along the muddy road. • Father Shehan followed 
her, snuling to himself, and presently they came in sight of the 
delinquent. A brown-faced, white-headed, bare-legged boy, 
standing perfectly still opposite the green bank to the right of the 
lane. A little cross made of two peeled sticks tied together was 
stuck upright in the moss, in front of which stood a broken jam 
pot, while a tattered prayer book lay open before hiin. A large 
newspaper with a hole in the middle, through which he had passed 
liis curly head, supplemented his ordinary attire ; a rope was tied 

* The Sorrowful and Glorious Mysteries will follow in our June and July Numbers. 

266 The Irish Mmthly. 

round his waist, and a ragged ribbon hung from his arm. Behind 
him, squatting devoutly on their heels, with little brown paws 
demurely folded, and lips rapidly moving, were some half dozen 
smaller urchins, while one, with newspaper decorations somewhat 
similar to young Brophy's, knelt in front. They were all as 
orderly and quiet as possible, and Father Shehan was at first 
somewhat at a loss to discover the cause of Mrs. Brophy's indigna- 
tion. But presently Pat turned gravely round, extended his arms, 
and broke the silence with a vigorous ^^Dominm vobiscum ! " 

" Et cum apir^ tu tuoy^ went the urchin at his side in life-like^ 
imitation of his elders at the hill-side chapel. 

The mystery was explained now : Pat was saying mass ! 

" Did ye ever see the like o' that, Father ? " whispered Mrs. 
Brophy in deeply scandalized tones ; then making a sudden dart at 
her luckless offspring, she tore off his vestments and flung them to 
the winds, and with her bony hand well twisted into his ragged 
collar — the better to administer an occasional shake — she hauled 
liim up for judgment. 

" Gently, Mrs. Brophy, gently," said the priest. " Don't be- 
frightened, my poor lad. I'm not going to scold you. That is a 
very curious game of yours — ^are you pretending to be a priest ? " 

"Aye, yer riverence." 

" Ah, ye young villain," began his mother, but Father Shehan 
checked her. 

" Hush, now, hush, my good woman. Tell me, Pat, do you 
think it is right to make fun of holy things ? " 

" I wasn't makin' fun, sir," whimpered Pat, touched to the 
quick. ** I was just thinkin' I raly was a priest, an', an' sayin 
mass as well as I could." 

" Well, well, don't cry, that's a good boy. Maybe you really . 
will be saying mass some day. Who knows ? But you must be a 
very good boy — and you must not think you are a priest yet. 
Ton will have to be ordained, you know, before you can say mass. 
Now, run off and find some other game." 

Pat grinned gratefully through his tears, wrenched himself 
from his mother's grasp, and, surrounded by his ragged followers,, 
disappeared over the hedge. 

" I wish we could make a priest of him," said Father Shehan 
as he retraced his steps, " he is a good lad." 

" Why thin he is, yer riverence, he is," agreed the mother 

lather Pat. 267 

-with the delightful inconsistency of her kind. " He is, indeed, 
very good. An' why wouldn't he be good ? Sure I bait him 
well. Troth ye'd hear him bawlin' at the cross-roads many a 
time. But is it him a priest ? Ah now, that's the way ye do be 
goin' on ; ye like to be makin' fun of us all, yer riverenoe, so ye do. 
The likes of him a priest P Well now ! " 

She burst out laughing very good humouredly, for in spite of 
her assumption of severity, there was not, as she would have said 
herself, "a betther-natured crathur" anywhere than Mrs. 

"Stranger things have oome to pass," said Father Shehan. 
'* But I fear there is not much hope in this case. To make him a 
priest you must give him an education, and to give him an educa- 
tion you must find money. And as neither you nor I know where 
to look for that, it's a poor look out." 

"Troth it is, yer riverence. God bless ye, ye always say 
somethin' plisant to us any Way. Good evenin', yer riverence, safe 

Long after the priest was out of sight Mrs. Brophy stood at 
the door with a plaasant smile on her face. Only for the education,, 
which would cost money, on'y for that her Pat was fit to be a 
priest. Didn't his reverence say so? It was a great thought. 
Her little white-headed Pat, in spite of the tricks and " mis- 
cheevousness " in which he indulged to the full as much as any 
other lad of his age, even he might one day stand before the altar, 
his hands have clasped the chalice, his voice called down the 
Bedeemer from on high. TeaiB of rapture filled her eyes at the 
mere thought of a priest : A priest of God ! To the simple faith 
of this good poor woman there was no greater height of blessed- 
ness or grandeur. 

" Oh, mother, if I could on'y be a rale priest ! " Pat had sighed 
many a time. And she had bidden him " g'long out o' that an'" 
not dar* say such a thing ! " But now it was a different matter. 
Only for the money Father Shehan had said the thing was pos* 
sible. Only for the money ! Just what she had not got. Ah, if 
a mother's heart's blood would have done as well ! 

But one never knows what strange things come to pass in this. 
queer world ! Father Shehan had distinctly said that he could 
not find the funds needful for Pat's education for the priesthood,. 
and yet, through his instrumentality, the boy was enabled to fol- 
low his vocation. 

268 The Iruth Monthly. 

Lo and behold ! Father Shehan had a friend who lived in 
liverpool, a very rich man, who was also veiy pious and charitable. 
Of this good gentleman the worthy priest suddenly bethought 
himself one day when Mrs. Brophy spoke of the intense wish 
which her boy still had, and the manner in which he was 
accustomed to " moither " her respecting it. To the rich Liver- 
pool friend the poor Irish priest accordingly wrote, with the result 
that the former agreed to undertake the cost of Fat's education, 
merely stipulating that the lad was to be brought up at St. 
Edward's College, and to devote his services when ordained to the 
Liverpool diocese. 

The rapture, the gratitude of both son and mother, cannot be 
described. The long separation which must ensue, the life of self- 
denial which lay before the one, of perpetual poverty to which the 
other was now doomed — for Pat was her only son, and she had 
formerly looked forward to the days when he would be able to 
help and work for her — ^all was accepted not only with resignation, 
but with joy. Was not Pat to be a priest ? 

The day after his departure Mrs. Brophy, donning her cloak 
and big bonnet, with its violet ribbons and neat border, forcing her 
feet, moreover, into the knitted stockings and stout boots, which 
regard for her bunions caused her to reserve chiefly for Simdays, Mrs. 
Brophy, I say, went to call on Father Shehan and to make a 

She wanted " a bades," a rosary which was to be kept till such 
time as Pat, endowed with full authority, would be able to bless it 
for her. 

Father Shehan laughingly produced a large, brown, serviceable 
one, which the widow reverently kissed and then tucked away in 
her bosom. 

" Now, whinever I feel a bit lonesome, I'll be havin' a look at 
ihis," she said, nodding confidentially to her pastor. " I'll take 
out me holy bades, an' I'll rattle thim an* kiss thim, and say to 
meself * cheer up, Biddy Brophy, yer own little boy '11 be blessin' 
them for ye some day, with the help o' God.' " 

" Well done, Biddy ! I hope you won't be often lonesome," 

said the priest with a smile, in which there was a good deal of 

compassion, for there were tears on her tanned cheeks though she 

spoke gaily. It was to God that this good, biaive little woman had 

^ven her all — ^but it was her all nevertheless. 

Father Pat 26* 

** Isn't it well for me? "said Biddy. " Bedad I do be thinkin'^ 
I'm dhramin' sometim/^ ! " 

And with her old-fashioned curtsey-bob the widow withdrew^ 
but as she walked down the road the priest remarked that she held 
her apron to her faoe. 

One day, a month or two afterwards, Father Shehan met her 
on the road, and stopped to speak to her. 

** Ter riverenoe, you're the very wan I wanted to see," she 
said. " D'ye know what I do be thinkin' ? Will I have to be 
callin' Pat Father y or yer riverencey whin he's a priest ? Troth, 
that'll be a quare thing ! " 

" I think, Biddy, in this instance it won't be necessary to be so 
respectful. Ton may venture safely to call him by his name." 

" Ah, but he'll be a rale priest, ye know, yer riverenoe, as good 
a wan as y'are yerself," cried the mother, a little jealous of her 
boy's dignity, which the last remark appeared to set at nought. 

" Musha, it wouldn't sound right for me to be callin' him Pat!^ 
Pat, an' him a priest ! I'll tell ye what " — struck by a sudden 
thought — " yer riverenoe, I'll call him Faiher Pat, That'll be it. 
Father Pat ! " 

" Yes, that will do very nicely, indeed," said the priest, com- 
posing his features to a becoming gravity, though there was some- 
thing as comical as touching in the widow's sudden respect for the 
imp whose person but a short time before she had been wont to 
beat with scant ceremony. " At this moment, Mrs. Brophy " — 
consulting his watch — "it is probably recreation time at St. 
Edward's, and Father Pat is very likely exercising these fine sturdy 
legs of his at cricket or football, and trying the strength of his 
healthy young lungs by many a good shout. But it is well to look 

" Ah, father, sure where would I be if I didn't look forward ? 
It isn't what me little boy is doin' now that I care to be thinkin' 
about, but what he's goin' to do, glory be to God ! " 

It was indeed chiefly the thought of the good times to come 
that kept Mrs. Brophy alive during the many long hard years 
which intervened. 

" Bad times," hunger, loneliness, rapidly advancing age on one 
side, and on the other her blessed hope, her vivid faith — and Pat's 
letters. Oh, those letters ! every one of them from the first scrawl 
in round hand to the more formed characters, in which he an-^^ 

270 The Irish Motdhly. 

nounoed his promotion to deaoonship, beginning with the hope 
that she was quite well as he was at present, and ending with the 
formula that he would say no more that time — such items as they 
further contained being of the baldest and simplest description — 
were ever documents so treasured before P So tenderly kissed, so 
often wept on, so triumphantly cited as miracles of composition ! 
Mrs. Brophy was a happy woman for weeks after the arrival of 
ihese letters, and was apt to produce them a dozen times a day in a 
somewhat limp and crushed condition from iinder her little plaid 
shawl for the edification of sympathetic neighbours. 

" I hard from Father Pat to-day," she would say long before 
her son could claim that title, while to the young and such as she 
wished particularly to impress she would allude to him distantly as 
^* his riverence.'^ 

What was Biddy's joy when he at last wrote that he was really 
to be ordained at a not distant date, and named the day on which 
he was to say his first mass? How she cried for happiness, and 
clapped her hands, and rocked backwards and forwards ! How 
proudly she got out "the hades" and rattled them, and kissed 
them, and hugged herself at the thought of the wonderful blessing 
which her " little boy " would so soon impart to them. 

" If you could only hear his first mass, Biddy," said Father 
Shehan, when she went to rejoice him with the tidings. 

" Ah, father, jewel, don't be makin' me too covetious. Sure 
that's what I do be sthrivin' to put out o' me head. I know I 
can't be there, but the thought makes me go wild sometimes. If 
it was anywhere in ould Ireland I'd thramp till the two feet 
dropped off me, but I'd be there on'y the say, yer riverence, the 
say is too much for me entirely ! I can't git over that. Saint 
Pether himself 'ud be hard set to walk that far." 

Here she laughed her jolly good-humoured laugh, wrinkling 
up her eyes and wagging her head in keen enjoyment of her own 
sally, but suddenly broke off with a snifE and a back-handed wipe 
of her eyes. 

" Laws, Father, it 'ud make me too happy ! " 

" Do you really mean that you would walk all the way to 
Dublin if you had money enough to pay for your passage to liver- 
pool P " 

" Heth I would, an' twice as far, your riverence. Wouldn't 
I stage it ? If I had the price o' me ticket, there'd be no houldin* 

Father Pat. 271 

me back. I can step out wid the best whin I like, an' sure anyone 
''ud give me a bit an' a sup whin I tould them I was goin' to see 
me little fellow say his first mass." 

After this, strange to say, ^' the price" of Biddy's ticket was 
forthcoming. Poor as Father Shehan was, he managed to pro- 
duce the few shillings needful to frank her from the North Wall 
to Clarence Dock. Her faith in the charity and piety of her 
country folk was rewarded, the " bit an the sup," and even the 
^* shake-down" in a comer, more willingly found as often as she 
needed it, and in due time, tired, dusty, and desperately sea-sick, 
she arriyed in Liverpool. 

" Glory be to God ! " ejuculated Biddy, delighted to find her- 
self once more on dry land. Then she chucked her black velvet 
bonnet forward, shook out the folds of her big cloak, clutched her 
bundle, and set out undauntedly for Everton, pausing almost at 
every street comer to enquire her way. 

" Lonnejrs ! isn't England the dirty place ! " she said to her- 
self, as she tramped along through the grimy Liverpool slums. 
But as she drew near her destination wonder and disgust were 
alike forgotten in the thought of the intense happiness which was ' 
aotnallf within her grasp. She was to see Pat, upon whose face 
she had not looked once during all these years, and to see him a 
priest ! To be present at his first mass, to ask his blessing — ah to 
think that her little boy would be able to give her " the priest's 
bleesin' ! " — and last, but not least, she would give him her beads 
to bless. She had not told him of her intention to be present oq 
this great occasion, partly because, as she told Father Shehan, " it 
was betther not to be distractin' him to much," and partly because 
she thought his joy at seeing her would be heightened by his 
surprise. No wonder that Widow Brophy walked as though 
treading on air, instead of greasy pavements. 

It was touching to see her kneeling in the church, with eager 
eyes fixed on the sacristy door and the rosary clutched fast between 
her fingers, but it was still more touching to watch her face when 
that door opened and her son at last came forth. So that was 
-Pat ! " Bless us an' save us," would she ever have know him ? 
And yet he had very much the same face as the little bare-legged 
obild who had first " celebrated" under the hedge, a face as 
innocent and almost as boyish, if not quite so brown ; but he had 
certainly grown a good deal, and his Latin was of a different 

272 The Irish Monthly. 

qoalit J, and there was moreover about him that which the mother's 
eyes had been so quick. to see, the dignity of the priest, the 
recoUectedness of one used to familiar converse with his God. 
Who shall describe the glory of that first mass for both son and 
mother P Who indeed could venture to penetrate into the sacred 
privacy of that son's feelings as he stood thus before the altar, his- 
face pale, his voice quivering, his young hands trembling as they 
busied themselves about their hallowed task ! But the mother I 
groaning from very rapture of heart, beating her happy breast^ 
praying with so much fervour that the whole congregation might 
hear her, weeping till her glad eyes were almost too dim to discern 
the white-robed figure of her son — surely we can all picture her ta 

When the young priest was unvesting after mass, there came a 
little tap at the sacristy door, a little, modest, tremulous tap, and on 
being invited to enter a strangely familiar figure met his gaze : 

" Father Pat," said Biddy, in a choked voice, and dropping a 
shakey curtsey, " I've come to ax your riverence if ye'll bless me^ 
bades for me, an' an' will you give me yer bless " 

She tried to fall on her knees, but the mother instinct was toa 
strong for her, and with a sudden sob she flung her arms roimd his> 

" Me boy ! " she cried, " sure it's me that must bless ye first ! "^ 

M. E. Francis. 


Some people will never begin anything, they are so much afraid of 
being imable to end it. And, no doubt, this view derives its support 
from Connolly's Folly and other such names current in all countries, 
and still more from what our Divine Redeemer himself says about 
the man who wished to build a tower and could not finish it. How- 
ever, the present writer is prof oimdly convinced that no undertakings 
big or little, can ever be brought to an end imless it is first brought 
to a beginning. In this world of beginnings what matters it that 
certain tasks should be left incomplete at death, provided that death 
finds the work of life itself in a fair approximation to completeness ? 

Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 275 

In another part of this Number, we resume, in the hope of bring- 
ing to some sort of conclusion, a biographical sketch which has long 
been left unfinished. Circumstances which need not be explained 
hindered the author of " The Walking Trees " from bringing that 
brilliant phantasy to its full completeness in our pages, where the 
last statement about Leo in the middle of our fourth volume is given 
in the sensational form : *' Hurrah ! hurrah I he is oft with the 
Forked Lightning." Probably his subsequent adventures were thea 
intended to be recorded at greater length ; but, when the tale 
reappeared as a handsome illustrated volume, this winding-up process 
IB condensed into the following paragraphs : — 

« « « 

How it was that the forked lightning flung him straight down to 
earth again without breaking his bones, and more wonderful still, 
shot him right through the closed nursery window without smashing 
a pane, Leo never could quite understand ; but certain it is that he 
felt himself suddenly pitched into his bed with a terrible shock, and 
had scarcely time to get his head up again to see the fiery heels of the 
lightning vanishing out of the window. 

A thunderstorm was raging all round his father's house, and the 
little boy, though he was very sorry his adventures were over, could 
not but feel glad enough to be lying at that moment snug and safe in 
his bed. 

His head was aching, and the next day Leo was found to have a 
alight attack of fever : no wonder, you will say, after all his extra- 
ordinary expeiiences and exertions ! 

"When he was getting better, and his dear papa used to come and 
sit by his bed and put grapes into his mouth, Leo related all that had 
happened to him in the clouds. 

He told his papa the whole story of his wanderings ; but Nurse 
and Patty he would not take into his confidence. They would be sure 
to laugh, he said, and perhaps would refuse to believe him. 

Papa did not laugh, but smiled pleasantly and patted his boy's 
little hands. 

'* Put it all out of your head for the present, Leo," he said, ''and 
make haste to get strong. And when you are able to run and walk 
with me in the fields again, then you and I will talk this curious 

matter over." 

« • « 

A San Erancisoo subscriber puts a question to us which 
perhaps some of our readers will enable us to answer : — 

"Who was *ThoniaA Batchin, Geographer^ and Hydrographer to Hi» 
Hajeatj ? ' I have picked up an exceUont map of Ireland with no date but tho 

Vol. xynx. Ko. 203. 69 

274 The Irish Monthly. 

above name m one oomer. It is evidentlj very ancient, fox' the names are not 
(many of them at least) in present use. I cannot find this Thomas KLtchin in any- 
Biographical Diotionazy." 

The Catholic Net/os of New York continues to give trouble 
to several inoffensive individuals by addressing this Magazine 
every month as "The Irish Monthly, London, England.*^ 
Time is running out so fast that we prefer not to reoeive this 
journal at all. A " newsy journal " is the more dangerous as a 
distraction ; and one is bound to avoid distractions and to keep 
one's self as far as possible in the proximate occasion of doing 
one's duty. But, if this journal insists on visiting us, let it remember 
that the capital of Ireland is Dublin. 

« « « 

Aubrey de Vere gives this finely critical estimate of Eobert 
Browning's peculiar genius : — 

Gone from us ! that strong singer of late days — 
Sweet singer should be strong — ^who, tarrying here, 
Chose still rough music for his themes austere, 
Hard-headed, aye, but tender-hearted lays, 
Carefully careless, garden half, half maze. 
His thoughts he sang, deep thoughts to thinkers dear, 
Now flashing under gleam of smile or tear, 
Now veiled in lang^uage like a breezy haze 
Chance -pierced by sunbeams from the lake it covers. 
He sang man's ways — ^not heights of sage or Saint, 
Not highways broad, not haunts endeared to lovers ; 
He sang life*s byways, sang its angles quaint, 
Its Runic lore inscribed on stave or stone ; 
Song's short-hand strain — its key oft his alone. 
* * « 

Browning himseU, when asked by Mr. Edmond Gosse to 
select from his works four poems of moderate length which might 
be taken as representing him fairly, answered thus : — 

19 Warwick Crescent, W., March 16, '85. 
Hy dear Gk)Bse, — "Four Poems, of moderate length, which represent their 
author fairly" :— if I knew what ** moderation " exactly meant, the choice would 
be easier. Let me say— at a venture- 
Lyrical : *« Saul " or " Abt Vogler. " 
Narrative : ** A Forgiveness." 
Dramatic : " Caliban on Setebos." 
Idyllic (in the Greek sense) : " CUve." 
Which means that, being restricted to fotar dips in the lucky-bag, I should not 
object to be judged by these samplefr— so far as these go — ^for there is somewhat 
behind still! 

Ever truly yours, 


Pigeonhole Paragraphs. 275 

A Sister of Mercy from tlie west of Ireland sends a curious 
testimonj to the linguistic skill of the late Father John O'Car- 
loU, 8.J., which deserves to be joined with those that we quoted 
from Professor Max Muller and other experts, none of whom, we 
trust, will diQ in a poorhouse like our new witness : — 

** We were mtich intereeted in the short memoir of Father O'CarroU. He gave 
vfl two Retreats in Tnam and one here. While here, he had a poor old man 
engaged to walk with and talk Irish to him, and he won the old fellow's heart 
compiletely. llie poor man spent his last two years in tho workhouse and died 
thflre ; and he nsed often to talk abont * Father John ' in a rapture. * He was a 
irreat warrant to talk Irish,' he said." 

♦ ♦ • 

Have you ever read Lord Byron's description of the Battle of 
Albuera in French prose ? If so, you will understand the marvellous 
change wrought in thoughts when expressed in their proper metrical 
form ; and you will make large allowances tor the following tribute 
paid in Irish verse to the same Father O'Carroll. It appeared in a 
recent number of The Gaelic JoumaL Would that our readers and our 
printers and our editor were competent to reproduce and appreciate 
the original ! The first words of this literal translation show that this 
Irish Jesuit, with Celtic name and heart and tongue, is already dead 
more than a year : — 

"Snddenly in March, the month of transition, the hour struck for our dear 
Fatiier John. The assigned term was come ; fuU were his days of the best deeds ; 
no delay in the way did he make, and earned as reward of his labour an eternal 
crown. WeU ordered was his life. I bid him a hundred farewells. When death 
called him, he was on the watch, though it came imaware like a thief. Our strong 
one is taken from us. Not in upbraiding are we of Thee, God ! — ^to Thee does 
every one belong— but he was so friendly, wise, upright, gentle, he shaU not be 
■notched away horn us without sorrow to us. Pure was lus heart ; dignified and 
loffy were his aims. In Erin his like is not now to be found." 

« « « 

Let me, without any permission, give an extract from a private 
letter from one who has done a great deal of the most solid work for 
Catholic literature, and who, if he liked, could do much for it also in 
the department to which his remarks refer : — 

** Did you ever read the Tale of Tintem by the late Father Caswall ? If not, 
ask your Father Librarian to get it at once. Bums and Gates, only two shillings, 
I think. It is one of the most charming poems in the language as a poem, and 
quite unique as being about Gur Lady. If you get it at once, it will inspire you 
with a beautiful article for May. They will, of course, send you the second 
edition ; but it is a curious fact that tho first edition was written in ten syllable 
lines, the second in eight syllables. But, though it is entirely rewritten, not one 
word is said by the author regarding the change. The second edition is greatiy 

276 The Irish Monthly. 


ONE of the principal sights in Oejlon is the Dalada MaligETra^ 
or Great Temple of the Saored Tooth, which is the most 
celebrated Buddhist Temple of the East. This temple is in 
Kandj, which town is continually thronged with pilgrims from 
India, China, Thibet, etc., who oome to paj their respects to the 
Dalada. The Maligawa is a large octagon in shape, and consists 
of the library, priests' apartments, the shrine chamber, and a 
larger room where the people perform their devotions. In the 
library are some wonderful books, the Pitakas or supposed teach- 
ings of Gandama, the veritable Buddha. These are mostly 
written on thin strips of wood, bound together in piles by silken 
strings ; some have magnificent covers of gold or silver studded 
with precious stones, and one book consists of sheets of silver for 
leaves, with the writing painted in the ancient Pali character, 
which has been unused for thousands of years. In the outer 
sanctuary there are figures of Buddha standing, sitting, and 
reclining. Two sitting figures, about a foot high, are cut out of 
pure crystal, the intrinsic value of which must be enormous. The 
smooth-shaven, yellow-robed Buddhist priest who was our cicerone, 
after showing us these figures, coolly held out a plate for our sub-' 
scription. I never fully realized till I saw these images what the 
saying ''As clear as crystal" meant. The candle held behind 
them showed them to be perfectly transparent, eveiy line and 
feature being accurately distinct. 

The shrine-chamber where the Dalada or tooth is kept, is very 
small. As it is considered a great concession to show even the 
shrine to any but the faithful, we were greatly honoured at being 
allowed to see it, and, of course, dropped another rupee into the 
plate. The relic is kept under seven well-shaped cases, which fit 
one inside the other, the outer case being about five feet in height ; 
this one is silver gilt, the others are beautifully wrought in gold, 
ornamented with precious stones, and the central part of one is a 
huge emerald. The size of the tooth ought to convince any sane 
person that it never came out of a hxmian head, but rather a caput- 
asini ; but the poor benighted Sinhalese has implicit faith in hiB 
priests, and never would he dare doubt their word for an instant. 

Notes on New Books. 277 

The temple is kept in anything but a clean state, and the whole 
atmosphere is impregnated with the odour of rank incense, cocoa- 
nut oil, and the heayil j-perfumed flowers surrounding the shrine. 

It is strange that in the midtitude of superstitions of which 
Buddhism consists, that there should Hnger many traces of early 
Apostolic lessons. Such, for example, as a belief in a kind of 
Purgatory where souls wiU undergo a certain amount of punish- 
ment before attaining the Nirvhana or blessed state of oblivion. 
But how sad that riches are so profusely used in the decoration of 
idol worship, when temples of the true God are so often bare and 
unadorned. However, our missionaries are making rapid progress 
in the lovely isle of Ceylon, and we may surely hope that in the 
future — distant perhaps, yet certain — ^all the inhabitants of ancient 
Taprobane will believe, not in a false idol, but in Him who 
redeemed us by the cross, Christ Jesus Our Lord. 

M. Stenson*. 


1. " The Poems of William Leighton " (London : Elliot Stock) 
appear in a complete edition which is very elegantly produced. The 
author was bom at Dundee in 1841, and died at Liverpool in his 28th 
jear. His poems have already been published in various forms, and 
this edition ends with a dozen pages of closely printed criticisms, of 
course of a favourable kind, from a hundred j ournals, some of which 
kave considerable literary reputation. Yet the book seems to us tb 
betray hardly any inspiration, but only a fair amount of good taste 
and culture. "The Leaf of Woodruff" and "Baby Died To-day" 
are Mr. Leighton's best. 

2. " The Development of Old English Thought," by Brother 
Azarias of the Brothers of the Christian Schools (New York : Apple- 
ton and Co.), is in a third edition, though the preface to the secon dis 
dated as recently as October 20, 1889. Brother Azarias is an Irish- 
man, a native of Tipperazy, a member of the French Congregation of 
Christian Brothers, and, if we mistake not, president of Manhattan 
College. He is a valued contributor to the chief Catholic magarines, 
a man of wide and accurate reading, and master of a clear and 
vigorous style. The present volume weaves together very agreeably 
the results of the studies devoted of late years to the Anglo-Saxon 

278 The Irish Monthly. 

literature. Brother Azarias is laudably particular in Bpecifying th^ 
authorities that he follows, yet his erudition is anything but cumbrous,, 
and his disquisitions flow on pleasantly, just as if each chapter wer» 
not the substance of sundry volumes. The work is addressed to th^^ 
general public : otherwise two months would not have suficed to* 
exhaust the second edition. 

3. Lady Martin's excellent translation of the Erench life of Doik 
Bosco, founder of the Salesian Society, has very soon reached a second 
edition, and we are sure that many other editions will be required. It 
is a fresh and interesting piece of biographyi an addition, of per- 
manent interest to our biographical stores. Our Irish translator has- 
X)erf ormed her duty admirably ; and the publishers have produced the 
book n as pleasUntly readable a shape as could be desired. 

4. We are a little puzzled by the pious pamphlet entitled '' Hail 
Jesus; or. Acts upor the Life and Passion of our Saviour Jesua 
Christ, by the late Venerable F. Augustine Baker " (London : Bumfr 
and Oates). Who is this Father Baker ? If a modem, why caUed 
"Venerable." If the ancient author of •' Sancta Sophia," why call 
him " the late," as if he had died last year ? It is sometimes hard to- * 
tell when one is so long dead as to be no longer '' the late " ; but that 
is not the case with regard to this collection of pious affections, which 
ought to have been accompanied by some note concerning its author- 
ship, etc. 

5. Many of our readers will be interested for the preacher's sake^ 
in " The Church of Christ, her Mission and her Sacrifice : two Sermons 
preached by the Bev. Patrick Dillon, D.D., St. James's, Newark, New 
Jersey" (New York: Michael Walsh, 21 Park Row). But these^ 
sermons are well worth reading' for their own sake. They are " dedi- 
cated to the Very Hev. John Bartley, Provincial of the Irish Carmelites 
of Ancient Observance, by a Former Pupil," and they were both 
preached in the Church of Our Lady of the Scapular, New York, in 
which Irish Carmelite Fathers have laboured for only two years. The- 
first sermon On the Mission of the Catholic Church was delivered on 
the occasion of the dedication of this church last December ; and the 
other on the great Christian Sacrifice was preached as recently as Feb- 
ruary 23rd in the present year, when Bishop Conroy consecrated the^ 
altar. Both of them display to advantage Dr. Dillon's learning and 

6. Mrs. Charles Martin on the title-page of her new work, '^ The- 
Life of St. Justin" (London: Bums and Oates) is described as^ 
" author of The Life of St Jerotue, etc." It was fitting to connect thia 
sketch with her previous essay in ecclesiastical biography, but it is- 

Notes on New Books. 279 

'well to remember how many excellent contributions to the lighter 
departments of literature are modestly veiled under that etcetera. St. 
Justin's mass and office have only recently been extended to the whole 
Ohuroh by Leo XIII., and there is a certain timeliness in Mrs. Mar- 
tin's endeavour to make his career and character better known. She 
has used with skill and care the materials placed at her disposal ; but 
these materials are, oi course, not so abundant or interesting as in the 
•case of St. Jerome. The present work is indeed much shorter. * The 
publishers have given an attractive appearance to this useful and 
•edifying account of the great Christian Apologist, who, as Mrs. 
Martin shows in her preface, has a message for the world even at the 
present stage of the world's intellectual and religious life. 

7. ** Marie and Paul," by "Our little'Woman" (London: Bums 
and Gates) has no year of publication marked on its title-page, and it 
certainly has no right to hide itself or to parade itself among a batch 
of new books, for it has been in existence for some years. This is a 
justification of those reviewers who refuse to notice an undated book. 
The binding of this slight sketch of fifty small pages is pretty, and 
the tone is pious. There is some confusion in the naming of the 
persons concerned. Are they French qr English ? Is " Marie " 
pronounced as well as spelled in French fashion ? If so, " Paul " 
ought to rhyme with dull. Ominous word, but rather appropriate in 
the present context. 

8. The 4th of May is the day appointed in the Carthusian Order 
for the feast of their English Martyrs. The publication, therefore, is 
timely of a translation of Dom Maurice Cheney's contemporary Latin 
'^ History of the Sufferings of Eighteen Carthusians in England, who, 
refusing to take part in schism and to separate themselves from the 
unity of the Catholic Church, were cruelly martyred" (London : 
Bums and Oatee). It is produced in the elegant but somewhat in- 
appropriate form of a large and thin quarto, such as Mr. John Old- 
•castle's memorial of Cardinal Newman. 

9. Messrs. Benziger of New York, Cincinnati and Chicago, have 
published a good translation of the life of Father Charles Sire, S. J., 
which is very emphatically recommended by the Provincial of the 
Jesuits in New York and by Cardinal Gibbons. The French Jesuit 
was bom in 1828 and was buried at sea in 1864, on his way home 
from a missionary life in the island of Bourbon. His life is written 
by one of his' three Sulpitian brothers, but of course the materials 
have been chiefly furnished by his religious brethren of the Society. 
Tery minute andjedifying accounts are given of his discharge of the 
Tarious duties of a Jesuit, in colleges especially, with many extracts 

280 The Irish Monthly. 


from his spiritual papers. This " simple biography" is far 
beyond the average in worth and extent. 

10. The same publishers have bought out the sixteenth volume 
(** Sermons for Sundays") of the Centenary Edition of the works of 
S. Alphonsus Liguori, which his American sons are editing with very 
great care. 

11. In a second edition and in a very pretty cover we welcome 
again ** A Shrine and a Story," by the author of Tyhorne (London : 
Burns and Oates). It relates chiefly to St. Joseph's, Portland Bow, 
Dublin ; but the pages bristle with interesting names— Dr. Blake of 
Dromore, Father Henry Young, Ellen Kerr, and (to mention one 
amongst the living) Mr. James Murphy, who has laboured so long 
for this Home for virtuous single females. Mother Magdalen Taylor 
gives mtmy interesting extracts from Lady Georgiana Fullerton'a 
letters. Yet, for many, the most interesting of these pages will be 
those devoted to the holy and amiable memory of the imknown Irish- 
woman,' Ellen Kerr. 

12. "The Church of My Baptism," by Francis King (London: 
Burns and Oates), is a very clever and full explanation of the reasons 
why the writer returned to the One Church. Its Unity is a sufficiently 
distinctive attribute. The same publishers have sent us Mr. William 
Garrat*s very full account of the Holy House of Loretto, which is 
illustrated by several maps and pictures. A very exquisite little book 
for May is Mr. J. S. Fletcher's '* Our Lady's Month " (London : R. 
Washboume). A useful addition to the publications of the Catholic 
Truth Society is " To Calvary : a New Method of making the Stations 
of the Cross," translated by L. M. Kenny from the French of Father 
Abt, S.J. Finally we can only mention a pamphlet on the "Vagus 
Treatment of Cholera" by Dr. Alexander Harkin of Belfast (London : 
Benshaw), and, to end our May notices more appropriately, two hymns 
to the Blessed Virgin, with music by Mr. J. J. Johnson of Dublin. 

13. Although coming very late, our May Number must mention 
" The Month of Mary, according to the spirit of St. Francis of Sales," 
by Don Gkspar Gilli, translated and abridged from the Italian by a 
Sister of the Institute of Charity, and published with his wonted taste 
skiU and care by Mr. R. Washboume, 18 Paternoster Eow, London, 
Although abridged by the translator^ it runs to 250 pages, and is 
certainly one of the best and most solid of the many books bearing 
similar names. All concerned in its English presentation have done 
their part well. And so have the Rev. Albert Barry, C. SS. R., and 
his printers with regard to the Venerable Samelli's exquisitely 
devotional little treatise on the Holy Rosary. It will help many to 
perform much better their favourite daily exercise of filial piety. 

JUNE, 1890 





HAYING learned that Lady Ashfield had left England for an 
indefinite period, Madge resolyed to put her out of her 
thoughts, and forget, if possible, the bright hopes that her promises 
to Dora, on the day of the accident, had raised in her mind. 

She was busy at the school ; and during the long hours spent at 
the piano, or hanmiering history and grammar into some twelve or 
fourteen lazy girls, she had little time to wonder or speculate over 
Ijady Ashfield's absence or return to town. 

But Dora's work was not so absorbing. . Aad from morning till 
night she thought of nothing but her next meeting with the kind lady 
who had promised so earnestly to help her and Madge in London. 
So each evening, as she returned from the dressmaker's, where she 
spent her day, unless the weather were very bad, she would walk 
round by Belgrave Street, and, standing on the opposite side of the 
road, gaze up at the windows. 

''When she comes back," she would say to herself, '' the shutters 
will be open, the blinds pulled up. Then Madge and I will ring the 
bell, and ask to see dear Lady Ashfield. Until then I shall never go 
nearer the house than this." 

And so Mrs. Downside never saw the girls, and Lord Ashfield's 
packet lay forgotten in a drawer. 

Day after day, week after week, Dora suffered the same keen 
disappointment. The house remained shut up. Lady Ashfield did 
not return. 

This wearing anxiety, this feverish longing for something to 
Vol. xvm. No. 204. 70 

282 The Irish Monthly. 

happen, was very trying to a girl of Dora's sensitive nature. It mado 
her restless and unsettled, and her work became a trouble to her. 
But she did her'best to shake oS the feeling of disgust and struggled 
bravely on. 

At last, however, the heavy atmosphere of the worVroom, the long 
hours and dose work, began to tell' upon her health. She grew 
irregxdar in her attendance at Mdme. Garniture's establishment, and 
before the end of the second year she was obliged to stay at home 
altogether. This was a terrible grief to her. She was now unable to 
•earn any money, and so became quite dependent on her sister. And 
Madge's salary was so smalL Barely enough to support one, it was 
now called upon to do double duty, and provide both girls with the 
necessaries of life. 

" Lady Ashfield may come home soon, Madge— she is sure to come 
fioon," cried Dora feverishly one evening, when her sister had come 
back from the school a little earlier than usual. "It is now nearly 
two years since she went away. If she were in London, she might 
give me some work to do. I am better now. I could sew here and 
help you. We have no money left. Oh, Madge, what shall we do to 
pay odr rent?" 

" Darling, do net fret," said Madge, putting her arm round the 
girl and kissing her lovingly. " Something will surely turn up." She 
smiled. " Don't you remember how dear Miss Matilda used always 
say that ? So don't cry, pet. Our landlord has promised to wait. 
That in itself \b a boon." 

"Horrid old man! I wish we had stayed with Mrs. Skinner. 
She was so kind and " 

** But, my love, you know her terms were impossible." 

" I know, I know. . If only Lady Ashfield would come home." 

" Dora, I do not believe in Lady Ashfield. My only hope, my 
constant prayer is that I may soon come across the Atherstones in 
some way or another." 

" Well, we have both a different plan for getting out of our 
present difficulties," said Dora with a faint smile. '< Neither is likely 
to succeed, I fear. But oh, my darling, if I could only work 
and help, I would not find it so hard, so very hard to wait." 

And two large tears rolled slowly down the girl's pale cheek. 

" Now, I tell you what I will do, Dora. I'll go off to Mdme. 
Garniture," cried Madge, " and ask her to give you some work to do 
at home. Why did I never think of this before ? I suppose because 
I fancied you were too ill to do anything. But I will go this moment. 
And when my darling f^els her fingers busy, she may become more 
reconciled to her fate." 

A Striking Contrast 283 

Dora's face grew bright. A sweet smile played about the comers 

of her mouth as she nestled up to Madge, and laid her head upon her 


" Dear little sister," she whispered, " if only I had work to do, you 
ehould never liear me grumble. Your idea is a good one. And oh, I 
hope, I pray, that Mdme. Garniture may grant your request. I think 
she will. She was always very kind." 

<' Yes. I think she will. And now I must be off. I have no time 
to spare." 

Then kissing Dora tenderly, Madge sprang to her feet, and putting 
on her hat and jacket, turned to leave the room. 

** Madge," called Dora softly, *' it is rather windy and cold, but if 
you wouldn't mind you might go round by Belgrave Street. It is just 
possible that Lady Ashfield may have returned. We have neither of 
us been there for many months." 

"Very wejl, dearest. I shall certainly go round that way. I 
don*t mind the wind in the least." And lowering her veil Madge 
went quickly downstairs. 

As the door closed behind her sister, Dora flung herself back upon 
the little hard sofa, on which she now spent much of her time. Her 
cheeks were flushed. She was nervous and excited. 

« Something tells me they will soon return," she murmured, ''and 
then — and then how happy I shall be. I am sure to get nice, fresh, 
dainty work from Lady Ashfield and some of her friends. A visit 
now and again from her. Music lessons for Madge. Well-paid 
lessons, perhaps, three or four a week. The ladies at Praielope 
Lodge must not refuse her time in which to give them, of course not. 
And that will mean much more money. My work and Madge's 
lessons. Oh, we shall grow quite rich. And my darling shall have 
some new dresses-^some silk ones, too — a pretty brown silk with 
coffee lace, and some jewels — bright gold earrings, and a brooch at her 
collar. Ah ! how nice she will look, my bonnie Madge. And I — ^well 
it doesn't much matter about me. But I think, a blue cashmere might 
suit my complexion." Dora laughed softly. '' What castles in the 
air ! Very much in the air, I'm afraid. I'm like the child in the 

** The wee bonnie bairn 

Sits pokin' in the aae, 
Glowerin' at the fire 

"With his well-round face.. 
Langhin' at the poffin' lowe. 

What sees he there? 
Ah the bonnie bairn 

Is biggin' castles in the air.'* 

284 The Irish Monthly. 


Dora's voice waa not powerful. But it was sweet, round and full. 
She sang with muoh expression, and there was something verj 
touching and sympathetic in her manner of singing. This was one of 
tier greatest pleasures. And many a weary hour it had helped her to 
while away as she lay alone in the poor little lodging, longing to 
work, and yet not able to go out to do so. 

As the last words of her song died away the door was rudely 
opened, and a small, grey-headed man entered the room. He had a 
sharp, thin face, a hooked nose, and a p^ of fierce, cruel eyes. He 
walked up dose to the sofa on which the girl lay and glared at her 

" A fine young lady, to be sure," he hissed from between his teeth. 
" Lying aU day upon my couch, instead of working hard to pay me 
my rent." 

Dora started up in alarm. 

" Oh, please, Mr. Brimage. Please do not be angry. I — ^I cannot 

work. I am so weak and " 

"But you can sing. I heard you just now. Go out and sing 
round the squares. You'll get money fast enough there, I'll bet." 

" Oh, I could not do that," cried Dora in horror. " Indeed, I 
could not." 

'* Bosh ! " he answered contemptuously. " Beggars can't be 
choosers. GKrIs like you have no business to be proud. Better to sing 
thian to starve." 

"Yes. But, pray have a little patience, Mr. Brimage," she said 

imploringly. " Madge has gone to look for work for me and " 

".Work for you? A fine lot of work you'll do. Now, I tell you 
what it is, my girl, if you and that sister of yours cannot pay me by 
to-morrow, out you go." 

Dora burst into tears, and sinking back upon the sofa, covered her 
face with her hands. 

"To-morrow! It is impossible," she sobbed. "We have no 

money. We " 

" Go out and get it then. Bend your proud spirit, or take the 
consequences. I have had a good offer for these apartments, and if 
you do not pay, why, you must go. Good evening." 

And he went away, shutting the door with a bang that shook the 

Dora raised her head and stared blankly round her. Her eyes 
rested on the dingy carpet, on which it was no longer possible to trace 
any pattern ; on the faded curtains, the rickety chairs and table, the 
shabby cloth. 

" It is poor, more than poor," she murmured. " But it is a home. 
And if we are turned out, where shall we go ? " 

A Striking Contrast 28) 

She wrong her hands in despair and groaned aloud. 
'* Oh, Madge, Madge, how can I tell you such a thing ? My poor 
darling, 'tis I who have brought you to this. Oh, why was I not 
drowned the night of the wreck ? Why did I live to be a burden ? 
But no, it shall not be." She jumped up. ''That man suggested 
a way. I will sing in the streets. Oh, mother," and taking out the 
miniature that she always wore, she gazed lovingly at the sweet face, 
** to think that your child should come to this ! But it must be done. 
Pd die for Madge. And now, if I have only strength to do it, I'll 
aing for her." 

Dora put on her hat, buttoned her jacket up tight to her throat, 
and put on a thick veil. 

"Few know me in London. So after all," she thought, **what 
does it matter? If I can manage it, it will be a good thing.. But," 
ahe dung to the table, '' how strange I feel." 

And growing suddenly faint and giddy, she sank upon a chair. 
" My God, help us, two lonely, unhappy girls." 
The.door opened again, and Mr. Brimage stood smiling upon the 

Dora shivered and turned away. 

''Come, now, don't look so vexed to see me. I'm worth bein' 
deadly to, I can tell you. I bring you good news." 
** GK)od news ? " gasped Dora. 

" Yes. The best you could hear to-day, I'm thinkin'. Your rent's 
been paid." 

The girl grew white to the lips, and trembled in every limb. 
" Do not torture me so," she cried. " It may amuse you, but it is 
a matter of life and death to me. I am going to sing in the streets, 
and if I get any money you shall have it to-morrow. But leave me 
now. I must rest before I go out." 

"Hear the g^rl. CanH you understand? I have been paid, more 
than paid, for I have received a whole quarter in advance." 
Dora stared at him wildly, 

"Paid? Our rent paid? Am I dreaming? or, are you really 
Mr. Brimage?" 

"I am really Mr. Brimage, without a doubt, my dear," he 
answered laughing. "And I am here to tell you that a friend has 
turned up to help you in your distress." 
"A friend?" 

"Yes. An' one you'd be glad to see. For he's a fine young 
fellow with the air of a prince. A man any girl might be proud to 

" Then it was not Mdme. Garniture, or Mrs. Prim from Penelope 

286 The Iri^h Monthly. 

Mr. Brimage laughed loudly. 

<< I should think not. Tho^e good ladies are not so generous. 
But he told me not to mention his name." 

" He— we know no one. That is, at least " 

Dora flushed hotly, and her heart began to beat fast, her lips to 

<' Well, I think you'll hear from him soon. He seemed greatly 
pleased to learn where you lived. He an' his mother had been 
wantin' to know for a long time. But I fancy, for all you make such 
a fuss, you know very well who he is." 

" Yes," said Dora simply, " I know now. It was Lord Ashfield.'^ 

" That was the very man. But, mind you, I did not tell you hi» 
name. Good night." 

And Mr. Brimage made a low bow and left the room. 



As Madge went thoughtfolly through the streets, her heart sad,, 
her mind filled with the all-absorbing problem of Dora and her future, 
she suddenly found herself &ce to face with Madame Gtimiture. 

*<Ah, Miss Neil, there you are," cried the dressmaker. <'I'yo 
been wondering greatly about your little sister. What has become of 
her of late ? " 

'* She has been ill and weak, Mdme. Gkimiture. Quite unable to- 
go to work." 

<' Poor child. I am sorry. She was the best and most ptmctual 
of my workers. But she'U soon be well enough to come back to us, I 

" I fear not. The hot room is too much for her. But I was just 
going to you to ask you a favour. Could you give her some 
work to do at home ? She is well enough for that, and I am sure you 
could trust her." 

" Of course. She makes button-holes beautifully. Til send her 
some bodies to finish to-morrow." 

" Thank you, thank you. She is so anxious to earn money. This, 
will give her fresh life. God bless you, Mdme. Garniture." 

And Madge's eyes were full of tears as she shook the good 
woman's hand. 

"Well, now, I am sorry you did not come to me before, dear. I 

A Striking Contrast. 287 

often thought of little Dora, for the child pleased me greatly. But I 
am BO busy. I never could £nd time to go and see her." 

" No, of course not. No one could expect you to pay visits." 

"Perhaps not. But still I should have sent. However, I'll look 
after her now. And I tell you what, I'm going to dress a beautiful 
young lady for the Drawingroom on Thursday. Her maid is young 
and inexperienced, so I must arrange her train. Ask your sister if 
ahe'U come with me. I may want her to hold pins and things for me 
and it will amuse her." 

•* Yes. I am sure it would. Thank you so much.'* 

"Very well, then, I'll call for her in a cab about eleven o'clock. 
Meanwhile, as this is only Tuesday, I'll send her some work." 

" You are very good and kind. I don't know how to thank you." 

*' Nonsense, dear. I don't want any thanks. Gk>od-bye. I'm in 
aa awful hurry. Glad I met you. Ta, ta." 

And with a smile and a wave of the hand, the kind-hearted dress- 
maker turned a comer and disappeared. 

" What good news for my darling," thought Madge joyfully. «* I 
oonld hug you, Mdme. Garniture, for your kindness. And now, 
before going home. I must take a peep at Belgrave Street, just to 
satisfy my pet that Lady Ashfield has not yet returned." 

But when Madge stood opposite the house and looked up at the 
windows, she uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight. 

"At last! Yes, surely, Lady Ashfield must be at home. This 
change must mean that she has returned." 

The once dingy exterior had been freshly painted. Daffodils and 
daisies filled the window-boxes, and the whole house was brilliantly 
lighted. The blinds in the dining-room had not been pulled down^ 
and the table, beautifully decorated with choice flowers and rich silver^ 
was plainly visible from the street. 

*' How delightful to sit at such a table," sighed Madge. ^' Heigho I 
the wealthy have many things to make life pleasant. How happy 
we should be now, if only my sweet Dora had not been robbed. 
But there, a truce to such dreams. I must try if I cannot see Lady 
Ashfield to-night. And then who knows what may happen ?" 

AQd full of hope Madge rang the bell. In an instant the hall 
door flew open, and two men in powdered hair stood silently waiting 
for her to speak. 

*' Oan I see Lady Ashfield ? " she asked nervously. " I think she 
would see me if you told her my name. Miss Neil." 

"Yes," answered one of the men promptly. " Her ladyship will 
see you, I know. Will you kindly walk this way ? " 

Madge did as desired, and having followed the man across a 

288 The Irish Monthly. 

Tichlj-carpeted hall and down a long corridor, was ushered into a 
small but exquisitely furnished room. There was no one there ; and 
placing a chair near the fire and in^dting her to be seated, the footman 
murmured that he would tell her ladyship, and withdrew. 

Left alone, Madge stood still gazing round her in delight. Never 
before had she seen such a room. The colours were soft and har- 
monious. The furniture, which was of richly-carved ebony, toned 
admirably with the gfirgeous embroideries that were thrown about 
over chairs and sofas. The cabinets were full of rare china ; the walls 
covered with Japanese curios and pieces of old tapestry. The whole 
air of the place was restful. It was a room to dream, read, think in, 
and Madge fell into a kind of trance as she drank in the many 
beauties of her surroundings. 

But her dream was of short duration. For presently the rustling 
of silken garments was heard, and Lady Ashfield swept into the room. 
She was dressed in a rich dinner dress of a deep dark red, with flash- 
ing diamonds in her hair and round her neck. She was tall and 
dignified looking, and as she came forward to greet her visitor, her 
face was lighted up with a gracious smile of welcome. 

« My dear Miss Neil, I am so glad to see you at last. My son and 
I had almost despaired of ever finding you out." 

'^ You have been away for so long. Lady Ashfield.*' 

''True. But why did you not come and see the housekeeper? 
She had the names of several friends of mine who would have taken 
music lessons from you. They promised me they would." 

'' I am so sorry. But when we called nearly two years ago, we 
could get but little information. The old womem at the door knew 
nothing of your movements." 

"It was unfortunate, altogether," said Lady Ashfield kindly. 
** For my son and I were determined to help you and watch over you. 
But my father's long illness and death put everything else out of niy 
head. And now tell me how is our friend, sweet little Dora ? " 

"Alas! She is far from well. Lady Ashfield,^* replied Madge 
sadly. " She has suffered much during the last two years, and her 
health is not good even now. She rarely leaves the house." 

" Poor child. I am extremely grieved to hear such a b«^cl account 
of her. I wiU go to see her soon. And how have you been doing, 
Miss Neil ? Are you getting on well f " 

' " Not well. I work in a school all day. But the salary is small. 
It is not nearly sufficient for the support of two people, and lately 
Dora has earned nothing, poor darling." 

" Would you have time to give lessons if I could get some for 

^ striking Contrast. 289 

** I think 80. Mrs. Prim promised to give me two hours a week, if 
I suooeeded in getting other employment." 

" Then I shall ask my friends and let you know at once. I have 
not been long in town, and do not know where everybody is." 

"Thank you, Lady Ashfield, you are very good." 

** Not at alL I wish I could have helped you long ago. But is 
there anything else I can do for you? Would you like a little 
immediate assistance ? My purse is at your disposal." 

Madge flushed hotly. 

" Thank you. But I would rather not take money. I " 

*' Do not be proud, dear. Eemember, little Dora is to be my 
spedal care. That child, by her energy and presence of mind, saved 
not only my life, but the life of my only son ; therefore you must let 
me help her, save her from further trouble and privation." 

" You shall do so, if necessary. Lady Ashfleld. And believe me, 
I am truly grateful for the offer. But pray let your kindness take 
the form of getting us work." 

" Certainly. But Dora cannot work." 

^' Yes. She is clever with her needle." 

*' A poor way to make a living," said Lady Ashfleld, shrugging 
her shoulders. '* However, I will see what can be done. And now 
is that all you will allow me to do for you ? " 

''^No. There is something else. I want you to do me a great 
favour. Will you?" 

'* My dear, of course. You have only to ask, and, if possible, I 
ahalL grant jomt request What is it ? " 

Madge drew a long breath and clasped her hands tightly together. 

''You. know the Atherstones, Lady Ashfleld?" she asked in a 
Toioe full of emotion. " And see them frequently ? " 

Lady Ashfield looked at her in surprise. 

*' Certainly. I know them intimately. Sir Eustace dines with me 

" And Sylvia Atherstone. You know her ? " 

** Yes. Ever since she was a tiny child. She is the most beautiful 
girl and the richest heiress in London, She will make quite a sensa- 
tion when she is presented next Thursday." 

''And you know Anne Dane?" pursued Madge, her eyes fixed 
earnestly on the lady's face." 

Lady Ashfield laughed and rose to poke the fire. 

'' Yes. I know Anne Dane also. She is a valuable old servant, 
who having rendered a great service to the fomily years ago, is 
allowed to do exactly what she pleases, which mecms tormenting them 
all, and keeping the other domestics in a state of indignation and 
jealousy. Oh, yes, I know Anne Dane." 


290 , The Irish Monthly. 

"Anne Dane/' said Madge in a dear, firm yoice, '' is a swindler 
and a cheat." 

Lady Ashfield started. 

<< My dear Miss Neil, that is strong — ^I may say violent language.'^ 

^'Not half strong or violent enough," cried Madge, springing to 
her feet, her cheeks crimson with excitement. *' For she has deceived 
her generous master, Sir Eustace Atherstone, and done a cruel, cruel 
wrong to an innocent child." 

" What do you mean ? " 

'< This, Lady Ashfield. On the night of the wreck of the Cimbria 
Anne Dane was put into a boat with a child in her arms. From 
thence she was rescued, I don't know how, and went to London, not 
with Sylvia Atherstone, but with my sister, Dora Neil." 

Lady Ashfield stared at the girl in astonishment. 

** Then you mean to say " 

<< That this beautiful girl, this so-called Sylvia, is a usurper; that 
she has no right to her name, wealth, or position, and that the real 
Sylvia is the sweet, delicate child who saved you and your son." 

" You are — ^you must be either dreaming or mad." 

« I am neither. What I tell you is true, absolutely true. Tho 
fair, gentle girl you know*as Dora Neil is really Sylvia Atherstone." 

" What proof," asked Lady Ashfield coldly, "have you of this ? " 

Madge cast down her ejes, her colour went and came. 

"Alas! none." 

Lady Ashfield gave a sigh of relief. 

'* I thought so." 

"But if I could see Anne Dane for a moment," cried the girl 
vehemently. " If I could bring her face to face " 

" My dear young lady, you talk nonsense. Without proof, and 
strong proof, no one would ever believe such a story. Take my 
advice, and put this silly fancy out of your head. It can only do harm 
to you. Dora, and even, perhaps, in a small way to Miss Atherstone." 

'' Silly fancy," gasped Madge, clasping her hands and raising her 
eyes appealingly to Lady Ashfield's face. " Oh, it is no fancy. It is 
truth, pure, simple truth." 

"But, even supposing it were true," replied Lady Ashfield, 
wondering at the girl's apparent honesty and extreme earnestness, 
" you say you have no proof, and" 

" We have the portrait of Sylvia's mother, a miniature hung round 
her neck by her father as he bade her good-bye on board that ill- 
fated vessel, the Cimbria. She's so like that." 

"But no one here ever saw Mrs. Atherstone. She was an 
Australian. He married her out there, and" 

" But Mr. Atherstone himself, he would know." 

A Striking Contrast. • 291 

" Mr. Atherstone is still in Australia. Tour miniature could not 
proTe anything." 

'^Then, I must see Anne Dane. Let me come upon her im- 
ezpectedlj, and in the presence of witnesses, produce Dora and the 
miniature, and she will be surprised, terrified, and will surely 
acknowledge the wicked fraud she has been carrying on for so many 

"My dear IGss Neil, pray calm yourself. I do not — I cannot 
bdieye your stoiy. You are labouring under some strange, some 
wild delusion." 

Madge bent her head upon her hands and uttered a deep groan. 

"Oh Gtod," she murmured, "help me to reveal the truth, to 
restore this poor duld to her home and friends." Then looking up 
imploringly, her eyes full of tears. " Lady Ashfield, pray, pray help 
me. You can, you" 

" I am quite willing to help you." 

Madge sprang forward with a cry of joy. 

Lady Ashfield held up her hand. 

"Do not misunderstand me» please, Miss Neil. I am ready and 
willing to do what I can to help you to earn money, and support 
yourself and your sister. But I do not, I teU you honestly, believe 
your story. And if I did, nothing would ever induce me to help you 
in any way to accomplish the end you have in view. Not for the 
world wotdd I be the means of plunging my dear old friend, Sir 
Eustace, into such a sea of trouble as the very suggestion of such a 
thing would bring upon him." 

" Will you give me Anne Dane's address ? " 

" Certainly not. That would surely assist you and cause much 
misery. No, no. Miss Neil, leave Aime Dane in peace, and forget 
this foolish notion. You have an honest face, and seem much in 
earnest. So I cannot believe you have willingly invented this story of 
the wreck. But I feel sure that you are sufEering horn a delusion, 
an hallucination, which has probably grown stronger as the years 
have gone on. But " 

Madge choked back her tears, and drawing her slight figure up ta 
its fullest hdght, said coldly: 

" I am sorry to interrupt you, Lady Ashfield. But I must ask 
yon to say no more. You do not believe my story. You treat me as 
a mad woman, and, therefore, I beg that you will not take any 
farther trouble for me. You cannot, it would be impossible for you 
to recommend a liar or a lunatic to your friends. So pray forget that 
I exist. I regret that I should have taken up so much of your 
vahiable time. And I will now wish you good evening.'' 

292 . The Irish Monthly. 

And with burning cheeks, her head held proudly erect, Madge 
walked quickly ixom the room. 

'* What strange infatuation !" cried Lady Ashfield, as the door 
cloa^ upon her visitor. *'The girl's mind must have sufiered 
eervorely from the shock of the wreck« But I trust that this silly 
noiiBODse may never reach Sylvia's ears, nor Sir Eustace's. What 
pain, what trouble it would cause, false though it be. Intense misery, 
I am sure. But, dear me, how late it is ! And I have not quite 
finished my dressing. I really feel much upset by this strange scene. 
I must try and compose myself before my guests arrive." 

And sighing heavily. Lady Ashfield left her boudoir and hurried 
upstairs to complete her toilet. 

{To he continued). 


COIIEAGE and faith and patience ! Keynotes these 
To the full music of a perfect life: 
Courage to bear and brave the wasting strife 
Of our fleet years, nor crave inglorious ease 
lu a hard world of toil by lands and seas ; 
Faith in ourselves to win the wars we wage 
'Gainst self and sin, knowing no mind can gauge 
The flnal peace that crowns earth's victories. 

And best of these is patience, shining bright 
On the high roll of virtues. God hath graven 
This o'er the winding stair that leads to Heaven, 

To guide us upward to the Hills of Light 
Would we be strong to win success at length, 
In courage, faith, and patience there is strength. 

Teresa C. Boylan. 

The Two Cmlkatiom. 293 



THEBE is a poet in Ameiioa named Walt Whitman, considered 
inspired by his friends, half insane by his enemies, and he 
has -written a oertain ohaunt, called ^^ Salut an monde/' in which 
he takes a most oomprehensiye, and at the same time, minute view 
of the world, and all its wonders of men, and salutes all at the 
same time as his brothers. I often wonder what he would feel, 
could he stand on the quays of Queenstown and see the floating 
cities that glide day after day into our port, and as silently depart, 
each with its freight of humanity gathered from every part of the 
civilised and even uncivilised world. To any reflective mind it is 
a strange and suggestive sight. What the mind of the poet 
conceived is brought directly under our eyes. Men of all nations 
under heaven are gathered together in those huge black vessels 
that steal into our harbours every morning, and as silently steal 
away at mid-day, or in the evening ; and many of those visitors of 
ours represent not only their own individuality, but are the origin- 
ators of ideas which are revolutionising the world — ^the high 
priests of new philosophical systems — ^the centres towards which 
thousands, ay, even millions, are looking, very often in vaiQ, for 
inspiration and light. In fact, if we had time or taste for these 
things, our transatlantic steamers would give us a perfect panorama 
of all the leaders of thought in every department of science, art, 
philosophy, and even religion. 

I wiU, therefore, take you, dear reader, in imagination on the 
deck of one of these ocean steamers ; and on a little group of men 
we will make a brief meditation. 

We move up in the tender and attach ourselves to the mighty 
ship which rises dark and glooI^y from the waters, its black mass 
only broken by the small circular lights that speak suggestively of 
the terrible buffeting and drenching the good ship will have to 
bear before she anchors at her destination. And suddenly a sight 
breaks upon us which we cannot soon forget. For, as we touch the 
vessel, its dark profile is broken by the light of a thousand human 
faces, on each of which is written that strange, anxious look which 
you notice in persons who are leaving accustomed modes of Uf e. 

294 The Irish MoiUhly. 

and embarking on new, and perhaps periloos enterprises. And 
what a medley ! What strange pranks Mother Nature plays with 
^* the human face divine ! " What mighty ingenuity she showa in 
moulding and casting the oountenanoes of men, so that there is no 
mistaking one individual for another ! Lean and himgry Italian 
f aoesy from which centuries of poverty have beaten out the grand 
old Roman type of feature ; calm and heavy Teutoni<) faces that 
speak of easy lives and plenty of lager beer ; the high and angular 
Norwegian face that has been bufietted and withered by the 
storms which sweep up the fiords and gulfs of their rugged coasts ; 
here the face of an Armenian, who stood a month ago on the most 
sacred soil that feet ever pressed ; and here the olive features and 
white burnous of the Arab, who was baked a few weeks ago under 
the pyramids, and is now shivering in the cold east wind that is 
churning the waters into yellow foam. And here side by side are 
the two races, whom a strange destiny has linked together but 
whom Fate has kept sundered apart as widely as pole from pole — 
the tall and muscular Saxon, and the little, active, nervous form of 
the black-eyed and black-haired Oelt. And here, too, are their 
descendants — ^the mixed race of Americans, who have inherited all 
the thoughtf Illness of the Saxon and aU the brightness of the Celt, 
and whose pale features and eager eyes speak the national 
character — ^bright, alert, and speculative. 

But we are moving. You can see the ridges fall away in white 
foam from the keen prow of the ship, as the screw churns and 
tosses the waters on the stem. ^' Cast off " comes from the bridge 
high over our heads ; and whilst the noble vessel moves forward in 
silent dignity on her course, the little tender sheers off at an angle 
to make the circuit homewards. And now I become suddenly 
aware that whilst I am soliloquizing, I am in the midst of many 
tragedies, and probably, excepting the captain and the crew, the most 
imconcemed spectator on board. All around are very sad faces, 
filled with a yearning look towards the land they are leaving. 
Even the blue-black eyes of the merry Celt are filmed and clouded 
as they look for the last time, perhaps, on the green hills aud 
piuple mountains of Inisf ail. Here is a lady whose society train- 
ing in the most rigid conventionalism cannot withal prevent her 
hands from trembling, and her eyes from growing red with 
weeping. And here is a stalwart athlete trying to look supremely 
indifferent, but I notice some strange moisture gathering imder his 

The Two Citnluationa. 295 

eyelids; and I know, if I spoke to him, his voioe would quiver and 
break in his e£Fort to reply. Bat it is no time now for useless 
regrets. The vessel of their fortunes and hopes is already far upon 
the waters. The grim shadows of Carlisle fort frown upon her ; 
«nd now she glides before the sunny walls of the lighthouse, and 
now she turns her broadside to the bay. She is looking straight 
to the west, walking the waters towards the Empire Bepublio, the 
mother of many nations. A thousand hearts are pulsing beneath 
her flag — each with its marvellous history of the past, its rich, 
beautiful dreams of the future. The stars are not more lonely in 
their orbits than these human hearts— eaoh with its secrets sealed 
to all eyes but Qod's. The great wings of mighty storms are 
winnowing and sweeping the Atlantic before them. Billows are 
rolling towards them from far latitudes. Yet not a single soul 
has a fear of reaching the promised land in safety. This little 
world — this microcosm on the waters — ^what is it but a type of 
humanity and the world P Or what is the world and humanity but 
a ship in the ocean of space P 

However, it is not multitudes but individuals we have come to 
Bee — ^not races, but marked types and representatives of races — ^not 
the hot polbn who fret their little hour upon the stage and sink 
into obscure graves, but the anakea andron — ^the kings of men, they 
who are stirring the great heart of the world with impulses that 
issue in healthy reform or unhealthy revolution. And fortunately 
there are a few of these chosen ndnds here amongst our passengers. 
Men who, from the dark recesses of laboratories and museums have 
strengthened a hundredfold the hands of their fellow-men, have 
annihilated distance on the globe, and tamed the terrible agents 
that stand at the back of untamed Nature. Men, who from plat* 
forms, have thundered forth the ancient, but ever new, principle of 
a common humanity, and the right of every child of Adam to a 
place on this planet, with air enough to breathe, and room enough 
to swing his arms in — ^men who, by their words, have touched the 
^reat heart of the world, and made hoarse voices cheer, and brawny 
hands to strike approval, and tough hearts to vibrate with new 
emotions of revealed strength and power, and a possible happiness 
that may be far ofi and yet shall be reached — ^poets and sages, 
patriots and dilettanti, political, scientific, and social revolutionists 
are here — and we shall just look at them, and then let them speak 
for themselves. 

296 The Irish Monthly. 

This age of ours is an age of revolutions. There is not a single 
branch, even of a single science, that has not been studied and 
investigated, with the result that our most carefully-formed ideas 
even on scientific subjects have been obliged to undergo a com- 
plete transformation. Another peculiarity is that there are 
fipecialbts in every branch of science, art, and literature ; and that 
cBitaiu branches of science and art become the fashion at certain 
periods, and exclude all others in the public mind as efEectually as 
a new fashion in dress excludes those that are considered anti- 
quated. And, again, as Solomon said, ^^ there is nothing new 
under the sim," so there is scarcely a fashion in art or a discovery 
in science that was not quite familiar to the ancient Hellenists^ 
who, under the warm sky of Greece and by the pleasant waters of 
the Mediterranean, were making daily pleasure of things which in 
our days are the exclusive property of the highest oirdes of wealth 
and int< Uigence — ^for example, if there were one thing the ancient 
Greeks Tvorshipped more than another, it was the Beautiful. What 
they called the to Kalon was the Divinity, whom they worshipped 
with all the passionate adoration of natures into which the Sun 
God had stricken his fire. The Beautiful in Nature— the Beauti- 
ful in mind and soul — ^the firmament glittering with stars, the 
meadowi, glittering with flowers, the wide levels of the sea glitter- 
ing under the sunshafts — ^the dark eyes of men and women glittering 
undtT darker eyebrows ; all these to these children of Nature were 
feasted on and worshipped as types and symbols of some rarer 
Beauty, unseen but yet to be revealed. These wonderful old 
Greeks have passed away ; but here in the midst of our nineteenth 
century civilisation is an apostle of eastheticism, and aesthetics or 
the science of the Beautiful is once more the fashion of men. You 
gee over there leaning against the bulwarks of the vessel is a tall 
and dark yoimg gentleman, with a huge sunflower in his button- 
hole. He is gazing on the setting sun as if this were his last 
evening upon earth, and his eyes are dazzled with the lane of light 
that Eti-otohes to the horizon. He is the son of a Dublin oculist, 
and of u lady who sang the fiercest and loveliest battle-odes of that 
sad, that glorious period in Irish history which we call '48. He 
is, without doubt, the best ridiculed young man that has come 
before tiiia cynical age. He is now going to be dreadfully disap- 
pointed with the Atlantic, and his mission is to evangelise the 
Anierieans with two lectures on art that shall be repeated again 

The Two Cmlkatiam. 297 

and agaiiiy until the world grows tired even of laughing at him, 
and his adopted oountrj takes him back to he^ bosom. Yet, 
although his mission shall be a &ilure, we must not suppose that 
there is not a deep substratum of truth underljdng a vast super- 
structure of absurdity ; and by and by you shcdl hear another who 
has for fifty years preached much the same doctrines with far 
different success, and who, with many eccentricities, has won for 
himself a homage that is rarely given to a living celebrity. 

The next department in the ascending scale is social science ; 
and here, walking arm^ arm along the lee side of the ship, are two 
men whose ideas in some things are identical, and on others 
widely different, and who have said many things that have stirred 
many hearts. One is from San Francisco, and he used be caUed 
a prophet by his admirers : the other is from the County Mayo, 
and during the greater part of his life he has been styled a rebel 
and a felon ; in physique they are not tmlike. Dark and deter- 
mined men, with deep eyes flashing under bushy eyebrows, but 
the right sleeve of the one hangs tenantless — ^the arm was left 
some years ago in the steel meshes of an English factory. The 
education of the one was matured under the bright dazzling sun of 
California; the education of the other was finished in a convict's 
dress out on the bleak wastes of Dartmoor, and in th^ blinding 
quarries of Portland. He has seen some terrible things, and has 
studied the strange riddle of humanity deep down in awful depths 
of suffering. Of him it might be said what the people of Yerona 
used say of Dante : 

*« Eocovi I'uom ch'fe state aU' Inferno." 

And hence men listen to him as they listen to no other, for they 
know how true is that saying of Goethe's : 

" Who neyer ate his bread in sorrow, 
Who never spent tk^e darksome hours 
Weeping and watching for the morrow, 
He knows 70a not, je unseen powers." 

But lest it should be tedious to paint for you portraits of all 
the different representatives of human thought who paced the deck 
this spring afternoon, it will sujQice to say that there was scarcely a 
single fantasy of modem thought, sensible or whimsical, reasonable 
or extravagant, that had not a disciple here. Followers of Herbert 

Vol. xvm. No. 204. 71 

298 The IrUh Monthly. 

Spencer, who has reproduced in our time the ancient Athenian 
worship of the " unknown God " — followers of Frederic Harrison, 
who disagrees with Herhert Spencer, and takes great trouble to 
tell the world that Agnosticism is very different thing from 
Positivism — a very considerable number of believers in the 
^* evolution theory'* and the Simian origin of » man — a large 
gathering of latter-day infidels who are trying to resuscitate the 
ancient theories of Epicurus and Democritus — a few ladies who 
belong to the new sect of Theosophists, and talk glibly about what 
they call "esoteric Buddhism" — and moving here and there 
young intellectual Americans, fresh from the Q-erman univei;piies, 
and holding all European philosophers very cheap compared with 
the humanitarianism and pantheism of their beloved master, Ralph 
Waldo Emerson. And, if you ask me what could have brought 
such representative men together, I will ask you to believe that 
they were en route for Montreal, where the last Session of the 
British Association was held. 

It is growing chill, and we descend to the saloon. Just as we 
enter, a voice, with a foreign accent, exclaims in conclusion of 
some interesting conversation : " Vorwarts ! Vorwarts ! This is 
the watchword of our century. Does not your own poet-laureate 
proclaim it to you— even to you, conservative Englishmen, im- 
movable as the pyramids, insensible as their granite: 

' Yet in vain the distance beaoons, f orwaid, forward let us range, 
Let the great world spin for erer down the ring^g grooyes of change. 
This, the shadow of the globe, we sweep into the outer day, 
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.'* 

*' Yes," said a deep, melodious voice that came floating down along 
the table. " Yes ! forward is the cry — ^but whither P " 

All looked up in amazement, and saw a venerable man, whose 
high forehead, clad in the honours of seventy summers, betokened 
the very highest powers of thought. There was. a hush for a 
moment. Then came a bustling and a shuffing of the feet, and a 
harsh, strident voice, pitched to the highest intonation, spoke. It 
was Mr. Verdun, scientist. Fellow of the Eoyal Society, London. 

"How can you ask such a question?" he exclaimed. 
" Whither should we go, but where the finger of science is point- 
ing P With all the wonders we have shown you, why will you not 

• LoclcKley Hall. 

The Tico CimlimtwriH. 299 


believe us ? We have as yet only touched the fringe of Nature's 
garment, and behold what she has revealed to us, what we have 
revealed to you. We have captured the lightnings, and compelled 
them to carry our messages around the earth ; we have weighed the 
sun, we have put the ponderous planets in the scales — ^we have 
shown you in the meteoric stones the fragments of former satellites 
that swung their huge bulk round the earth ; we have taken the 
sons of other systems, whose distance is so great that it paralyses 
the imagination, and told you the very materials of which they are 
composed ; we have walked among the nebula of the milky way, 
and put the very rings of Saturn upon our fingers. We have torn 
open the bosom of the earth and shown you in stony manuscripts 
the handwriting of Nature in the days of the mammoth and 
leviathan; and as the service of man is the only service we 
acknowledge, we have bade the ^ Httle god of this planet ' to rest 
from labour, for Nature shall be compelled to work for him. For 
him we harness its most dreadful powers, and bid them take hiTn 
from place to place with a speed that outstrips the hurricane ; for 
Mm we have paved a pathway on the ndghty waters, and he 
laughs at the waves that thunder harmlessly over his head, and he 
spares his soft fingers in labours that are unworthy of him, and 
hands of iron and teeth of steel rend and tear and weave again 
garments of royal purple and tapestries that might hang before the 
windows of Heaven. And as all things are the same to us, for all 
is but matter in the end, we have divided and subdivided yoiu: 
creation until we have reduced it to an atom that can only be seen 
in a microscope, and then we have built up the same creation again 
even to its crowning glory — the mind of man. But you— you to 
whom we have revealed these things — ^you for whose advantage we 
have toiled and laboured — ^whose silly minds we have emancipated 
from antiquated superstitions about morality and virtue — ^you 
whom we have delivered from the debasing pursuits of arts and 

music and poetry " 

" Stop ! " said the old man with a vehemence that startled us 
all, '' stop this blasphemy against things you do not and cannot 
understand. It is true you, men of science, have revealed certain 
secrets of Nature, but how P By laying sacrilegious hands on her 
awful face ! You have cut and delved, and maimed and sacrificed 
Nature and her children, until her beautiful face is scarred and 
blotted by you, and the hideous ugliness has fallen upon the souls 

300 Th Irish Monthly. ^ 

of the children of men. Wordsworth spoke with contempt of old 
of those ^ who would peep and botanise on their mother's graves ' ; 
but you, from an advanced platform of scientific iniquity, would 
not only sacrifice to your sinful curiosity the poor beast that licks 
your hand in his agony, but you would even exhume your father's 
remains for the sake of an experiment. And after all, what have 
you done P Does the sun give more light or heat to our earth 
since you discovered thathe is a furnace of liquid fire, fiinging out 
tongues of flame to every part of the system which he rules ? Are 
the planets more brilliant since you discovered that in reality they 
are as dull as the earth itself P Is mankind better or happier since 
you drove him from the green fields and the blue skies to the 
cloudy and choking city, which by a kind of infernal chemistry 
drags the strength from his limbs, and the blood from his veins P 
Is childhood more pure and joyful since you brought it into your 
factories and bade it stretch forth its soft and tiny hands to grasp 
and control mighty limbs of steel and iron, and chased the roses 
from its cheeks, and the laughter from its lips, and the light from 
its eyes, and the music from its life, and the tender love of Gbd 
from its heart P Yes, you can analyse Nature in your test-tubes, 
you can spy at her in your microscopes, but can you see her with 
your own eyes, or receive her into your hearts P You can tell us 
what she makes her wonders of, and how she makes them, and« 
how long she takes about it. But you cannot tell us what these 
wonders are like when they are made. When God said * Let there 
be light, and there was light, and GFod saw that it was good,' was 
he thinking, as he saw thus, of the exact velocity it travelled at, or 
the exact laws it travelled by, which you, wise men, are at infinite 
pains to discover P Or was he thinking of something else, which 
you take no pains to discover at all, of how it clothed the wings of 
the morning with silver, and the features of the evening with goldP 
Is water, think you, a nobler thing to the modem chemist, who 
can tell you exactly what gases it is made of, and nothing more : 
. or to the painter, who could not tell you at aU what it is made of ^ 
but who did know and could tell you what it is made — ^what it is 
made by the sunshine and the cloud-shadow and the storm-wind — 
who knew how it paused by the stainless mountain troutpool, a 
living crystal over streams of fiickering amber, and how it broke 
itself turbid with its choirs of turbulent thunder when the rocks 
card it into foam, and the tempest sifts it into spray P Ah, masters 

The Two CwiUsatiom. 301 

of modem science/' he continued, "you can tell us what pure 
water is made of, but, thanks to your drains and mills, you cannot 
tell us where to find it. You can, no doubt, explain to us all 
about the sunsets ; but the smoke of your towns and factories has 
made it impossible for us to see one* Here to-day is a beauteous 
landscape, with its luxurious colourings, its broad rich meadows, 
carpeted with wild flowers, its ivies and mosses draping its wells 
and waterfalls, its clusters of violets in the shade. Here in its 
clefts and in its dingles, in blanched heights and woody*hollows, 
above all by its floretted banks, and the foam-crisped wavelets of 
its streams, the traveller finds his joy and peace. But here comes 
your scientific engineer and an army of navvies, and with a snuff- 
box full of dynamite blows all this loveliness into Erebus and 
diabolic night for ever. And olose in their wake, into the very 
heart and depth of all this beauty, and mercilessly bending with 
every bend of it, with noise and shrieking and howling, your rail- 
way drags its close-clinging damnation. The rocks are not big 
enough to be tunnelled — they must be blasted away ; the brook \& 
not wide enough to be bridged — it is covered in, and is thencefor- 
ward a drain; and the only scenery left for you in the once 
delicious valley is alternation of embankments of clay with pools 
of slime. All this is bad enough for us ; but what is to become of 
enr children ? What favours of high destiny has your civilisation 
to promise her children who have been reared in mephitic fume and 
not in the mountain breeze; who have for playground heaps of 
ashes, instead of banks of flowers; whose Christmas holidays 
brought them no memory, whose Easter sim no hope; and from 
whose existence of the present and the future commerce has filched 
the earth, and science blotted out the sky P''t 

A deep silence followed the outburst of indignant eloquence. 
The scientist fidgeted and tossed about in his chair, and somehow 
everyone felt that science was a kind of criminal that, imder pre- 
tence of doing a great deal of good, had in reality affected an 
infinity of evil. But the stream of the conversation had tended so 
much towards the lines within which Mr. George is working out 
his theories, that everyone looked to him to say something on the 
important subject they were discussing. 

(7b he continued.) 

• " The New RepubUc," by W. H. MoUock. 

The Irish Monthly, 


I. — The Agony ts the Garden. 

Our Saviour dwelt in Nazareth 

Till thirty years had flown ; 
Three years from thence until his death 

He made his mission known. 

With miracles and works of might 

His word on earth he spread, 
To dumb and blind gave speech and sight, 

And raised to life the dead. 

Before he suffered he displayed 

The depth of love divine : 
His flesh and blood our food he made 

In form of bread and wine. 

That last and holiest supper done, 

He rose and bent his way, 
With his apostles, all save one, 

To where the garden lay. 

The three he took within the place 
Were Peter, James, and John, 

He bade them watch a little space, 
And passed yet farther on. 

But then did fear and heaviness 

His human soul invade ; 
In deadly sorrow and distress 

He bent to earth and prayed. 

" My Father, pass this cup fiom me, 

Almighty power is thine ; 
My Father, if it may not be, 

Thy will be done, not mine." 

There fell upon his mortal frame 

An agony profound ; 
His sweat like drops of blood became, 

Fast fedling to the ground. 

The Children'^ Ballad Rosary. 303 

He thrioe to his apostles went 

And found them sleeping there, 
And thrice his steps returning bent, 

And prayed the self same prayer. 

Bat lo ! within the garden pressed 

The traitor and his band ; 
''Sleep now," he said, ''and take your rest. 

Behold my hour at hand." 

By Judas with a kiss betrayed, 

He was a captiye led, 
While his disciples, sore dismayed, 

Deserted him and fled. 

Ghry to God the Father, 

And hu eternal Son, 
And ghry to the Holy Ohoet 

For ever^ Three in One. 


The Jews' High Priest was Caiaphas, 

Our Saviour's deadliest foe ; 
Within his court did Jesus pass 

That night of wondrous woe. 

Beviled and mocked in hate and scorn, 

Condemned to death by all. 
They led him forth at early mom 

To Pontius Pilate's hall. 

The priests and scribes accusing stood. 

And aU aroimd the cry 
Bose from the Jewish multitude 

That Jesus Christ should die. 

And Pilate knew him innocent. 

But feared his life to save ; 
So imto bitter chastisement 

Our spotless Lord he gave. 

The soldiers seized upon him there 

At Pilate's dread commands. 
They stripped him of his raiment bare 

And bound his holy hands. 

304 The Irish Monthly. 

And little need there was to urge 

Their cruelty of mind : 
They raised the awful Homan scourge 

With iron points entwined. 

His hands were to the pillar tied, 
His head bent meekly low ; 

And as their ruthless task they plied 
His blood began to flow. 

And how his blood flowed down afresh 
With every stripe that fell 

Upon his pure and tender flesh, 
No tongue of man may telL 

But yet the gentle Lamb of God 
Nor uttered word nor cry ; 

For us, beneath the torturing rod. 
He suffered silently. 

And when that hour of guilt was o'er, 
And they had worked their will. 

They clothed him in his garb once more 
For torment darker still. 

May we within our hearts enshrine 
The cause for which he bled : 

For all our sins, for yours and mine, 
The blood of God was shed. 

Ghry to Ood the Father^ 
And his eternal Son^ 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 

III. — ^The Cbowning with Thobns. 

The soldiers now devised in scorn 

To gather and entwine 
A crown of sharp and prickly thorn, 

The thorn of Palestine. 

The crown upon his head was laid, 
And pierced his forehead through. 

Where every point an entrance made 
The blood sprang forth like dew. 

The Children's Ballad Bo%ary. 305 

They made his seat a rugged stone, 

The whfle they pressed it down — 
Such was our Saviour's royal throne, 

And such his kingly crown. 

A purple robe they round him cast, 

And, in his fettered hand, 
An ignominious reed they placed 

For sceptre of the land. 

In mockery all before him bent 

" Hail, king of Jews " ! they said ; 
From forth his hands the reed they rent 

And smote the thorn-crowned head, 

And spat upon the heavenly face 

Which seraphs yearn to see. 
That all contempt and all disgrace 

His lot on earth might be. 

Once more to Pontius Pilate brought, 

A spectacle of woes, 
Such depth of suffering, Pilate thought, 

Alight satisfy his foes. 

The thorny crown, the purple vest. 

The bleeding visage wan. 
Were sights he deemed the stoniest breast 

Might melt to look upon. 

He led him to the palace gate 

And said '* behold the Man ! " 
He little knew their flood of hate 

How deep and dark it ran. 

The Jews beheld him bruised and bound. 

And from their lips the cry 
Of " crucify him" rose around, 

All echoing " crucify ! " 

*' Be witness then that I am free 

From blood imjustly shed ;" 
" His blood on us," they answered, ** be, 

And on our children's head." 

Ohry to Ood the Father y 

And his eternal Son, 
And glory to the Holy Ghott 

For ever, Three in One. 

306 The Irish Monthly. 

IV. — ^The Oabetino of the Cboss. 

Though Pilate well their malice knew, 

Yet he in fear decreed 
That Christ, the holy and the true. 

Upon the cross should bleed. 

They lead him forth from out the throng, 

And on his shoulders lay 
The heavy cross to bear along 

The steep and toilsome way. 

Beneath his burthen meekly bent 

A little space he passed, 
Till, faint and faltering as he went. 

He sank to earth at last. 

The Eoman soldiers, looking roimd 
For one its weight to share, 

Simon the Gyrenean found. 
Who came in pity there. 

Him after Jesus they compelled 

To bear the weary load : 
So was the cross of Ohrist upheld 

Throughout the dolorous road. 

While following on their steps behind 
There came a mingled crowd, 

With women who, in grief of mind, 
Bewailed and wept aloud. 

But Jesus, turning tmto them. 

Foretold the days to be : 
'' Weep, daughters of Jerusalem, 

But do not weep for me. 

'^ A time will come to weep and mourn, 
When ye shall reckon blest 

The woman who has never borne 
Nor suckled child at breast. 

« <Te >ii11fl and moimtains, cover us,' 
That day shall be the cry, 

For, in the green tree doing thus. 
What shall be in the dry ! " 

The Children's Ballad Rosary. 307 

And thence his path of pain he trod 

Until they reached the place, 
The mount of Calvary, where Gk>d 

Bedeemed the human race. 

The cross upon the earth was laid, 
. And thither Jesus di^w. 
"Forgive them, Father," thus he pralyed, 
•* They know not what they do." 

Qhry to God the Father, 

And his eternal Son, 
And ghry to the Holy Ghost 

For ever. Three in One. 


Our Saviour yearned to make complete 

His sacrifice of love, 
When through his sacred hands and feet 

The piercing n^ils they drove. 

The cross of Christ was raised on high, 
While, placed on either side. 

Two malefactors, doomed to die, 
With him were crucified. 

The one who filled a hardened part 
Blasphemed him where he hung ; 

The other spoke with melted heart 
And penitential tongue. 

" Lord, in thy kingdom of the blest, 

May I remembered be ! " 
'< Amen, thy soul this day shall rest 

In Paradise with me." 

Beside the cross his mother stood 

And looked in anguish on. 
And with her, by the sacred wood, 

His loved disciple, John. 

" Behold thy son," said Jesus then 

To Mary standing near. 
And looked on John and spake again, 

" Behold thy mother here." 

308 The Irish Monthly. 

And Jolm received her as his own, 

And Mary was assigned 
For mother, not to John alone, 

But unto all mankind. 

With awful desolation now 
His human soul was tried ; 

*' Why, my (Jod, my (Jod, hast thou 
Forsaken me ? " he cried. 

Meanwhile on earth no sunlight shone, 
The heavens were overcast, 

And gloom prevailed from noonday on 
Ifntil three hours had past. 

'^ I thirst." As thus he spake once more, 

Amid the dark eclipse, 
A sponge with vinegar they bore 

Unto his dying lips. 

And Jesus, tasting, bent his head 
And willed his earthly end. 

" Father, into thy hands," he said, 
** My spirit I commend." 

Olory to God the Father ^ 
And his eternal Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ohott 
For ever^ Three in One, 

A Glance at the Latfei*'day Saints. 309* 



OVER thirty years ago I saw, in Dublin, in an obscure alley 
not very far from Sackville (now O'Cronnell) street, a queer 
looking edifice on the door of which was painted : Church of the 
LiATTER-DAY Saints. Though entirely ignorant of everjrthing 
oonceming these recently sanctified people, it struck me as a great 
piece of boldness that their sect should have " a smoke of its own '' 
in the fair metropolis of my coimtry. I knew there had been no 
Lrish heresiarch, and that consequently the " saints " must have 
been established and propagated by foreigners. The name was a 
good one. It was cleverly chosen — ^a taking name, in fact. Per- 
sons shaky in other forms of Protestantism ought to be able to find 
a secure haven among "saints," a refuge from the imrest and 
instability which periodically crop out in the crews and passengers 
of every barque not moored to the Rock of Peter. And what more 
oould seekers after higher things desire than to be admitted among 
the " saints," former and latter P 

The period when the sign of a new religion offended my 
Catholic instinct was, though I knew it not, the golden age of the 
latter-day saints. They were scarcely settled in the fastnesses of 
the Rooky Mountains, a thousand miles from civilisation, or, as 
they themselves said, "a thousand miles from everywhere." 
Their high priest, Brigham Young, " prophet, seer, and revelator," 
was governor of the territory of Utah, whose authority, supreme 
and absolute in spiritual and temporal things, it was hardly less 

* The distingiiiahed writer of this paper ought to have put forward more plainly 
the fact that she has been in Utah and has seen what she describes. Some cireum- 
stances mentioned in her private letter might have asefnlly been embodied in the 
article. *' It seems I am the only Catholic that has ever touched the subject, and 
X am, perhaps, inordinately proud that there are no Irish among these miserables. 
These shocking people interest me greatly. Please join me in praying for their 
conrersion. The Bishop, Dr. Laurence Scanlan, is aTipperary man ; the priests, 
nuns, teachers, miners, smelters, etc., are now mostly Irish. Polygamy — ^if it can 
be proTcd, which is difficult — is now punished by imprisonment. So, as a friend 
writes to me, 'the car of progress will now rattle over the rocks of Utah.* *' 
Another part of this letter speaks of some Mexican converts. *' Nearly all are 
Irish, strange to say : for Irish immigration has not turned south as much as wu 
would like." So the Irish Nun has even travelled farther than the Irish Emigrant . 
** Quae regie in terris nostri non plena laboris ? " 

310 The IrUh Mmthly. 

than death to question. No raikoads, no telegraph, no soldiers, 
. disturbed the solitude of the holy dty. Under the guidance of 
Young, the Mormons were making the desert blossom like the rose. 
They, an insignificant handful of ignorant creatures, were taught 
to regard the United States of America as a poor, mean power, 
which they could whip any day they felt inclined to make the 
exertion. It was their intention utterly to rout that heathen con- 
federation, and they were often told in Sunday harangues that 
the heads of the same would soon be seen begging their bread at 
the gates of Zion, Salt Lake City. 


Brigham Young, who for thirty years wore the triple crown of 
king, priest, and prophet in the new Zion, the headquarters, the 
Rome of the Mormons, was bom in New England in 1801. A 
glazier by trade, he was a Methodist and a Baptist by turns till 
1832, when he embraced Mormonism. His personal magnetism 
and keen practical sense wdre of immense use to Joseph Smith, 
founder of Mormonism, who made him one of the newly-organised 
quorum of the Twelve Apostles in 1834. Brigham now began 
" to preach in tongues to the saints,'' and though neither saints 
nor sinners understood him, the manner in which he transacted all 
business committed to him proved his superiority, and his promo- 
tion to the higher grades was rapid. In 1840 he preached the 
new gospel in England. He would compass sea and land to make 
a proselyte, and success rewarded his exertion!^. It is said that he 
often afterwards epoke of the "gullibility" of the English. 
Although not very clear as to what he believed himself, he was 
able to give them satisfying reasons for the faith they understood to 
be in him, and many left all that was dear to them to follow his 
lead in later times. 

Though entirely uneducated — ^he spent but thirteen days of his 
life in school — intercourse with the world had polished his man- 
ners, which could be very pleasing when he wished. His 
personality was not to be despised. A rather handsome, though 
sinister-looking face, and a tall, commanding figure, attracted his 
audience before he opened his mouth to utter the unknown sounds 
which were understood to be the gift of tongues. When he spoke 
" American," his " inspiration " showed to better advantage, and 

A Glance at the Latter-day Saints. 311 ■ 

he seldom failed to " bring many to the truth," as he pretended to 
understand it. 

Fraud, dishonesty, and worse crimes distinguished the saints 
everywhere, and they were driven out of Ohio, Illinois, and 
Missouri, places they had " opened to the preaching of the gospel." 
Joseph Smith was shot, and the next in rank, Sidney Eigdon, 
assumed his office. Brigham, however, soon removed Sidney's 
oandlestick, denoimced his revelations as from the devil, cut oS 
himself and his followers, cursed him, and finally " delivered him 
over to Satan to be buffeted for a thousand years." Even his 
opponents admired his stem intrepidity. He was elected President 
by an overwhelming majority. The minority he at once cut off, 
root and branch. Everything flourished directed by his strong 
will, and the improving status of the saints soon showed that there 
was an able and firm hand at the helm. 

Brigham now determined to found an empire in the Eocky 
Mountains, then Mexican territory, and though nothing could be 
more difficult than to bring his disciples to this, he accomplished it. 
Many who crossed the Mississippi in the hope of one day " wor- 
shipping imder their own vine and figtree, when none should make 
them afraid," won only nameless graves in the great American 
desert. But he administered the affairs of the survivors with skill 
and energy, and bent them all to his designs by his dogged perti- 
nacity and resistless influence. He made himself feared, loved and 
venerated by the people whom he cajoled, fed, scolded and praised ; 
but, above all, they learned to dread his iron hand. When the 
<2rops failed and famine steured them in the face, he told them they 
were cursed for their unfaithfulness ; but he found them food. 

In 1854, when Brigham's term of office expired, President 
Pierce sent Colonel Steptoe to relieve him. But Brigham would 
not be relieved. " I am and shall be governor of Utah," sfidd he, 
^* and no other man shall replace me till the Almighty says : — 
* Brigham, you need not be governor any longer.' " And de facto 
he was governor as long as he lived, and, in one way or another, 
he broke every power sent out to oppose him. 

Brigham was inv«uiably courteous to strangers, and quite 
willing to gratify the cmiosity of which he was the object, so long 
as it was respectful. When gentlemen of the press visited his city, 
he showered attentions upon them. They were at once taken hold 
of by his sycophants, and shown the bright side of the loathsome 

312 The Irtsh Monthly. 

system of which he was the head. Though himself illiterate, he 
showed the highest appreciation of the literarj personages who 
visited his capital, and was obsequiously polite to them. Hence 
the glowing accounts that often appeared of a rather insignificant 
region. Writers were surrounded hy the Mormon olBlcials and 
never allowed to see for themselves. They " wrote up " the holy 
city rather from a Mormon standpoint tlmn from their own 
unbiassed researches. The Mormons were prohibited under the 
gravest penalties from taking the Ghentiles into their confidence on 
any subject whatever. 

In the lion House and the Beehive House, two handsome 
residences connected by a range of business offices, lived and 
worked the redoubtable Governor Young. The former was 
devoted chiefiy to his nineteen consorts and their numerous 
children; the latter might be called his official residence. The 
women derived no social prominence from being the so-called 
wives of the great man. They all dined at his table in the lion 
House, each mother being surrounded by her own progeny, while 
Brigham and his latest favourite occupied a separate table at the 
head of the diningroom. Neither were they allowed to live in 
idleness; each had her appointed tasks, and all were servants 
without wages. Save one Gtorman and one Englishwoman, the 
l^;al wife and the '^ plural wives " were all natives of America, 
several of them being of New England. These unfortunate 
women were scarcely ever mentioned in Utah. Their wants were 
supplied with great frugality. Though Brigham soon became one 
of the wealthiest men in the world, having a " faculty " for turn- 
ing the most unlikely things into gold, he was close-fisted and even 
stingy to the last. There wajs not a servant on his premises. Hir 
Qonsorts and daughters did the menial work of his extensive house- 
hold, while his sons-in-law and sons were expected to busy them- 
selves in farming, herding, branding cattle, and mechanical work. 
The versatile "seer, prophet, and revelator" held the makings of 
his wives' gowns, and measured them out very sparingly. In early 
days sun-bonnets and cotton dresses were their uniform, and the 
Czar of all the Mormon^ signalized himself by devising a still 
uglier garb — a high hat with a narrow brim, a shapeless sacque of 
antelope skiu, and a short, tight skirt of linsey. This, the famous 

A Glance at the Latter-day Saints. 313 

^'Deseret Costume," he made all the women " saints " wear, hut 
even his power was not ahle to perpetuate so hideous a toilette^ and 
after a few seasons it gradually dropped out, and only his senior 
spiritual bride, Eliza Snow, who gloried in having been the first 
polygamous wife of Joe Smith, appeared in the Deseret Costume. 

Considering that Brigham was always a de facto king in Salt 
Lake City, and had even been anointed king, it is a little singular 
that his oonsorts had no social standing, but remained cooks, 
housekeepers, seamstresses to the end, with little variety save 
from the drudgery of the kitchen to that of the laundry. Vice 
spread through all the ramifications of this fanaticism, but the 
worst of its degradations were imposed on women ; to them only a 
bare support was given in lieu of the virtue and liberty they had 
been compelled to barter. It was considered wonderful that the 
royal Brigham took off his hat to some Sisters of Mercy who 
visited his city in 1870 on business of their community. He never 
imcovered his head to the women of the Beehive. Judging by 
Mormon prints and pictures, he even wore his hat at meals, when 
all his consorts and families were present. Indeed, he was 
accustomed to declare that his superior did not exist on earth, and 
therefore there was no one in whose honour he could be expected 
to remove his hat. Sometimes he could not well remove it, for 
during a season in which he was unusually given to vanity, his hair 
of a morning was done up in curling papers and hairpins. The 
lady on whom he had bestowed the latest reversion of his hand 
prepared him to appear before his callers at his daily lev^ in all 
the bravery of well-oiled ringlets. Towards the close of his life he 
dressed in the latest fashion. 


The sons of Brigham Toimg, like the sons of royalty in general, 
were celebrated for what is vulgarly called rowdyism — whiskey, 
fast horses, furious driving; besides which they were all poly- 
gamists. His daughters, who were said to be the boldest maidens 
in the holy city, were early " married into polygamy," with his 
fullest approbation. Though his consorts lived in retirement and 
with great economy as to furniture, food, and apparel, his descen- 
dants were accused of taking on airs on account of their blood 
royal. Indeed Brigham was not at all satisfied with the doings of 
Vol. xvm. No. 204. 72 

314 The Irish Monthly. 

his ohildren, though his faoiQy was the best reg^olated in Utah, ^'a 
pattern to the saints." He had a sort of phonetic way of quoting 
Scripture^ and would render a well-known text, '^ aooording to his 
experience " : " Train up a child, and away they go." Though he 
was a declared enemy to education, one of his consorts was school- 
mistress to the children of the rest, and as they grew older, he 
gave them other advantages, even sending some of them to college. 
But his Uberality in this respect never extended beyond his own 

The greatest virtue a Mormon can possess is to pay his 
"tithing" promptly. The church was the universal merchant, 
and through " Zion's co-operative stores " and their brandy, the 
first Presidency organized all commerce to their own advantage. 
While the heads of the church revelled in luxury, the people had 
but a bare subsistence. Despite Brigham's perpetual preaching of 
industiy, there were some drones in the hive, and not a few were 
supported by their wives. But profits of aU kinds fell into his 
hands. One of his wives, so-called, who escaped from him in 
1874, in the legal proceedings she instituted against him, declared 
that he was worth eight million dollars, and had a monthly income 
of forty thousand dollars besides. Events since have proved that 
she correctly estimated his goods and chattels, yet he denied that 
his income exceeded six thousand dollars a month — an immense 
sum at that time in Utah, especially for a man who had no rent 
and little taxes to pay. 

To-day, thanks to Grentile enterprise, the Mormon capital is an 
exceedingly beautiful dty, especially when viewed from a distance, 
an4 in spring and summer. Trees, gardens, cornfields, patches of 
vivid green, starred with golden rod and sunflowers, bright sky, 
sparkling waters, contrast finely with the sombre grey and brown 
of the surrounding mountains. The temple built of white granite 
approaches completion ; it has already cost millions. The Assembly 
House, used in cold weather for Simday meetings, is a fair, graceful 
building. The tabernacle is grotesquely ugly; even the sainta 
themselves irreverently compare it to a huge gofer or land turtle. 
It seats eight to ten thousand people, and, as the walls are almost 
all doors, it could in case of accident be emptied in three minutes. 
There is no sign of religion in it. Its grey walls are bare and un- 
sightly. Lions couchant and a beehive are the only adornments of 
this temple of fanaticism. 

A Glance at the Latter-day Saints. 315 

Mormonism is a materialistio religion : one of the hymns begs 
some not well-defined deity to 

" Gelestiiilue and porifj 
This earth for perfeot Mormons.*' 

Their aspirations begin and end in earth. The most desolate 
spot in the whole world is, I think, the Mormon graveyard. No 
sign of faith, hope, or love ; no solemn trees, no green turf, no 
soaring cross, no emblematic dove. In family ^* lots '' wives lie at 
the foot of the husband in the order of their decease. The 
mortality in early days was immense, especially among children. 
It was said that the deceased children of Brigham would fill a fair 
sised graveyard. Yet some fifty survived him. 


The finest dwelling house in Utah is the mansion known as the 
Amelia Palace, built by Brigham in his latter years for his 
favourite, Amelia Folsom, a native of Massachusetts. It is 
erected on a beautiful lawn, surrounded by trees and gardens, and 
would be a splendid residence in any city in the world. Hero 
Brigham died August 29, 1877, to the grief and wonderment of 
many of his disciples, who thought their prophet would never see 
death. His widows roamed the streets disconsolate, weeping into 
immense towels, and shrieking in every variety of tone: "The 
Prophet is dead ! " Every one of them save the contumacious 
Ann Eliza, who, instigated by some Qentile barbarians, had 
instituted proceedings against him, was a widow "well left.' 
Each had a house and lot. Amelia was and is quite wealthy. 

AlS to religion, I fear the wretched high priest died as he had 
lived. Yet a descendant of his told a Catholic lady at the time 
that he frequentiy muttered on the last day of his sinful life : " I 
never had a wife but one, and that was my first." He had ample 
opportunities of knowing the truth which would have freed him 
from his unruly passions ; but avarice and sensuality and ambition 
were strong in his craven soul to the very last, so far as can 
be ascertained. As early as 1866 a priest ventured to reside in the 
holy city — a Father Eelly, sent thither by the Archbishop of San 
Fnmcisco, in whose diocese the new Jerusalem then was. Every- 
thing was done to drive him from this difficult mission. The saints 

316 The Irish Monthh/, 

whittled about his poor hut day and night.* A ooflGln was laid at 
his door, and he was told he would soon be put in a state to oooupy 
it. Nothing of this kind was ever done but by the instigation of 
the prophet ; if he did not commit many a murder with his own 
hands, it is certain that he inspired, suggested, or even commanded 
many a one. The priest boldly appealed to him for protection. 
He was astonished (!) that any had behaved so inhospitably to the 
interesting stranger, whom he immediately covered with the aegk 
of his protection, and the priest was henceforth unmolested. 
Brigham expressed the greatest friendship for him, asked him 
many questions, professed himself " almost persuaded " to become 
a Catholic, but virtually concluded every conference in the words 
of another who preferred the honours of this world to the glory 
of the next : " I will hear thee again concerning this matter." 

Brigham expressed a strong desire for Irish disciples. He 
considered the class of Irish likely to be induced to emigrate 
excellent farmers, and was most anxious to have them settle in his 
territory in large numbers. His missionaries were not at all 
successful in the Emerald Isle. Indeed the Irish have always been 
conspicuous among the Mormons only by their absence. Brigham 
told an Irish lady that he always did what he set his heart on, and 
that he would live to see plenty of Irish in Zion. So he did, but 
not in the way he expected. It was not Irish bishops, priests, 
religious, and laity, who were all Catholics, that he courted, but this 
was the only Irish immigration he ever saw. When Father Kelly 
said mass in a hovel in the den of vice that Salt Lake City then 
was, his congregation consisted of a few Irish soldiers from the 
neighbouring camp, and some miners and smelters. Fervently 
they besought the good God, through the intercession of the purest 
of Virgins, the maid without a stain, to plant His holy Church in 
this fair land, and create a chaste generation in this modem 
Gomorrha. Soon after the railroads opened up this unexplored 
region to the Gentiles, and Mormonism, which cannot bear the 

* An obnoxious aiaranger was frequendy << whittled out of town." Honnon men 
«nd boys would surround bis bouse in perfect silence. Each bad a knife and a stick 
of wood. When the unfortunate Gentile appeared, they aU began to slice off pieces 
of wood, bringing their knives as near to his face as possible. They followed him 
-eyerywhere, but never actually touched him. To see huge knives flashing con- 
tinually about his head and face was more than the bravest man could stand. Few 
•could bear it for a day. When these persons left, they were said to have been 
** whittled out of town." 

A Olafice at the Latter-day Saints. 317 

light of day, was no longer oloisteied. The spread of Catholio 
prinoiples more than any other means would oure the loathsome 
uloer on the breast of a great nation. Erom the first the Catholic 
Church has been respected by the Mormon, who sees little difference 
between his own '^ celestial ordinance" of simultaneous polygamy 
and the progressive polygamy sanctioned wherever divorce holds 
sway. Nor is it easy to piersuade him that he has not as much 
right to interpret the bible in favour of his peculiar institution aa 
the non-Catholic has to interpret it in favour of monogamy. 

The sagacious Brigham, a man of unusual administrative 
ability and great natural gifts, saw this, and he often seemed on 
the verge of conversion. He admitted that he tried hard and in 
vain to convert the first priest he met in tJtah. But he often 
averred that this priest could have converted him had he remained 
long enough and tried hard enough. It is certain that he showed 
moi^ respect to Catholic clergy and religious thfiui to any other 
persons, even royal princes. And when, to the wonder of America, 
Sisters of Mercy settled in Zion, the patriarch declared himself 
their protector, would stop his carriage if he met them in the 
street, and graciously inquire how they were doing. He even 
invited them, should they be in need of spiritual advice or direction, 
to come to him, assuring them they would always find him ready 
and willing to instruct and direct them. 

But, indeed, the astute Brigham had quite enough to do to 
give advice and direction in his own household. Bitter quarrels, 
intense animosity, indescribable scenes of violence, results of a 
vicious system that brought the. worst passions to the surface, were 
not unusual in his wide domestic circle. Sometimes he was obliged 
to threaten to drive all his consorts away, and "go to heaven 
alone." More often he consoled them with empty promises. The 
older ones, known as "mothers in Israel," he promised to 
rejuvenate in the resurrection ; with the younger ones he used 
diplomacy, and to all in general he declared that they must bear 
their miseries cheerfully, for " he would not have whining women 
about him." 

Verily, the most wretched women on earth were in this happy 
valley by Jordan's stream. To see them pour out of the huge, 
ugly tabernacle of a bright Sunday afternoon was to look upon a 
sea of faces from which all love and graciousness seemed banished, 
and on which sin and sorrow and unsanotified sufieiing had left 

818 The Irhik Monthly. 

indelible traoee. They were of every a^ and of almost every 
country. It is true that they were to a great extent of the lowest 
and most degraded classes. But there were among them, too, 
women of education and so-called refinement, who had been lured 
into this seething vortex by the deceitful tongues of Mormon 
missionaries. Why did not these leave P Because they could not. 
There was neither ingress nor egress save through the terrible 
Mokanna; if they did leave, they would lose their way of living, 
such as it was ; and, worst of all to a woman's heart, they would 
never again see their unfortunate children. Poor creatures, they 
regarded their fate as the inevitable to which they must, per force, 
reconcile themselves. And, in the midst of the tortures of their 
hideous condition, they would say, with a sort of blasphemous 
resignation : We are made to suffer ; we must go on suffering; we 
must bear our awful cross ; we must live our religion. GKhI wills 

Every English-speaking country was represented among the 
Mormons, as I have said, except Ireland. This was a great grief 
to Brigham Young. He was willing to give the Insh " a refuge 
from famine and danger." He looked for them in Ireland ; he 
' sought them earnestly among the Irish settlers in England, Scot- 
land, Wales, America ; he sent his most eloquent apostles into the 
highways and by-ways of the world to compel them, so to say, to 
come to his banquet, but not one of them came. Surely this is a 
grand thing for the island of genuine saints. That they should be 
faithful in their own coimtry, where they are so shielded, is not 
surprising in the light of their past record ; but we must thank 
God specially for their fidelity in other lands, where wealth and 
social position, and in several cases intellectual ability, succumbed. 

They are now in Utah in large numbers, and they have con- 
tributed their share to the victories won over the Mormons within 
the past year by the other settlers — victories which have broken 
the power of the Saints and are the beginning of the end of their 
hideous caricature of a theocracy. May they ever preserve intact 
the faith once delivered to the saints. May they remain in the 
future what they have been in the past, the chaste generation 
whose memory is immortal. Under the protection of the Mother 
of Mercy, may they continue to bring up their children in the fear 
and love of God and the practice of holiness. And, appreciating 
the freedom of which they were of old deprived in their own fair 

Honie Sickneaa. 319 

land, may they ever preserve to themselves and to others that 
higher and more blessed freedom wherewith Christ hath made ns 

M. A. 0. 


OMETIMES in the evenings, 

^ When the mountains are grej, 

1 muse on mine own country 
That's far, far away : 

There are white palaces 

By a jasper sea; 
And I trow mine own country 

Is the best land for me. 

Gre^i are the fields thereof, 

Spangled with gold ; 
Olad goeth many a one 

Stricken of old; 
Old friends and lovers 

Dead long ago. 
Meeting and greeting, 

Whiter than snow. 

Yonder the sky's yellow. 

And rosy and green, 
With drift of angels' feathers 

And gold harps between ; 
And I think if I might travel 

Where the gates open wide, 
I should see mine own country 

Lie smiling inside. 

Come ye, all my belovM, 

Bise up by cock-crow ! 
For our own country calls us, 

And we have far to go : 
And were any left in exile 

That bitter pain to dree, 
0, even mine own country 

Would be exile to me ! 

KATHAnmE Tykan. 

320 The Irish Monthly. 



A FEW more words about the holy priefit, whose memory we have- 
linked with that of his first Bishop ; and then we shall bring to 
some sort of conclusion the biographical sketch, of which this in 
reality is not the second part but the ninth, and which even many 
years ago, in order that another might not do so for us, we our- 
selves compared already to Pope's *^ needless Alexandrine, which^ 
like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along." 

We had accompanied Father O'Neill to Eome on the second 
of his visits : for he made three pilgrimages to the Eternal City — 
the first stretching over all the years of his student life, the second 
extending through the greater part of a year, and the third con- 
fined to a few weeks when his second bishop. Dr. Leahy, chos& 
him as his companion when visiting the limina Apostolorum. It 
was towards the end of his second visit that he seems to have made 
an earnest attempt at carrying out an idea which, no doubt, he had 
cherished years before, and which he certainly still cherished very 
earnestly several years later, as we shall see. This was to do what 
St. Francis Jerome had done, while already doing, like Father 
O'Neill, the work of an eminently holy priest, in what we call 
" the world " — to leave his first field of labour and to enter the 
Society of Jesus. He seems to have broached the subject first to 
the Coadjutor Bishop ; perhaps he feared to do so with Dr. Blake^ 
— and well he might ! We venture to give, almost in full, the 
reply of his venerable friend : — 

" Newry, April 7tii, 1856. 
'< Kt Dbab Mb. O'Neill, 

'* Your letter dated on Easter Monday has caused me no little anxiety. Placed 
as I am in the midst of difficulties which will be terribly increased should I happen 
to sonriTe Dr. Blake, I always calculated on your advice and assistance to bring^ 
me through, knowing your sincerity and zeal and experience, and it will be to me 
a bitter disappointment if you now leave me. At the same time, I hope I would 
not be so selfish and cruel as to regain you, if your abandonment of this mission 
were necessary for your salvation. But is it necessary ? Tou are tdaimed by the 
dangers which surround a secular priest, and the multiplicity of affairs which tend 
to withdraw his attention from regulating lus interior. Kow if any one is fit to 
discharge the duties of the minstry, is it not one like you who is alive to the perils 

Dr. Blake of Dr(more, and Father O'Neill of Rostrevar. 321 

of themiBsion, and who feels that the interest of his own soul must not be neglected 
while attending to tiie welfare of others P If every priest who has such sentiments 
were to retire into the cloister, seeking his own safety in flight from the combat, 
whf t wonldbeoome of the people ? No doubt a religious order is a school of perfection, 
and in th& abstract it is better te embrace it than remain in the world, but you 
most admit that there are circumstances which render it a lees perfect state for 
many individuals. What might be best in countries like Italy, where there is a 
aoperabundanoe of olerg3rmen, is in my opinion far from being the most pleasing to 
Qod in dioceses like this, where the people have not by any means enough of dergy- 
TUKL to attend to their spiritual wants. And let me ask of you, my dear friend, 
what is to prevent you sanctifying yourself while labouring here for the salvation 
of souls ? Can you not give in the early part of the day three quarters of an hour 
or a full hour to meditation P Can you not intermingle aspirations frequentiy with 
your external duties? Can you not examine carefully your conscience, especially 
on your peculiar tendencies, every day, and begin each morning with renewed 
fervour in the service of Qod ? Ton celebrate mass daily, you read your office, 
you go frequentiy to confession : why then should you think that with all those helps 
you oamiot sanctify yourself ? 

" I know your occupations were extremely laborious. Indeed I feel that the first 
curate in Newry has far too much work placed upon him. But if I am to survive 
Dr. Blake, one of the very first measures I should adopt would be to exempt the first 
curate from attending sick-calls, and to bring an additional priest into Newry. 
Meanwhile, if you return, I will continue to attend to the confessions of the Nuns, 
and thereby relieve you from what must have occupied one of the days in 
the week. 

< ' If you cannot make up your mind to abandon the idea of joining a religious body, 
at all evente defer it for a few years until the Sisters of Mercy have got over their 
difftonlties. Tou know the ways of Dr. Blake, and can manage him far better 
than either I or those poor Sisters can. I have some projeote in view which may 
be of the greatest sendee to this diocese, and in which you may be able to give me 
essential aid, if the time should come for carrjring them into execution. 

Sister M. Aquin Russell made her profession on Wednesday in Easter week. 
The school-room was fitted up as a chapel for the occasion. Dr. Blake presided. 
Dr. Furlong was to have preached, but on the Sunday a letter was received from 
him stating that he was very ill, and that his physician would not allow him to 
undertake the task. I was therefore obliged to supply his place. 
" I am, my dear Mr. O'Neill, 

^ " Yours very affectionately, 

«* i^i J. P. Lkaht." 

The '^ Dr. Furlong " named in the last paragraph was, I am 
sure, not the Maynooth Professor who about that time became 
Bishop of Ferns — ^not Dr. Thomas Furlong, but Father Moses 
Furlong, of the Order of Charity, which in this country is best 
known through Father Qentili, who lies in Glasnevin, and through 
Father Lookhart, who still works in London. The reason why this 
irrelevant paragraph has not been suppressed with some others that 
follow it is in order that our Magazine may contain the name of 

322 The Imh Mimthlfj. 

one who has already been alluded to twioe at least. The young 
Sister of Meroy whose profession is recorded was afterwards the 
subject of '^ an Obituary in Mosaic," which may be found at p%ge 
114 of our fifth volume (1877), and which links with a holy and 
amiable memory sundry passages of prose and verse from more 
than one pen, the daintiest being '^ My Saint," which has since 
reappeared among Miss MulhoUand's Vagrant Verses. 

Dr. Leahy's earnest expostulation had at least the effect of 
inducing Father O'Neill to defer the execution of his design, for 
the bishop's next letter, dated " Newry, May 7th, 1856," begins 
thus : ^^ Your last letter afforded me the greatest pleasure, and I 
have every confidence that you wiH lose nothing before God by 
your consenting to remain at a post where you can contribute in so 
many ways to the furtherance of religion." He goes on to say 
that, if he should survive Dr. Blake — ^he has survived him for 
thirty years — " it will be of essential consequence for me to have 
you near me, as I can without any reserve open my whole mind to 
you, and discuss plans with you before broaching them to others. 
Newry is, of course, the fittest place for you. As to your remain- 
ing in Home until next spring, I have no objection, provided you 
can arrange it with Dr. Blake. But he seems impatient for your 
return. However, by throwing yourself on his goodnature, he 
may, perhaps, consent." 

The old bishop's " goodnature " did not, it would seem, prove 
equal to this strain, for Dr. Leahy in a subsequent letter alludes to 
one in which Dr. Blake had " invited " the pilgrim to return — ^the 
verb " invited " being probably a very mild euphemism in this 
context. And so Father O'Neill came back to his old post in 
Newry. He continued, however, to cherish for years the same 
aspirations ; and Dr. Leahy, himself a devoted son of St. Dominick, 
might grudge but could not absolutely refuse to St. Ignatius even 
the most valued of his clergy. Father O'NeiU preserved carefully 
two brief letters received from Father Joseph Lentaigne, who was 
at the time Provincial of the Lrish Jesuits : — 

<< St. FranciB Xayier*8, 

« Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin, 

" April 26, 1868. 
" MyDBABME.O'NBiii, 

'* I have no difficnltyin receiying you for this ProYinoe (Ireland) except ibe 
opposition of your Bishop. With his consent I shaU be most happy that you should 
at once join us. Try what you can do, so as not to cause displeasure on his Lord- 

Dr. Blake of Dromore^ atui Father O'Neill of Rostrevor. 323 

ship's part. * * * Ton are aware tliat a novitiate of two years is required, and 
that whoever joins us must be prepared to apply himself to whatever dnties may be 
appointed for him, missionary work or college employment. When you think that 
yoa can pat your pious purpose into execution, I shall be happy to bear from jrou 
again ; and I remain, in union with your prayers, 

" Ever most sincerely yours in Christ, 

** J. JjSSTAlQVE, S.J." 

One is saiprised to note that the following letter is separated 
from the preceding by considerably more than a year : — 

'* Upper Gardiner Street, Dublin, 

30th September, 1859. 
'' Ht I>bab Mr. O'Ksnx, 

« I am very glad that you have obtuned Doctor Lealiy*s consent. I am very 
mnch against any further delay, as new causes for postponement are sure to arise 
every six months, unless by a decisive act we free ourselves from them altogether. 
I cannot therefore advise a delay beyond 17th December. 

Excuse these hurried lines, as I wish to overtake the post ; and believe me, my 
dearlir. O'l^eiU, 

'* Most since9«ly yours in Christ, 


We do not know what finally sayed the diocese of Dromore 
from what would certainly have been a grievous misfortune for it, 
however other portions of God's Church might have profited there- 
by. We are inclined to suspect that the real difficulty may have 
lain in a passage which we have omitted from the first of Father 
Lentaigne's letters, and which regarded the mother of our good 
priest. The Church, herself a mother, has always carefully 
recognized certain real exigencies of parents as modifying the 
vocations of children. 

Th e last date that we have reached preceded only by a few 
months the death of the venerable Dr. Blake, who died in April, 
1860. Before returning to our main subject, we may follow to the 
end this other simple story which has come to be told through its 
being associated with the episcopal career of Michael Blake of 

Father O'Neill did not gain the territorial title we have con- 
feired upon him in the heading of these pages till November, 1864, 
when he succeeded the Bev. Bernard Mooney as Parish Priest of 
Kilbroney — ^for such is the ecclesiastical designation of the parish 
which comprises, with Bostrevor and Killowen, several other 
districts less known than these which have won a place in literature 
from frequent allusions* in the poems of Thomas Caulfield Irwin, 

824 The Irish Monthly, 

Daniel Orilly, M.P., and others. One of these others, in desoribing 
'^ a picnic at Bostrevor/' in verse as homely as the theme, says of 
this beautiful village that — 

It lies 'twizt tHe sea and the monntain, 

Or rather the bav and the hiU, 
Which cool the warm breath of the summer, 

And take from the winter its ohilL 
It nestles 'mid oak-trees and beeches 

That stretch their green arms o'er the street, 
Whose breadth, to its length nearly equal, 

Expands where the four roadways meet. 
As you wind by the bay's breezy margin, 

Bostrevor you mark from afarj 
Betrayed by its 'spire of Our Lady's, 

And joyful you cry : ** Here we are ! " — 
Betrayed by its spire gleaming brightly 

High o'er its embowering trees : 
As the breath of the sea is detected 

In this bracing and life-giving breeze. 
That white granite spire of Our Lady's 

On the oaks and the beeches looks down, 
And it cries up to heaven for a blessing 

On the simple Arcadian town. 
A blessing in sooth is the convent 

That hides in the shadow serene 
Of that beautiful Church of Our Lady, 

Of Mary our Moilier and Queen. 
The convent and church crown the village 

Which clusters in peace at their feet ; 
A stream from the hills saunters x>ast it, 

Heluctant to leave scene so sweet. 

The church and convent here referred to will for many a year 
attest the zeal and piety of Father O'Neill. The church, indeed, 
was the work of his predecessor, good Father Bernard Mooney, its 
dedication sermon being the first occasion on which the people of 
Dromore listened to a voice that they at once learned to love. 
The new Coadjutor had been consecrated by the Primate, Dr. 
Joseph Dixon, on Bosary Sunday, October 1, 1854 ; and on the 
17th of that month, on the appropriate feast of the Dedication of 
all the Churches of Ireland, the great preacher from the south 
appeared for the first time in a northern pulpit. That was ten 
years before the builder of that beautiful church went to his 
reward, and left G-od's temple to be tended with untiring devotion 
by Father O'Neill. That church became a chief part of his 

<< Erin : Verses Irish and GaUioliiS," p. 30. 

Dr. Bhike of Drotnore^ and Father G^Neill ofEostrevor, 325 

existence during the quarter of a oentuiy that followed. To the 
very last, on his walks, he never tired of discovering from all 
ixnpossihle points glimpses of the beautiful spire rising up out of 
its bower of trees and standing white- against the wooded mountain 
1>ehind. Eveiy detail of the worthy adornment of that church, 
and everything that regarded the divine service, was attended to 
-with loving exactitude. Under the holy shadow of that church of 
Our Lady he built a convent and schools for the Sisters of Mercy 
— ^a branch of the Newry convent which he had founded. His 
work also was the Church of the Sacred Heart in Killowen,* 
"which, as the church merely of a rural district of a parish contain- 
ing already the noble church we have referred to, is, we think, 
unrivalled. His latest work was the erection of an excellent 
school for the boys of Eostrevor on the best possible site — this and 
all the rest paid for to the last farthing by the unwearying exer- 
tions of this good priest, on whom God had bestowed that benedic- 
tion — complevit iabares ejus. 

No wonder that his grateful people seized on the opportimity 
presented by the silver jubilee, not of his priesthood but of his 
pastorate, for letting him see how they felt towards him. This 
domestic festival was celebrated with affectionate enthusiasm at 
the beginning of this year. " Thank God ! " — he exclaimed in 
replying to one of the addresses presented — " thank God, the 
union between priests and people is as strong to-day in old 
Ireland as in the days of persecution, when on the moimtain side 
of Slieve* Bawn, just in your view, and under the shadow of that 
old stone,t your sainted forefathers assembled to hear Mass." The 
most touching testimony that the occasion called forth was the 
following letter from his venerated Diocesan : — 

" Violet Hill, Newry, 

«* Christmas Day, 1889 1 
-«* Mt Dbas Fathbb O'Nbhx, 

*' Among the many regrets which are the natural portion of a feeble old age like 
mine, there is one speciaUy present to my mind to-day, and that is my inability to 
be with yon in Rostrevor, and to share the joy with whioh your good people, as I 

* This takes the place of the very unarchitectural yet venerable church (stiU 
left standing as a relic of old times) whioh was the scene of the Telverton Maniage 
some thirty years ago. 

t The fiimous Chugh more^ which bears the impress of giant fingers, said to be 
those of Finmacool, who hurled it across the bay from Oarlingford mountain 

326 The Iri4ih Monthly. 

understand, axe preparing to celebrate the ailyer jubilee of your pastorate amongst 

"We have known each other for many jrears^so many, indeed, that my 
thoughts carry me back only with an effort to the first time of our aoquaintance. 
Many things that have happened since then haye lost their hold upon my failing 
memory ; many persons whom I have known are now, to ine, mere names ; hut not 
so with you, my dear Father O'Neill, and with all you haye been to me. 

" I do not and never can forget what I owe to you through all those years — ^what 
a source of strength and comfort you were to me when I came a stranger to this 
diocese to take upon me duties altogether new, and responsibilities which I dreaded ; 
and what pleasure I have always enjoyed in the mutual regard which has existed 
between us, not merely as bishop and priest, but as friend and friend. 

*< May God bless you ever with EQs choicest graces, and grant you health and 
length of days to labour in the future, as well as in the past, for the interest of His. 

'< Fray for me, as I shall always pray for you. 

" Ever, my dear Father O'Neill, 

Tours most affectionately in Christ, 

^ John Pius Lsaht. 

^'Lengihof days to labour in the future ! " One of the addressee 
of the school children prayed that his silver might turn to gold, 
that, after another quarter of a century among them, they might 
celebrate his golden jubilee. Twenty five years more — and he had 
only three months ! Not without sufficient warning — he needed 
none — Gk)d took him to Himself in the manner that he had prayed 
for. ^'After all, it is no blessing to live too long," he had said to 
a friend a few weeks before ; and to another he confessed that, if it 
were Gk)d's will, his prayer was not to die of a lingering ailment. 
The angel Death, coming as it did, might have come with a 
suddenness awful and saddening to his friends ; but no, every* 
thing was arranged sweetly and consolingly. With his characteristio 
spirit and courage, though not in his usual health, Father O'Neill 
had insisted on taking his part in the Diocesan synod held in 
Newry on Tuesday, April 15th, 1890. The next morning he arose at 
six o'clock, the hour of rising that he had, through all his priesthood, 
observed with the imswerving regularity which habit had trans- 
formed into a second nature. Though he had made his ordinary 
weekly confession on the previous Sunday, he prepared for the 
celebration of Mass, after his never omitted hour of meditation, 
by again receiving sacramental absolution, and then he stood for 
the last time, not knowing that it was so, before the altar on which 
he had offered up the holy sacrifice some nine thousand times. 
During the forenoon he enrolled in the League of the Cross two or 

Dr. Blake o/Dromore^ mid FcUhei* O'Neill of Roatrevor. 327 

thiee young men who were leaving for America, giving them 
earnest advioe at oonsiderable length. It was remembered the next 
day that he had spent a longer time than usual at his prayers in 
the transept of his beloved churoh, in the spot where he recited a 
large portion of the Divine office every day about noon — ^the spot 
beneath which his remains are now reposing, near the confessional 
in which he had administered the Sacrament of God's mercy 
assiduously and with such firm yet tender zeal. A little later he 
rode out past the old graveyard of Kilbroney ; but he was observed 
returning before many minutes had passed. His death was upon 
him ; but happily it did not strike him down on the spot. He 
lingered till near midnight in great pain, which, with his usual 
self-restraint, he would not relieve by a single moan. The 
immediate cause of death was rheumatism reaching at last the 
heart. The dying priest retained his full consciousness and calm- 
ness to the end, encouraging his afflicted friend and coadjutor to 
strengthen him for his journey by the last sacraments of the 
Church. And then in the early morning the sad news went 
round— "Poor Father O'Neill is dead!" On the following 
Saturday, after the beautiful Bequiem Office and Mass and last 
funeral rites, the holy remains were laid, as we have already 
mentioned, in the left transept under the very spot where he had 
been noticed praying for a long time on the day of his death. 
The opposite transept is lighted by the fine stained-glass window 
presented by Lord O'Hagan in memory of his mother, who is 
buried in the adjacent graveyard of Kilbroney; and the 
corresponding window over Father O'Neill's grave may in like 
manner be made a memorial of him. 

Let us give a few of the touching words spoken by the Very 
Rev. J. C. Lyons, O.P., Prior of St. Catherine's, Newry, at the 
funeral obsequies, at which not only the Dromore priests assisted, 
but Down and Connor, Kildare, Armagh, and Dublin, were also 

« HiB life was fuU of zeal for the glory of his Master. His zeal for the beautj 
of god's house could not be surpassed. The success of Father O'Neill in his 
laborious life is due, in the first place, to his thorough spirit as a priest. He was 
first and bejond all things a true priest. He realised what it was to be a steward 
and a gpoardian of his Master, and the all-absorbing devotion of his life was his 
derotion to the sacrament of the altar. He was not onlj a steward of his Divine 
Master, but also His friend and constant companion. The life of Father O'Neill 
was one of undeviating piety and attention to priestly duties. He led a life of 

328 'TliC Ir'uih Monthly. 

imswervmg routine. He was a man trolj foil of Gk>d The nobIe» 

open, honest, expression on his conntenance, his onohtrusiTe and quiet manner, 
liis kindness, his genial smile— everything combined to make an impression, even 
upon the casual observer, and make him say to himself : < Ah, this is no ordinary 
man.' Father O'Neill was a typical Irishman. He had an Irishman's generous 
heart. He was ever truly charitable, and particularly so with his brother priests." 

Elsewhere Father Lyons remarks that, ^' as a friend, he was as 
true as steel, and that, although the very sonl of hospitality in 
social matters, he in his most unreserved and unguarded moment 
never uttered a word imbeooming a holy priest/' 

' Among the beautiful flowers, some costly and some simple, 
that were heaped upon the coffin, many were laid by those who 
were not members of his flock, one wreath (for instance) being a 
token of regret from the Presbyterian minister of the village, who 
had more than once, in the preceding days, come with kindly 
sympathy among the mourners where the dead priest lay. And 
so, too, besides many Protestants who showed the last marks of 
respect to the vigilant and uncompromising Catholic pastor, others 
wrote to express their regret that distance or imperative duties 
hindered them from being present. Thus Mr. Edward Ghreer, J.P., 
Chairman of the Ulster Land Commission, wrote of *' the good 
and worthy Father O'Neill " : "I knew him since I was a boy, 
and experienced many acts of kindness from him. He was a man 
of strong will and strong opinions, but of a kindly, gentle heart." 

Yes, he was a man of strong* opinions, and fearless in upholding 
them. Neither his piety nor his patriotism was cherished vaguely 
in the abstract, but they had a knack of throwing themselves into 
very sharply defined concrete forms. And this circumstance adds 
force to the testimony of another who had scant sympathy with 
Father O'Neill's views on sundry burning questions, though the 
barrier of a different faith did not lie between them. Major John 
Boss of Bladensburg is the head of a Coimty Down family which 
(besides mother and sister) has given to the Catholic Church just 
as many converts of mature years as the De Veres of County 
Limerick. On the 17th of April he writes from London to say 
how " shocked and grieved " he was at " the very sad news of the 
sudden death of poor Father O'Neill." " I deeply regret that I 
cannot be at home to be present at the funeral. I can only say I 
shall be with you in spirit with my whole heart." Mr. Daniel 
Crilly, M.P., " feels that one of the strongest links that bound him 

Dr. Blake of Dramore, and Father O'NeiU of Boitrevor. 329' 

to his boyhood's days in Bostrevor and KiUowen is now broken."^ 
From London also Sir Charles Eussell writes as follows : — 

'* We were shocked to hear of the sudden death of Father 0*Kdll. It is some 
ooasolation to remember the holy and useful life he led, and to know that at his- 
final hour he had the saored rites of that rdigion to whose service, by precept and 
example, his life was devoted. He was one of my oldest friends, and for none had 
I a higher regard and esteem." ^ 

On the dth of May the venerable president of the Irish 
College at Borne, Dr. Tobias Kirby, Archbishop of Ephesus, 
wrote to Father Andrew Lowry : — 

<• I am very thankful for the telegram you so thoughtfully sent me, announcing 
the x>ainful event, painful to his sunriving friends, but, we have so much reason ta 
hope, thrice happy to the faithful priest, of whom we confidently trust it was said 
by our divine Lord Himself : Ubi ego avm, Ulie et minister tneus erit. His death 
was indeed a most consoling one, and a beautiful dose of his eminently useful 
priestly career, as was testified also by the universal regret manifested on th& 
occasion by all who knew him, according to the divine promise : Timenii JDominum 
dene erit in extremis, et in die defunctionis suae benedieeturj*^ 

The day after Father O'Neill's funeral was Good Shepherd 
Sunday — the second Sunday after Easter, which alone takes its 
popular name from its Gospel. Many oould not help applying 
that Gospel to this faithful imitate of the Bonus Pastor. He 
was ready to lay down his life for his sheep, or (what is more to 
the point in these days) he was ready to spend his life, and he 
spent his life, in unflagging, unwavering, and most earnest devoted- 
ness to the temporal and eternal welfare of every one of the souls 
entrusted to his care. " I know my sheep." Father O'Neill knew 
evexy man, woman, child, and baby through all the length and 
breadth of his parish. His vigilant care of the children was 
untiring. He insisted on finding time to preside at every distribu- 
tion of prizes, on every little social occasion or religious ceremony,, 
just as in earlier years in Newry he was never absent from any 
meeting of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, which he had been 
the first to introduce into the North.* He loved his people, and 

* Another instance of his being remarkable from the first for that for which he 
'was remarkable to the last is this : as the noon of his last day on earth found him 
at his usnal hour of prayer before the Blessed Sacrament in his uhuroh, so in his 
first years as a young curate in Newiy he was noted for the fervour and recollection 
of his *' visits " in the Cathedral at fixed hours every day. He made it an inviolable 
rule to have the Divine OfBoe for the day finished before dinner. We have omitted » 
we believe, to claim for him at the proper place the merit of having established in 
Kewry the Brothers of the Christian Schools. 

Vol. xvxn. Ko. 204. 73 

330 The Irish Mmthly. 

they loved him in retam; but with their love was mingled a 
wholesome filial fear, for they knew how watchful their Father 
wasy and how strict and firm and unbending wherever duty and 
conscience were concerned. 

This is enough, and, perhaps, more than enough, to say about 
one who never dreamed of occupying so much space in a magazine. 
Of the two names placed at the head of this paper the more digni- 
fied one might have been omitted ihis month, for our thoughts 
have been engrossed by our more recent loss. But Father O'Neill 
would have been glad, if his name were to be mentioned at all, to 
have it thus linked with Dr. Blake's ; and on our part we should 
hardly have allowed the private friendship of a lifetime to single 
out for public notice one good priest from aU the himdreds of good 
priests in Ireland, if the moment of his death had not found us 
engaged in putting into print the letters which his saintly bishop 
had addressed to him when he had only gone through the *f ourtli 
part of his course as a priest. But now that we have named 
bishop and priest together almost by accident, we have no difficulty 
in discovering other bonds of union between them, for it seems to 
us that the sbrength of each of them lay in the same characteristic, 
which might be called thorough priestliness. Though they were 
both men of excellent abilities, they certainly had not the gifts of 
many who in similar positions did not do half their work ; and 
their distinction consisted in the quiet persistence with which they 
went through every duty that came in their way. Who but the 
Searcher of hearts and the Judge of the living and the dead can 
duly estimate the heroism of sanctity that is involved in almost 
half a century of priesthood, so free from faults and shortcomings, 
and so full of virtues and labours, as was the sacerdotal career of 
Father Patrick O'Neill of Eostrevor? 

nPHE lamp bums low in a silent room ; 
-■- Tread slowly, oh ! tread slowly — 
For a winsome child in its svumiest bloom 
Is awaiting the tread and summons of doom, 
And the skeleton, Death, creeps on through the gloom : 
Save us, Virgin holy ! 

An UnpublhKed Letter of UArcy McOee. 381 

The mother watcheth wiih Biany a prayer, 

Heart-broken, oh ! heart-broken ; 
And her fingers play with the golden hair, 
And she kisses the lily hand so fair : 
For her life's young idol is lying there, 

And the deeps in her heart are woken. 

To watch all night and all day is long, 

And anguish oh ! hard to smother ; 
And idle to live when all looks wrong — 
Just then, like the voice of a seraph's song, 
I heard her whisper : << Oh thou art strong, 

Mother of God, Mother ! " 

And a stir came oyer the trancelike rest. 

And a smile on the face, and another ; 
And the cheeks grew red as the sunlit crest. 
And the mother cried out in accents blest, 
As she strained her child in joy to her breast : 

" Mother of God, Mother ! " 



THE first pages of our seventeenth volume (1889) printed 
several interesting letters which Thomas D'Aroy MoGee 
had written to the Bev. C. P. Meehan. We received them from 
Father Meehan himself ; but this new letter, written to the same 
correspondent, we owe to the kindness of Count Plunkett, from 
whose private note we may take a few sentences about The 
Hibernian Magazine to which McQee refers : — 

'' That Magazine underwent various changes, being at one time 
called Dufiy's Hibernian Sixpenny Magazine ; and at long intervals 
MoGee contributed verse and, I believe, prose to it, although 
(usually at least) without his name. * * * Perhaps you can tell 
who ' Celticus ' was. The name is very suggestive of tiie Editor of 
The American Celt ; 'and yet McGbe could hardly produce as fine 
work as ^The Mantle of Dunlaing,' a ballad with the above 
signature in the Number for April, 1862. 

^^ McG^'s letter ^is, I think, timely — because addressed to one 
whom we have lost so lately by a great Irishman whose mamory 

332 The Irish Monthly. 

is being revived at this moment ; because it deals with a question 
still urgent, the unsatisfied mental and moral hunger of our 
people in America (and also at home) ; because it shows oxir 
nationality and religion to be almost inseparable ; and because it 
makes as strong a plea for Irish brain-work at home as abroad. 

*^ This letter was evidently written in feverish haste. It is not 
only worded carelessly, but scored and smudged. Its plain sim- 
plicity raises a more practical question than has either of the clever 
papers that have lately appeared on Catholicity in America — ^the 
optimist paper in The Irish Ecclesiastical Record and the (may I 
say pessimist P) paper iji The Lyceum.^^ 

'* Montreal, 

<< June 24th, 1860. 
-* < Ht smkK Fathbb Mbssav, 

*' I have been so bo^ with law examinations (I am to be a Canadian Barrister 
next year) and other task work, that I have not yet had time to cast into shape 
one or two of the sketches which are already modelled for you in my own mind. I 
send you, just to put my initials in the new magazine from the start, a few yersefl 
which I trust you will not think unfit for its pages : the tketehea in a mail w two ^ for 

*' The ballad of St. Kieran had hardly gone till I bethought me of that blunder. 
I wish our friend of the Kation had so alt^ed it. If it ever reappears in Ireland, in 
your time, may I ask you to substitute the plain English ' the PcrUr stoop'd his 
load ' for the present soleciam. 

*< The reason I am so interested for Mrs. Sadlier is that we have no other 
woman, and but few (oh, how few !) mm, working for our myriad emigrants on 
this continent. There is absolute danger of their cnildien forffettin^ they ever had 
a fatherland. Just as the writings of Yallanoey, llieophilus OTFlaiugan, &c., 
with aU their errors, kept the lamp alight some fifty years ago, so do we poor 
bookmakers for the Irish in America— without pubBc libraries, and without a 
public, in any organic or unorganio sense— strire to fill the bulb with something 
that will yidd a flame, till better pens in better times may do the work moi-e 
worthily. Therefore be merciful in your judgments of what we do, remembering 
less what might have been done, tu the bett, than that the fear was everything of 
this kind would have been left undone till too late. 

*' I have not heard from Williams for long. I have no doubt, however, that 
any letter directed with his full name to New Orleans would find him. He was 
there, school-teachinK, a year or two ago. There is, you will see, nearly as much 
land between him and me as there is sea between yourself and either of us. 

** 1 grieve for McCarthy, and for poor old Cunv, to whom I owe a, long letter. 
Alas ! t£at 'the storm should fall on such honoured Leads as theirs ! 

'< I feel neatly encouraged to try my hand at other bite of our scenic history by 
what you tell me of O'Donovan's pleasure in my ' Four Masters.' It was from him 
I learned to know Teige an Sleibhe and the rest of those worthies. If the picture 
has any merit, it is due more to his instruction than to any art of mine. 

'* If not 6adlier, then Haverty of New York ought to be written to, to act as 
■agent for the Hibernian. All success attend you. I am not sure that I am known 
to Haverty ; but, if so, will you be good enough to make him [n«] my very bent 

" Most truly yours, 

"T. D.M*Gee. 

'* My wife was delighted at your remembrance of her. We are all on the qui 
«iiY for * No. 1, vol. 1.' 

'' My best regards to Mr. James Dufly and all your co-laborers.— T. D. M<Q/' 

Notes on New Booh. 333 


1. *^ The One Mediator, or Sacrifice and Sacraments," by the Bev. 
WiUiazn Humphrey, S. J. (London : Bums and Oates), is the latest of 
the many yaloable additions that Father Humphrey has made to 
Catholic literature, and indeed to Catholic theology in English. The 
solid substance of theological thought is here, without any obtrusive 
attempt at making it attractive for those who will not be attracted 
towards it for its own sake. The style is clear, precise, forcible, but 
qniet and restrained. Father Humphrey aims .at enlightening the 
understanding, and not at moving the feeling further than the truths 
explained must necessarily move them when explained as kindly as 
they are explained here. In fourteen chapters, which are admirably 
analysed in the table of contents, he treats of the sacrifice of the Mass, 
of the sacraments in general, and of each of the seven sacraments in 
particular ; of the created holiness and human knowledge of our 
Bedeemer, of Mary as Mother of Cod, of the adoration of the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus, of the indwelling of the Holy Chost, and of the 
Beatific Vision. To enumerate these subjects and to name the 
autilior who discusses them, will be sufiicient recommendation for any 
of our readers who are able to appreciate such a work. 

2. The Very Eev. Dr. Gerald MoUoy has issued the fifth edition 
of his delightful account of " The Passion Flay at Ober Ammergau." 
Even for those who have never seen and never hope to see this 
wonderful drama, there is a great fascination in Dr. Molloy's pages, 
while the book is indispensable for those who are plotting a visit to 
the valley of the Ammer. For these the new information given in 
the preface to this edition about the actors in the coming representa- 
tion will have special interest. Two performances shall have already 
taken place before this notice comes imder the reader's eye. The 
other days fixed are June 1, 8, 15, 16, 22, 25, 29 ; July 6, 13, 20, 23, 
27 ; August 3, 6, 10, 17, 20, 24, 31 ; and September 3, 7, 14, 21, 28. 
The motto on the title-page of this book is exquisitely appropriate. 
Ponsonby and Weldrick, of the University Press, have produced the 
dainly quarto with fitting elegance of typography. 

3. Messrs. John Murphy &Cd., of Baltimore, Maryland, have sent 
us three of their recent publications. *^ Kathleen Mavoumeen," by 
Misa Clara Mulhulland, author of The Miser of Etna's Courts etc., is not 
a reprint, but is produced originally by this American firm. This 
unusual, circumstance makes it more worthy of encouragement. But 
the tale itself is sure to attract readers, for it is full of grace and 

334 The Imh Monthly. 

interest. However, we cannot conscientioaslj advise the Sheffield 
School Board to order two hundred copies for prizes, as they did in 
the case of Miss Bosa MnlhoUand's Oia$m$tia^ for '< Kathleen 
Mayonmeen" also betrays considerable sympathy with the Irish 
peasantry, and would be sure to provoke another war in the local news- 
papers. The Sheffield boys and girls thns miss a very pretty tale. 

4. Another story from the same Publishers is '' 1791 : a Tale of 
St. Domingo/' by E. W. Gilliam, M.D. It is founded on the true 
records of a terrible crisis in the history of this island, and has thus 
novelty on its side. Its literary merit is guaranteed by the circum- 
stance that it ran through the pages of The Catholic Worlds though it 
cannot daim to be a worthy successor of Kiss Tincker's " Grapes and 
'Dioms," or of Miss MulhoUand's '< Fair Emigrant." 

5. The same Publishers also have produced in a fine, solid octavo 
volume, " Carmel in America : a centennial history of the Discalced 
Carmelites in the United States," by Oharles Warren Ourrier, Priest 
of the Congregation of the Most Holy Eedeemer. Father Currier has 
fulfilled his labour of love with a thoroughness worthy of his dis- 
tinguished English confrere, Father Bridgett. It was fortunate for 
the American Carmelites that the excellent James M*Master died 
before writing their history. From what we remember of his work in 
the New York FrMmafiC% Jourtialf we suspect he was too original to 
prove a satisfactory historian. But Father Currier is laborious, con- 
scientious, and enthusiastically devoted to his subject, and he has 
ayailed himself with the utmost diligence of the researches of many 
helpers almost equally interested in the enterprise. The result is an 
extremely valuable addition to the historical literature of the Church, 
not confined always to '* Carmel in America." The alphabetical index 
of family names that occur in the work fiUs many pages at the end, 
and we notice a great many that are unmistakably Irish. 

6. From the great religious poem, " The End of Man," by Father 
Albany Christie, S.T., the author has chosen certain portions illustra- 
ting the feasts of the year and all the Sundays, each having a page of 
its own. These with loving skill have, with the aid of the Manresa 
Press, been made into a very holy and pretty book, the name of which, 
*' Chimes for Holydays," was suggested by one of those characteristic 
phrases of Cardinal Newman which one likes to pick up wherever one 
meets them. In June, 1886, the Cardinal— whom Father Christie 
caUs " a dear friend to whom more than to any other man I oweimder 
Otod my conversion**— wrote about the metre employed in The End of 
Man : '* The ternary metre is like a chime of bells from a church 
tower, praising and proclaiming Father, Son, and ^oly Ghost." 

Notes on New Books. 335 

?» Price sixpence, with the name in gold on brown paper, which 
Philistines will consider aeethetioallj nglj, we welcome a second 
«diti(m of *' Poems and Ballads of Yoong Ireland*' (Dublin : M. H. 
Gill and Son). It is full of fresh and beautiful poetry ; but for ns 
the special surprises of the little volume are '' Shameen Dhu," by 
Katharine Tynan, and the Hush Song by George Noble Plunkett. It 
is not their beauty that surprises us, but their unexpected sort of 

8. Another second edition of a work of a very different kind is 
** Principles of Eeligious Life," by the Very Bev. Francis Outhbert 
Doyle, O.8.B. (London : Washboume). That a large octavo volume of 
ample pages should reach a second edition, even after seven years, is 
a proof of the solid merits of this very elaborate treatise, when we 
remember the limited constituency to which such a work can appeal. 
In an appendix an analysis is given of each of the sections ; and this 
in itself proves the copiousness of the matter, and the methodical 
manner in which it is conveyed. But what is the meaning of the four 
4sapital letters which take the place of Finis or *< The End ? " All of 
us are familiar with *' A. M. D. G." ; but this is the first time that we 
have noticed the initials, I. 0. G. D. 

9. << Notes on Electric Lighting," by the Sev. Gerald MoUoy, 
D.D., D. Sc. (M. H. Gill and Son), are reissued in a sixpenny 
pamphlet, *^ with many advantages of paper, type, and form which 
^ey did not enjoy on their first appearance" in IT^e Fresmaris Journal. 
If pimning were not strictly prohibited on these premises, we might 
remark that [Dr. Molloy throws considerable light on one of the 
burning questio ns of the day ; and certainly his present contribution 
to popular knowledge is another proof of that special faculty for im- 
parting scientific information in the dearest and most attractive 
manner which The Spectator^ The Scotsman^ Jfaiure^ and other critical 
journals discovered in his delightful volume called '* Gleanings in 

10. Another good sixpenceworth is '' Easy Lessons in Cookery," by 
Hiss Mary Todd (Dublin : M. H. Gill and Son). Our own 
acquaintance with the subject is confined to a more advanced stage of 
the proceedings ; but Miss Todd is a professor of cookexy and eke '* a 
first class diplomee," and we are sure young house-keepers will find 
these pages pleasant and profitable. Even a non-prof eesional reader 
can see at a glance that the style is dear, condensed, and pointed : 
for even in such matters there is room for the display of a good or a 
bad style. 

336 The Irish Monthly. 

11. " 8t. Brigid, Abbess of Kildare," by Mrs. 'Atkinsoa, is the 
latest publicatioii of the Oathplio Tmth Sodeiy. This admirable 
sketch costs only two pence, and teUs in fifty pages, and in a dear and 
winning style, all that is known of St. Brigid's career and of the Irish 
Church of her time. We are glad that '' S. A.," the biographer of Mrs. 
Aikenhead, has put her name in full on this new title-page. St. 
Brigid was the first Irish Nun, and our good Nuns ought to secure a 
wide circulation for this charming little biography. 

12. Let us name in one paragraph a pile of tiny tomelets of piety. 
''YeniSancte Spiritus" is the newest of Father Eiohard Clarke's 
excellent penny meditation-books, consisting of short meditations, 
each a single pc^e, from the Ascension to the octave of Corpus Christi. 
Dean Kinane of Cashel has made an excellent compilation of short in- 
dulgenced aspirations in eight pages of compact printing, which may 
be got from M. H. Gill and Son, for Is. 6d. a hundred. *' Gtems for 
my Crown," by a Child of Mary ^M. H. Gill and Son), is a peculiarly 
neat little book of pious thoughts, 365 in number, evidently meant to 
stretch over the year, though not distinguished between months and 
days. A Sister of Mercy has translated from the 12th French edition 
** The Twelve Virtues of a Good Teacher," by Father Pottier, S.J. 
(Benziger : New. York). ** The Virgin Mother of Good Counsel" has 
been compiled as a new Month of May from Mg^. George Dillon's work 
by a new Benedictine Nun of Ventnor. 

13. The Eev. Eichard O'Kennedy, C.C., Patrick's Well, Co. 
Limerick, has just issued an extremely useful little book, price two- 
pence, ** Benediction Hymns Explained" (James Duffy and Co). 
The pious faithful in Ireland show in many places a peculiarly eager 
fondness for this sacred rite, and many of them will be glad to have 
the Latin hymns expounded here fully word for word. Another 
pimimus Itbellultu by the same author is '' The Holy Hour of Prayer'^ 
(Dublin: Dollard). His little book, Anima Christie is much more 
than the explanatory sub-title daims for it. It treats very simply but 
fully and profoimdly of the soul of Christ, of His body, and of His 
Blessed Mother. The printing is very good but very minute. If 
printed like the same author's treatise on the Holy Angels (Bums and 
Gates), it would be almost as large, instead of being crammed into 
ninety pages of brevier. But his London publishers charge five 
shillings, whereas threepence is the price of Anima Christi. 

14. The Presentation Nuns of Sneem, Co. Kerry, put no pub- 
lisher's name on the title-page of their translation of '' The Catechism 
of the Child of Mary," for which they have procured the Imprimatur 
of all the archbishops of Ireland, England, and Scotland. 

JULY, 1890 





AS Lady AsMeld seated herself before the glass in her dressing- 
room, and called to her maid to bring her some Eau de 
Cologne, a sharp knock was heard on the door and a cheery yoice 
said gaily : 

^^Mbj I come in, mother ? " 

Lady Ashfield smiled. AU her cares were forgotten in an instant. 
In the presence of her son, her idol, she knew no sorrow. 

'* Certainly, dear boy," she cried, '* come in by all means." 

Lord Ashfield was in radiant spirits, and his eyes were full of 
happiness as he kissed his mother. 

'' What, not dressed yet, Ashfield ? It is nearly dinner time." 

" Yes," he answered, throwing himself into an arm-chair, '' I am 
a bit late. But I don't take long to dress. I'll be ready in time, 
mater mine." 

'* I hope so. Sylvia dines with ns to-night."^ 

'* Does she? lliat's right. But, mother, I have such a splendid 
piece of news for you." 

'< Indeed, Ashfield?" she replied absently, and bending forward 
to arrange the diamond pins in her hair. '' What is it ? " 

<< Something yon have been wishing should happen this ever so 
long has come off at last. Qness what it is, mother." 

" I never could guess anything, dear boy. Perhaps one of your 
favourites has won a race." 

ABh£eld laughed heartily. 

Vol, xnxx. No. 205. 74 

338 The Irish Monthly. 

'< Now, did joa ever wish that to happen, mother ? " 
'* Not exactly. Bat really, dear, yoa should go and dress. This 
news will keep." 

** Oh, no it won't. But here^^goes. Well, after long searching 
and many xmsuccessful inquiries, I have at last found the Neils, Dora 
and her sister." 

'' Indeed," said Lady Ashfield coldly, '^ that is quite an unexpected 
event. And how did it happen ? " 
Ashfield looked at her curiously. 

''Why, mother, how calmly you take my news. Tou don't seem 
much pleased. I thought you would be delighted." 

She laughed nervously, and looked about impatiently for some 
missing article. 

" Sarah is so careless. I can't find my ruby ring. Ah, here it is. 
Yes, yes, of course, I am glad, dear. But is it necessary to be quite 
as excited as you are? I thought we should probably find them 
some day. Where did you meet them? " 

<<I did not meet them. But I came to find them in rather a 
curious fashion. You remember Paul Yyner ? " 
*'What, the artist?" 

Lady Ashfield started round as [she asked this question, her face 
full of interest. 

'* Yes. He is an artist. One of the best fellows " 

''You need not tell me his perfections," she said stiffly, and turn- 
ing back to her glass. " But I thought he was in America." 

'' Was. But is in London. I've been sitting to him for my 


" Folly ? My dear mother, why should it be folly ? " 
"Because you know we should keep that young man at 'as 
great a distance as possible, Ashfield." 

'* My dear mother, I am sorry to be obliged to contradict you. 
But I really know nothing of the kind." 

"Have you then forgotten all that happened before he went 

"No, mother. I remember perfectly well. I remember how 
Sir Eustace Atherstone educated him, took him to Italy, treated him 
in every way like his son, till, one day he discovered, through Paul's 
own manly confession, that he loved his granddaughter, Sylvia, and 
that he then cast him ofi, allowing him to shift for himself, refusing 
to see or help him. This, of course, affects the Atherstones, but what 
it has to do with us I cannot see." 

"You are very dense, my son, or surely you would see that it 

A Striking Contrast 339 

wottld be better to keep this young man at a distance just at present. 
ITou know what my hopes are where Sylvia is concerned ^and — and 
this handsome artist, with his wrongs and grievances, may prove a 
formidable rivaL" 

Lord Ashfield sprang to his feet and took two or three turns up 
4uid down the room. His face was flushed, his eyes full of anger. 
But presently he grew calmer, and coming close to his mother, he 
laid his hand affectionately on her shoulder, and bent to kiss her 

''Mother mine," he said gently, '* you must not build castles in 
ihe air. You have no right to form any hopes, or speculate in any 
way, about my future — or Sylvia's. That is in our hands. Tau^ my 
mother, must not hiterfere." 


''I mean it, mother." He smiled playfully. "Til have no 
match-making. I'll gang my own gate, as the Scotchman says, and 
many who and when I please. But you may rest assured that Fll 
never ask you to receive a daughter-in-law who is not in every sense 
A lady." 

Lady Ashfleld looked up lovingly into his handsome, honest face. 

*' My son, I never doubted that. But I did hope " 

He held up a warning finger. 

" That is just what I object to. You must not hope anything. 
At least you must not talk of your hopes." 

" Very well. 1*11 promise that.'* 

'' Thanks. That is something gained. And now as to Yyner." 

His mother moved impatiently on her chair. 

" I take no interest in him, I assure you." 

<< My dear mother, how imjust you great ladies can be ! If Paul 
were an earl or a duke, you would not forbid me to cultivate his 
acquaintance lest, perhaps, he might become a rival." 

Lady Ashfleld frowned. 

''That is quite a different thing. It is preposterous that a poor, 
struggling artist should dare to aspire to Miss Atherstone's hand." 

'* And yet Miss Atherstone will have money enough for " 

"Ashfield, you annoy me exceedingly. These new radical ideas 
of yours are atrocious. If a man be good, honest, and clever, you 
care nothing for family or wealth ; all men are equal in your eyes." 

Ashfield laughed good-humouredly. 

" Not quite, mother dear. The good, clever men are infinitely 
superior to the mere men of family or wealth. But, pray forgive me 
if I annoyed you. I did not wish to do so, I assure you. And now, 
let us forget that the Atherstones ever knew Yyner, and remember 

340 The Irish Monthly, 

only that he has done us a great service, and that we owe him a 
debt of gratitude.*' 

"How so, pray?" 

" Because through him I discovered the Neils *' 

Lady Ashfield's mouth was set in cold, hard lines. 

" Indeed," she said idly. '^ That was a great service, truly." 

** A veiy great one, mother, and I cannot teU you how thankful 
I feel. This morning I was in bad spirits. I thought we should 
never discover them. And on entering Yyner's studio, he remarked 
upon my miserable expression. I told him the story without mention- 
ing the Neils' names, never imagining for an instant that he could 
assist me. The good fellow was full of sympathy. 'But,' he said, 
'you must cheer up. I could not paint such a doleful countenance. 
Come into my room and look at my treasures. They may enliven you 

''He led me into a little sanctum hung round with all kinds of 
curios. But what attracted me, fixed my attention at once, were two 
small pictures — two of the most lovely heads that I have ever seen in 
my life. One had a doud of rich auburn hair, large, luminous, dark 
eyes and " 

" Sylvia ! What audacity ! " 

"Audacity, mother? To paint the friend of his boyhood, his 
almost sister for fourteen long years. One could hardly call that 
audacity. However, that we may discuss another time. I want to 
finish my story. Side by side with this beautiful painting was 
another. Oh, mother, had you seen it your heart, which this evening 
seems like ice, must have melted. It resembled the head of an angel, 
fair and pure. Masses of golden hair clustering round a marble brow, 
eyes of the deepest, darkest blue ; but over all an air of sadness and 
melancholy not natural in one so young. Yyner saw my admiration, 
and did not speak for a moment, unwilling to disturb my reverie. 

" ' Are they not a striking contrast ? ' he asked at last. 

'* I nodded. I could not speak. I felt on the verge of tears. 

" 'And their lives,' he continued, ' are as great a contrast as their 
looks. More, I should say, for though their faces are different;, they 
are both beautiful, whilst their lives — alas! there indeed is the con- 
trast. One surrounded with every luxury', the other plunged in 
the most dire poverty and want.' 

" ' Is that true ? ' I cried. * Oh, Vyner, I know them both. One^ 
is Miss Atherstone, titie beautiful heiress. The other is ' 

" ' Little Dora Neil, the dressmaker's apprentice.' 

" ' Where did you find her ? ' 

" ' Find her ? My dear Ashfield, she is close to us. She and her 
sister Hve in the rooms just over these.' 

A Striking Contrast. 341 

" I seized his hand and shook it warmly. Tes, mother, jou may 
shake your head, but I did not take the discovery as quietly as you 
do. I felt overjoyed, and longed to rush upstairs to see them at once. 
But Yyner restrained me. ' Dora was ill. Her sister was out,' he said. 
' So it would be better to wait. I might startle her if I went up to 
her then.' Suddenly we heard the sound of singing. * That is Dora/ 
cried Yyner. * She has such a sweet, plaintiye voice. Poor child ! 
Her life is hard for one so frail and delicate.' 

** * She shall lead it no longer/ I said. ' That is the girl I was so 
anxious to find, Yyner. And she, smaU and fragile as she is, once 
saved my life and my mother's. For years we have lost sight of her, 
neglected her. But, thank Gk)d, I have found her, and I will now 
aee that she wants for nothing. I must speak to her to-night.' And, 
heedless of Yyner's remonstrancei^ I rushed upstairs. On the landing 
I could distinctly hear her song, that quaint Uttle Scotch one about 
castles in the air. Unwilling to interrupt her, I stood still and 
listened. Suddenly a rough, fierce-looking, old man brushed quickly 
past me, and muttering ' I'll make her sing/ burst xmceremoniously 
into her room. The song ceased abruptly, and the intruder's voice 
fell on my ear. His tone was insolent, his language threatening. 
Then in reply came Dora's sweet pleading words. And oh, mother, 
it would have made you weep to hear her sobs and heart-rending 
prayer for mercy. But .the landlord was obdurate. Nothing would 
move him. He must have his rent, or she and her sister must leave 
his house next day. And then he came away, leaving her, I am 
sure, plxmged in an agony of grief. But, thank Gbd, I was there to 
0tay his cruel hand. As he walked downstairs, I met him, and there 
and then paid the small amoxmt of rent that was due. He returned 
to tell our little friend the good news, but under promise not to 
reveal my name, and I came off to tell you that I had at last dis- 
covered her." 

<* It is strange," said Lady Ashfield, '< that I too have learned her 
whereabouts this very evening, though in a less romantic fashion. 
Her sister has called upon me at last." 

"Mother! Why did you not tell me so at once? Are you not 

<'My dear Ashfield, how excitable you are. Finding these girls 
seems to have turned your head." 

'' Not quite, mother. But I confess it has given me great pleasure. 
Tour manner, however, puzzles me immensely. Did you not like 
Miss Madge?" 

"No, not much. Her words— her— in fact, I was disap- 
pointed in her." 

342 The Irish Mofdhiy. 

Ashfield looked what lie f Lt^-^leeplj pained. 

'* I am sorry for that. Dora's sister should be oharming." 

" She is not, or says she is not, the girl's sister after all," rose to- 
Lady Ashfield's lips. But she stopped abruptly. *' Why tell Ash- 
field this mad stoiy ? " she thought. '' It is nonsense, and I hope he^ 
may never hear it. He shall certainly not do so from me." 

" Well ?" he inquired, '* she is not what ? " 

" At all like Dora. She is dark and strong^a tall, rather good- 
looking young woman, but lacking the extreme refinement of her 
little sister." 

*' But she is a lady } " he questioned anxiously. " She must be- 

Lady Ashfield flushed. It was unpleasant to be catechised sa 
persistently about a person wh6 had annoyed her so much. She did 
not care to see her son take such an interest in these Neils. And yet 
such is the perversity of men, she knew that, did she but attempt t» 
disparage Madge, it would only increase that interest, and make him 
more anxious than ever to look after her and her sister. 

'' Yes," she admitted reluctantly, after a slight pause. " She is a 
lady. But very proud. And she did not seem as poor as you think 
they are." 

''Ah, that shows me how noble she is. She did not care to parade 
her poverty to a stranger. I Hke that spirit," he cried warmly. 
'^ But, of course, you promised to get her lessons and help her all you 

'' Yes. But she drew herself up proudly and declined my help." 

''Mother! you must have ofEended her. You must apologisV 
and insist on helping her." 

Something in Lord Ashfield's manner and words stung his mother 
to anger ; and forgetting her usual caution in her wrath, she replied 
indignantly : 

'' I most certainly decline to do anything of the kind. Miss Madga 
refused my help, and I have no intention of pressing my services 
upon her. And now, Ashfield, go and dress for dinner. We have 
discussed this matter long enough. Our guests may arrive in a few 

" One word, mother. Will you forget your quarrel with Madge 
and send for her again ? '* ^ 

** No, I cannot promise to do that," she answered stiffly. " My 
maid shall go and see Dora to-morrow and take her a few delicacies." 

" I did not ask you to help them in that way," he said in a tone of 
grave displeasure. '* It is surely making the girl a poor return for 
her brave conduct, doling out charity to her by the hands of your 

A Sifiking Cmirmt 343 

'^ You most allow me to be a judge of what is right, Aahfield. I 
flatter myBelf I know more about these matters than you." 

" Perhaps so. But I must confess I am much puzzled by your 
conduct. You are not acting as I expected you would when vre 
discovered these girls. But now I must go aud dress." 

And for the first time for many years Lord Ashfield left his 
mother's presence with a heavy doud upon his brow. 



After an absence of many years Sir Eustace Atherstone has at last 
made up his mind to spend the season in London. Immediately after 
the arrival of his granddaughter and her nurse he had retired to his 
country seat, where he remained till the girl was sixteen. Then, for 
her sake, he suddenly renounced the life he loved and went abroad. 
For Sylvia was his first, his constant thought, and her happiness 
the principal object of his existence. From the moment that he had 
received her from Anne Dane, a poor little mite, just rescued from a 
watery grave, he had surrounded her with everjrthing that love or 
wealth could imagine or suggest. 

Up to the age of sixteen the girl had been instructed in all the 
important branches of education by the best teachers England could 
produce. Then, all at once, it dawned upon the young lady that she 
knew absolutely nothing of the world. That she had never heard 
good music, or seen any of the fine pictures and sculpture that she 
had read so mueh about — that her French and Oerman were weak, 
her^talian weaker. She mentioned these facts one day, somewhat 
plaintively, to her grandfather. And he, without a thought for him- 
self or his probable discomfort in foreign lands, instantly resolved 
that they should travel, and that Sylvia should thus have every 
opportunity for learning modem languages and generally improving 
her mind. 

For two years they wandered about from place to place, staying 
six months here and three there. Till at last their time was up, and 
Sylvia was eighteen, and her entrance into society could no longer be 
delayed. Then they turned their faces homewards, and arrived in 
London a few days before the Drawingroom, at which Mies Ather- 
stone was to be presented by Lady Ashfield. 

344 The Irish Monthly. 

On the morning of the day which this important event in hia 
granddaughter's life was to occur, Sir Eustace sat alone in his hand- 
some library. Bound about him on the table were books, papers and 
letters. But he was not reading. He seemed lost in thought. And 
to judge by the expression of his face, there was a good deal of sad- 
ness mixed up with his reflections. 

<' Yes," he murmured half aloud, ''I miss him. Here, in this 
room, where Pan], as a little boy used to sit in the old, old days, poring 
oyer some big book, and looking up with a smile when I asked him a 
question, I miss him sadly. In foreign lands, amidst fresh scenes, 
and in the first burst of indignation at his folly, I fancied I did not 
care ; but I find I do^for very dear was that lad to me after all. 
Poor Paul Yyner, with his bright face, and his warm enthusiastic 
' nature. Why, oh, why did I send him from me ? And yet I could 
not help it. It was necessary for Sylvia's sake. So what matter how 
I, how he suffers, if she be happy, as she must — as she shall be» 
But how strange it seems that those I love are all forced for some 
reason or other to leave me. First my son, Gtoorge. Then my wife 
and other children by death. Then Paul. And now who knows, 
perhaps, I may one day lose Sylvia, my pet, my treasure. Such a 
loss would kill me. And yet, after this, I may not be allowed to keep 
her long. Once presented, says Lady Ashfield, she must marry. 
Paul was banished because he loved her. My poor Paul ! And now 
who knows what plot is being hatched, what conspiracy is on foot to 
Tob me of her? Only last night Lady Ashfield hinted something 
darkly, asked strange questions about my darling's fortune, and 
wanted to know if any change would ever be possible in my manner 
towards her, no matter what she did or became. What she meant I 
can't imagine. As ^if any earthly thing could alter my love for my 
dearest child. Why even if — ^^But here she comes! I declare 
the ^Q is nearly out. How stupid of me not to pay it more atten- 
tion." » . * t 

Sir Eustace seizei^the poker and stirred the fire to a blaze. Then 
drawing an arm-chair to the fire, he sank into it with a sigh. 

The door opened slightly, and a merry voice called out : 

''May I come in, grandpapa? Mdme. GFamiture promised to 
come early to help to dress me, as D6siree is rather innocent in the 
arrangement of court tr'ains. But she has not arrived, and I am tired 
of sitting upstairs alone. X am in an unfinished state. But still" 

''Ck>me in, love. Come in," he cried. ''My sweet Sylvia is 
welcome in any state. Her simny face is just what I want to see." 

"You dear old darling)" said Sylvia; and tripping up to her 
grandfather's chair, she gave him a loving kiss. 

A Striking Contrast, 345 

<* nnfimshed ! " he ezolaimed. *^ Why, my dear, you look lovely. 
That dreea will be the prettiest in the palace. Is it a new style of 
court dress ? In my day they were not that shape/' 

Sylvia burst into a peal of merry laughter. 

" You dear, good, stupid old grandfather ! You don't imagine I 
could go to Court in this ? Why it's only a tea gown." 

** Fink sOk, cream lace, hair puffed and curled on the top of your 
little head. My child, you never wore such finery before." 

'' No. But you know I am out now. So, of course, my dresses 
arc all quite different. And my hair is done up, ready for my 
feathers. D^ree does hair beautif ally. But wait till you see me 
fully equipped for Oourt, grandpapa ; you'll not know me, I'm sure. 
Feathers and veil, pufb and flowers, train ever so many miles — ^no, I 
mean yards long. I declare, dear, I shall feel like a cockatoo. And 
then, oh, pity my fate, I've got to go out in this nipping wind in a 
low body and short sleeves." 

*• I would not do it." 

" But it's one of her Majesty's commands. Surely, my dear, loyal, 
aristocratic Sir Eustace would not disobey his queen ? " 

•* Sylvia, you are frivolous." 

<< I am, grandpapa. I am. But if I were not I should be cross. 
Listen, dear, and I shall tell you my woes." 

And drawing over a low stool, she seated herself at his feet. 
. "Woes, my pet? Surely you have nothing to trouble you?" 
And he laid his hand caressingly upon her head. 

The girl turned the sunniest of f&ces towards him. Then heaving 
a deep sigh, replied : 
; " Oh, such a number !" 

Her manner and air were so comical, her whole expression so full 
of anything like sorrow, that Sir Eustace burst out laughing. 

" You naughty puss ! As if you knew what trouble meant." 

" You are greatly mistaken," she said pouting. " I know well 
what it means, for I have had many worries and troubles since — since 
I came out." 

*' But you are not out till you are presented." 

*' True, Well, then, troubles that come from the preparation 
necessary before taking the great step. In the first place, Lady Ash- 
field is. much annoyed because I would not do what she told me, and 
go to Mdme. Irma for my Court dress." 

"And why didn't you?" 

"My dear Sir Eustace," she said solenmly, "Miss Atherstone 
may bestow her patronage where she chooses." 

Her grandfather smiled. * 

(546 The Irish M<mthly. 

'' To be sure. And where then did Hiss Atherstone bestow it ? *' 

'^ On dear old Qarniture, of course. She has made my dresses — 
not quite since I was able to walk, but still for a very long time, and 
I was not going to desert her just when she would most enjoy dress- 
ing me, merely because Irma is the fashion." 

*' Well, I don't suppose Lady Ashfield cared." * 

'* Oh, but she did. And that is one of my troubles. She was very 
proud and cross, and that made me more determined than ever — for 
you know I have a will of my own, dear." 

" Most certainly you have, my pet. A more obstinate little person 
I never met." 

'^ Not with you, grandpapa, not with you. I'd do anything you 
asked me." 

She laid her cheek caressingly against his hand, and raised her 
large lustrous eyes lovingly to his. 

" I gave up Paul, dear foolish Paul, because you wished it. You 
have not forgotten that, grandpapa ? " 

And Sylvia's sweet face grew crimson, and the sensitive mouth 
quivered ominously. 

''You did, my darling. You were ever gentle and obedient. 
To-day you go forth into the world, and others more eligible than 
Paul may see you, and want you. Lord Ashfield, for instance. His 
mother hinted broadly last night." 

'' Lord Ashfield shall never steal me from you. Do not be afraid. 
And do not pay attention to his mother's hints. In this matter she 
will find me quite as obstinate as where Mdme. G^andture was con- 

"• But someone is sure to come and carry you off, my pet. There 
^ is a strange feeling of terror over me to-day, Sylvia, that I cannot 
understand. It may be that your father "-^— 

<<My father ! Oh, grandpapa, you could not surely be jealous of 
him. Poor, dear papa, who has not seen me for years and years, 
not since I was a tiny child. My darling, he shall not divide us, I 
know. He'U come home and widen our circle— increase our family. 
Instead of separating us, he will draw us more together and strengthen 
our love." 

" My dear, sweet child, would that my love for you were not so 
selfish. For years I have longed for your father to return ; but now 
as the hour approaches, I dread it lest he should take from me one 
iota of my little granddaughter*s heart." 

** He shall never do that. But, tell me, have you heard from 
papa lately?" 

<' This morning. He expects to be home in about six months." 

A Striking Contrast. 347 

Sylvia clapped her hands ; her face shone with joy. 

*^ What glorious news ! How glad I shall be to see him. You 
don't mind me saying that, dearest ? " 

'' Noy my pet. Such pleasure is natural, and shows what a loving 
child you are." 

The girl did not speak for a moment, and seemed in deep thought. 

^' Grandpapa," she said presently, "I wonder if papa would know 
me if he were to meet me and no one told him I was his child. Am I 
much changed since I came to you ? " 

He examined her critically, his eyes full of loving admiration as^ 
they dwelt upon hor. 

'* You were small then. You are now tall and graceful,*' he said 
smiling. ''Your dark eyes are larger and darker, but your hair, 
complexion, and tiny mouth are almost the same. You were a lovely 
baby; you are a beautiful girl." 

She jumped up, laid her arms about his neck, and kissed him with 
a tender love in her eyes. 

''Dear old flatterer," she whispered, '' do you wish to make me 
vain ? " 

" No. I don't think that would be possible." 

Sylvia laughed and blushed, and returned to her stool. 

" Then you think papa would know me ? " 

" That I can hardly teU. And yet I think he would. For truly 
you are but little changed since I first saw you. But still, I do not 
quite understand. Eithier he has forgotten what you were like, or the 
sea journey worked a considerable difference in your health and 
general appearance. I will let you hear what he has written about 

And taking a letter from the table. Sir Eustace began to read. 

" I wonder what my darling is like now. I always think of her 
as the small, delicate baby with little pale, fair cheeks, that dung to 
me so lovingly as I bade her good-bye." 

"Now, when I met you at Ghravesend, Sylvia," said Sir Eustace, 
" you were as rosy as possible. As strong a child as ever lived." 

"The sea air had, of course, tanned my skin and made me look 
healthy," answered Sylvia decidedly. " And I daresay papa has for- 
gotten. It is not easy to remember a baby's face. But if he looked 
at my last likeness, he'd see pretty well what I am like ; everyone said 
it was capital." 

" Yes. But listen, dear, toVhat he says." And Sir Eustace con- 
tinued the letter. 

"You cannot imagine how I long to see her, especially now, as I 
know she is grown up, and that I have made up my mind to go home 

348 The Irish Monthly. 

soon. My thoughts axe full of my daughter. It is strange that none 
of the photos you mentioned sending ever reached me. I probably 
missed them through wandering about so much. But I am just as 
glad I nerer saw them, for now she will burst upon me in all her 
beauty. For you tell me she is beautiful Is she Hke my sweet wife, 
I wonder ? But, of oourse,*you do not know that since you never saw 
her, and the xniniature I sent was lost in the wreck. However, it 
matters little who she is like. She is my own beloved daughter, and 
as such she is inexpressibly dear. God bless her and you." 

Sylvia's eyes were fall of tears, and taking her father's letter from 
the old man's hand, she pressed it to her lips. 

''Poor papa, how full of love and longing is your letter! But 
why has he stayed away from us all these years, grandpapa ? " 

" Why ? So you may ask. He, the heir to my name and rich 
estates. But he loved a wandering life, and could not bear the tram- 
mels of society. Now, as he grows older, he longs for home and his 
daughter's love." 

*' And he shall have both. Chrandpapa, we must be very good and 
kind to him, you and I. But I wonder am I at all like my dead 

''No, dearest, I think not, imless in expression. For she was 
small and fair. Qeorge told me so frequently in the first days of 
his married life. She was a fragile creature with golden hair, and 
large, child- like blue eyes." 

Sylvia sighed. ^ 

"' That is not at all like me. Dear little mother. Who am I like, 
grandpapa ? Do I remind you of papa ? " 

And she glanced at the large portrait of GFeorge Atherstone, as a 
lad of nineteen, that hung over the mantelpiece. 

" No, dear. You are not like any member of our family. Tou 
are an original Sylvia, perfectly unique in your own peculiar way." 

The girl laughed and looked up roguishly into his face. 

" Perhaps I am a changeling ? " 

" I should not be at all surprised," he cried, pinching her cheek. 
^' Brought to us by the fairies, endowed with all their most precious 
gifts and graces." 

How they jested, these two. Yet had they but guessed how near 
the truth they were, what cruel sorrow would have Med their hearts ! 

"Just so, grandpapa," cried Sylvia gaily. "That sounds very 
pretty. And now I must really go and finish my toilet. If I am not 
ready very soon, Lady Ashfidd may have to wait, and " 

" Mdme. Oamiture has gone to your room, Miss Atherstone," said 
the footman opening the door. 

A Striking Contrast 34^ 

" I am glad. Oood-bye, grandpapa.'* And she tripped o£E tiptairs. 

On the first landing hung an old-fashioned mirror, framed in some 
of Giinling Qibbons' exquisite carving. In this Sylria oaught sight 
of her own face as she passed. 

*' Not at all like my mother. Alas ! no. A fragile creature with 
golden hair. Ah ! " 

SyMa started and uttered a cry of surprise. Seated on a chair 
just outside her dressingroom door was a girl of about her own age. 
Small, slight, and fair, with a mass of pure golden hair, and large, 
sad, blue eyes. 

'' Exactly what my darling might have been at eighteen. Poor 
little dead mother!" she thought as she looked at the stranger. 
" She just suits the picture I have made of her in my mind." 

Dorothy Neil (for it was she) stood up politely as the young lady 

" Why are you waiting here ? " asked Sylvia gently. 

" I am waiting for Mdme. Oamiture," the girl replied with a faint 
blush. ''I am one of her workers, and came to carry your veil and 

" You look tired. This is not a comfortable seat. Gome into my 
sittingroom and rest whilst you wait." 

Greatly touched at such kind attention, Dora followed Sylvia into 
a pretty boudoir, and gladly accepted the luxurious arm-chair that 
she was invited to occupy. 

'' Here is an amusing book to read," said Sylvia. '* And D^siree 
must fetch you a glass of wine." 

." Please do not trouble about me," cried Dora. '' I do not care 
for wine." 

'* But'you must have some, and a little cake. It will do you good. 
I am sorry I must go and dress. I should like so much to talk to 
you. You have a sweet face and " 

'* Miss Atherstone." 

« Coming, Mdme. Garniture. Gk)od-bye. I must go." 

Sylvia vanished into her dressingroom, and Dora was left alone. 
For some moments she looked about her, wondering vaguely in whose 
house she could be, who the kind young lady was, and if she should 
ever see her again. She was very tired and very weak, and presently 
the book she held slipped from her fingers, her eyes closed, and she 
f eU asleep. 

In a short time— very short it appeared to her — she heard the 
running to and fro of many feet, the murmur of voices, and her own 
name repeated loudly in tones of evident displeasure. 

She started up and ran out upon the stairs. Here she found 
Mdme. Garniture and the French maid, Desiree. 

360 The Irish Monthly, 

''Well, upon my word, this is mce conduct in a, strange house," 
cried the dressmaker angrily. '' Where hare you been hidmg, IVI 
like to know ? " 

"I was not hiding," replied Dora, flushing painfully. "I was 
sitting in the room where the young lady left me." 

" Oh, dear, of course," said Desiree. '' Miss Atherstone told me 
you were in the boudoir. Did you get the wine f " 

"No. But" 

Dora gasped. She grew suddenly pale. 

'' Then you shall have it now," cried the maid. '' I'll go for it at 
once." And awaiy she went. 

*' Mdme. (Garniture," asked Dora with trembling lips, '' do you — 
wiU you teU me who is that beautiful girl you came to dress for the 
Drawingroom ? " 

''Certainly. But I thought you knew, child. She is Miss 
Sylvia Atherstone, the greatest heiress and loveliest young lady in all 

Dora's head spun round ; she suddenly felt faint and giddy, and 
she clung to the bannisters for support. 

" Sylvia Atherstone," she murmured. " Are you sure ? " 

Mdme. Garniture laughed scornfully. 

"Why, I've made Miss Atherstone's dresses for the last seven 
years, and very proud I am of the honour. Hers is a figure to do 
a dressmaker credit. Straight, graceful and shapely. She is a true 
aristocrat, is Miss Atherstone. A real lady to the very tips of her 
fingers. But come, dear, let us go home. You don't seem well." 

Dora passed her hand across her forehead. 

"lam dazed — ^bewildered. I know not what may happen now. 
Sylvia Atherstone at last ! So good, so beautiful, so " . 

Mdme. Gkimiture looked at the girl in astonishment. 

"My dear, you are half asleep. This Visit appears to have upset 
you. But come along. I have a cab ready this half hour." 

And without waiting for Desiree to appear with the wine, she 
hurried Dora into a hansom and drove away. 

" Take my advice and lie down," she said as she dropped the girl 
at the comer of the street in which she lived. "You want a little 

"Yes, thank you," answered Dora dreamily. " Perhaps I do." 

"Poor child ! " murmured the dressmaker. " She looks somehow 
as if she had seen a ghost. What a delicate creature she is. Her 
life will not be long, I fancy. But maybe it*B just as well, for she 
has not much of a future before her." 

{To he continued). 

The Children's Ballad Rwary. 351 



I. — The BEsuRREcnoir. 

Jesus from the cross was taken, 

Hands of saints his body bore, 
In the Sepulchre they laid him, 

Place of rest for none before. 

With a mighty stone the entrance 

Was securely sealed and barred. 
While there sat in watch around it 

Soldiers of the Jewish guard ; 

Till the third day's early dawning. 

When from heaven an angel came. 
White as drifted snow his raiment. 

Bright his face as lightning flame. 

Back he rolled the rocky barrier. 

While an earthquake spread around. 
And the sentinels in terror 

Fell aswoon upon the ground. 

Then our Lord and Saviour Jesus, 

Lamb of Ck>d, reviled and slain, 
Bose triumphant and immortal. 

King for evermore to reign. 

Whp can dream the joy his presence 

To his Virgin Mother gave ! 
Pirst he sought her, first embraced her, 

Bising glorious from the grave. 

He who loves the contrite sinner 

Showed his depth of mercy then. 
Bringing comfort in her weeping 

Unto Uaiy Magdalen. 

To his great apostle, Peter, 

Charge he gave his fold to keep : 
** Simon Peter, dost thou love me ? — 

Feed my lambs and feed my sheep. " 

352 The Iri%h Monthly. 

And he breathed dn his disciples 
Sacramental power from Heaven, 

With the words : — " Whose sins sooTer 
Ye forgive, they are forgiven. 

'^ GK> je teaching and baptizing 
Men of every clime and coast. 

In the name of Ood the Father, 
C^ the Son and Holy Ohost. 

'' All the things I have commanded 
Te shall teach them to obey. 

Lo ! I am for ever with you 
Till the world shall pass away. " 

Qhry to God the Faster, 
And hu itemal 8on^ 

And glory to the Soly Ghost 
For ever J Three in One, 

II. — Thb Asoeksion. 

So for forty days did Jesus 
To his chosen friends appear, 

Speaking of his heavenly kingdom 
And his own departure near. 

In Jerusalem they rested 

' Till he came their steps to guide 
Forth unto the Moimt of Olives, 
By his passion sanctified. 

Past the brook and past the garden 
Where his agony was wrought. 

Past the tomb, where, at Bethania, 
Lazarus to life he brought. 

On the moimtain's summit Jesus 
Baised his hands to heaven above. 

Pouring forth on his disciples 
All the blessing of his love. 

As he blessed them, they beheld him 
Slowly from the earth arise, 

While in breathless adoration 
On his form they fixed their eyes ; 

The Children's Ballad Rosary. 353 

Till a heavenly doad received him, 

And concealed him from their sight. 
When behold ! two angels nigh them 

Stood, arrayed in robes of white. 

" Wherefore stand ye, gazing upward, 

ye men of (Galilee ? 
As your Jesus hath departed, 

So shall his returning be." 

Open wide, ye gates eternal, 

Open to the King of EIngs, 
Who ascendeth in his glory 

With the mighiy spoil he brings : 

All the spirits of the faithful, 

Dear to Gk)d since time began ; 
All who loved and served him truly, 

Watching for the Son of Man ; 

All the patriarchs and prophets, 

All the hidden saints of old. 
With our pardoned primal parents, 

Bansomed from the prison hold. 

Now, amid exulting angels, 

Jesus sits upon his throne, 
By the right hand of his Father, 

Interceding for his own, 

Glwry to God the Father^ 

And his eternal Son, 
And glory to the Holy Ghost 

For ever, Three in One. 

TTT - — ^Thb Descsnt of thb Holy Ghost. 

The apostles home returning 
Sought the upper chamber there, 

And, in unison with Mary, 
Knelt in unremitting prayer. 

Pentecost has come and found them 

Thus in one accord combined. 
When a sound from heaven came o'er them 
like a mighty rushing wind, 
Vol. XVIII. No. 206. 75 

364 The Insh Monthly. 

Filling all the habitation, 
And behold ! they saw descend 

Farted tongues of fire appearing 
Over every head to bend. 

At the moment all assembled 
With the Holy Ghost were filled. 

And began in tongues to utter 
Whatsoe'er the spirit willed. 

In Jerusalem were dwelling 
Pious Jews of every clime, 

Strangers from the farthest regions. 
Hallowing the festal time. 

The apostles came among them, 
And the marvel spread abroad 

How they spoke in every language 
Of the wondrous works of Gk)d. 

Peter, prince of the apostles, 

Stood and raised his voice alone : 

-'* Hearken to me, men of Juda, 
Let the truth I speak be known. 

** This is what the prophet Joel 
Of the latter days foretold, 

That the Lord would pour his spirit 
On his servants young. and old/' 

Then he preached to them of Jesus, 
Whom by wicked hands they slew. 

How the might of Ood had raised him 
From the tomb to life anew. 

Hearing him, they asked in sorrow : 
" Brethren, what should be our part ? " 

** Be baptized, " was Peter's answer, 
** Doing penance from the heart." 

Thrice a thousand were converted : 

So at God's appointed hour 
Was the Church of Jesus founded 
. V By the Holy Spirit's power. 

Ghry to God the Father, 

And hi* eternal Son, 
And glory to the Holy Ghott 
For ever, Three in One. 

The Childi^en'H Ballad Rosary. 365 

IV. — The Assumption. 

Since our Lord to heaven ascended 

Twelve fall years their course had run, 
When to Mary meekly waiting 

Came the call to join her son. 

Round her couch apostles gathered 

Ere the gates of death she passed, 
Drawing strength and benediction 

From her aspect to the last. 

Then her pure and stainless body 

Did they lay in hallowed ground, 
Bapt in awe and veneration, 

Angels keeping watch around. 

But the God who preordained her 

Partner in his plan divine, 
Did not will to let corruption 

Taint his holiest earthly shrine. 

From the everlasting ages 

He had sealed her as his own ; 
Now he took her, borne by angels, 

Soul and body to his throne. 

Silence held the halls of heaven, 

Angel songs awhile were still ; 
In the trance of expectation 

Harps of seraphs ceased to thrill. 

Oh, the overflowing sweetness 

Of the notes that rose again. 
All the choirs of blessed spirits 

Swelling that triumphant strain. 

Come, thou Mother of tlie Highest, 

Come, pearl surpassing price, 
Blessed over every creature, 

Morning star of paradise. 

See the myriad saints rejoicing 

In the beauty of thy name. 
All the fire of love within them. 

Kindling unto brighter flame. 

356 The Irish Monthly. 

See thine own betrothed Joseph, 
Virgin spouse of virgin bride, 

In the guardianship of Jesus 
Watchful ever by thy side ; 

Chosen for his nursing father 
In his infant years below, 

Chosen now his Church's patron 
While the waves of time shall flow. 

Qhry to God the Father, 
And his etomai Son, 

And glory to the Holy Ghost 
For ever, Three in One. 

V. — ^Th« Cbowhino of oub Lapt^ 

Then in heaven appeared the wonder 
Which with light majestic shone 

In the consecrated vision 
Of the loved apostle John. 

When the mystic seals were opened, 
And the reign of Christ begun, 

He beheld a woman cloth6d 
In the splendour of the sun, 

While the moon in crescent brightness 
Underneath her feet was spread, 

And a crown of stars was resting, 
Twelve their number, on her head. 

Now was Gabriers benediction 

In its great fulfilment seen, 
When her Son, in all his Oodhead, 

Hose in heaven and crowned her Queen. 

Queen of all the glorious Angels, 

Whose fidelity was tried 
In the hour when Satan, faithless, 

Fell like lightning in his pride. 

Queen of Patriarchs and Prophets, 

Whose illuminated eyes 
Prom the virgin womb of Mary 

Saw the world's redemption rise. 

The CAildren'a Ballad Itosat^. 357 

-^aeen of Christ's elect Apostles, 

Whom he sent to preach and found * 

Over all the world his kingdom, 

To the earth's eztremest bound. 

<iueen of Martyrs, slain in torment. 

Who have dyed their garments white 
In the blood of Jesus, serving 

In his temple day and night 

Queen of Virgins, who have followed 

In the path their pattern trod, 
Dedicating soul and body 

To the puriiy of Gk)d. 

Queen of all the Saints unnumbered 

In the Book of Life enrolled, 
All the sinless, all whose penance 

Brought them back within the fold. 

-Queen from evexy stain of Adam 

In her earliest being free, 
<^ueen to whom her children offer 

This most holy Sosary. 

Olory to God the Father, 

And his etemat Son, 
And glory to the Holy Ghost 

For ever, Three in One. 

358 The Irish Monthly. 



Mr. G-eorge rose slowly, and in a graye, methodical manner, he^ 
said: — 

" You have raised the question of questions — the one supreme 
problem that is stirring and agitating the world to its deepest 
depths. Forward is the cry ; but * the farther we go the deeper 
we sink into the sad complexity of a civilisation where wealth and 
want in sad companionship are seen side by side, where the few are 
glutted and the many are starving, and the gifts of the Creator, 
and the improvements of man, alike seem only to increase the^ 
misery of the multitude. I do not find fault with science ; but I 
say that so long as society needs readjustment, as it does, so long 
as our social laws and systems are completely out of harmony with 
the eternal laws of justice and truth, science and all the other 
ministers to man will be angels of destruction, and not messengers 
of mercy. In the very centres of our civilisation to-day are want 
and suffering enough to make sick at heart whoever does not close 
his eyes or steel his nerves. We dare not put the blame on 
Mother Nature, or upon our great Father, God. Supposing that 
at our prayers. Nature assumed a mightier power than it possesses,, 
supposing that at the behest by which the universe sprang into 
being there should glow in the sun a greater heat, new virtue fill 
the air, fresh vigour the soil ; that for every blade of grass that 
now grows two should spring up, and the seed that now increases- 
fiftyfold should increase a hundredfold. Would poverty be abated 
and want relieved P Manifestly no ! The result would be in our 
present environments that the luxury of a few would be increased,, 
the misery of the many would be deepened. This is no bare 
supposition. The conclusion comes from facts with which we are* 
quite familiar. Within our own times, under our very eyes, that 
power which is above all, and in all, and through all ; that power 
of which the whole world is but the manifestation ; that power 
which maketh all things, and without which is made nothing that 
is made, has increased the bounty which men may enjoy as truly 
as though the fertility of Nature had been increased. So my friend 
here, Mr. Verdun, has declared. Into the mind of one came the- 

' The Tm Civilhatiom. 35» 

thought, which hamesfied steam for the service of mankind. Ta 
the wiser ear of another was whispered the secret that compels the 
lightning to bear a message round the globe. In every direction 
have the laws of matter been revealed ; in every part of industry 
have arisen arms of iron and fingers of steel, whose effect in the 
production of wealth has been precisely the same as an increase in 
the fertility of Nature. What is the result P The few are more 
powerful, the many more helpless ; under the shadow of the marble 
mansion is the vile kraal of the workingmau ; and silks and furs 
are ruffled by contact with rags in the streets.*' Ay ! even your 
philosophers have told us that all this is as it should be — ^that suc- 
cess in life is the test of virtue, and that the weak must go to the 
wall. Yes ! your society is like the Hindoo idol-car, that flings to 
the earth and crushes those who have not power to keep pace with 
it. In the amphitheatres of the Roman people, when the gladiator 
was mortally wounded, the people passed sentence upon him, and 
commanded that he shoiold die. In the world of to-day the same 
cruelty prevails. The moment a man sinks under the burden of 
this world's cares, little pity has the world for him. And now, 
gentlemen," he concluded, ^^ perhaps as you have allowed me to 
so speak so far, you would just hear another who has said exactly 
the same thing but in verse : — 

« 10 VIOTTS. 

* I King the hymn of the conquered who fell in the battle of life — 

Tlie hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife ; 
Not the jubilant song of the viotors, for whom the resounding acclaim 
Of the nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the bhaplet of fame — 
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart 
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part. 
Whose youth bore no flower of its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away ; 
From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dyiiig- 

of day 
With the work of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone. 
With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and aU but their faith overthrown. 

* While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its power for those who have won, 
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun 
Oay banners are waving, hands dapping, and hurrying feet 

Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat 

In the shadows 'mongst those who are fallen, and wounded and dying — and there 

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knitted brow, breathe a prayer. 

* Henry George : ** Progress and Poverty.'* 

360 The Irish Monthly. 

Hold the hand ihat is helpless, and whisper : They only lifers victory win 
Who have fought the good ftght and have vanqoisbed the demon that tempts us 

Who have held to their faith nnsednoed by the prize that the world holds on high, 
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resbt, fight— if need be, to die. 

^ Say history, who are life's victors P UnroU thy long annals, and say 
Are they ^ose whom the world called the victors, who won the suocees of the day P 
The martyr or hero ? The Spartans, who fell at ThermopylBe's tryst, 
Or the Persians of Xerxes P His jndges or SooratesP Pilate, or Christ P* 

^' Would to heaven, that onoe and for ever thiB great gospel of 
humanity were aooepted ! * If it were so, the possihilities of the 
future were unlimited I With want destroyed, with greed changed 
to noble passion, with the fraternity that is bom of equality taldng 
the plaoe of the jealousy and fear that now array men against each 
other ; with mental power loosed by conditions that give to the 
humblest comfort and leisure, and who shall measure the heights 
to which our civilisation may soar P Words fail the thought ! It 
is the golden age which poets have sung, and high-raised seers 
have told in meitaphor ! It is the golden vision that has always 
haunted men with gleams of fitful splendour ! It is what he saw 
whose eyes at Patmos were closed in a trance ! It is the culmina- 
tion of Christianity — the city of God upon earth, with its walls of 
jasper and its gates of pearl ! It is tiie reign of the Prince of 
Peace.' "t 

" Fine talk ! fine talk ! '' said a young man whom I. had not 
hitherto seen. He seemed scarcely more than a boy ; yet there 
was a vehemence and earnestness about him which commanded 
respect. And the man that is in earnest about anything is always 
sure of a respectful hearing. '' Fine talk ! '' said he again, *^ if 
to-morrow were the millenium! You preach a doctrine of 
sdeiice," said he, turning to Mr. Yerdun, '' but in the same breath 
you degrade humanity, and belie the sanctity of man's origin and 
the grandeur of his future destiny. And you," said he, turning to 
Mr. Buskin, ^' advocate culture and refinement as a salve for all 
our wounds, forgetting that the higher your cultured men and 
women advance, the nearer they are to barbarism as loathsome as 
Eousseau suggested. And you, Mr. George, preach a Gospel of 
Humanity. That is the best teaching yet. But so far as I can 

• <' Blackwood's ICagazine.'* 
t •* Progress and Poverty " : Henry George. 

The Two Civilisations. 361 

^see, Humanity left to itself is perpetoallj disgracing itself. From 
«yer/ side what do we hear but charges and countercharges of 
•cruelty and brutality flung from the poor against the rich, and 
,from the rich back again against the poor ? Take the opinion of 
the one man who has voiced the sentiments of the century more 
<;learly than any other, and what does he. say : — 

' Science sits under her oliro, and slurs at the days gone by ! 

When the poor are hovelled and hustled together each sex like swine, 
When only the ledger liyes, and when only not all men lie, 

Peace in her vineyard, yes ! but a company forges the wine. 
And the vitriol madness flushes up to the ru£Ban*8 head, 

1111 the fllthy bylaae rings to the yell of the trampled wife, 
And chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread, 

And the spirit of murder reeks in the very veins of life. 
And sleep must lie down armed, for the villainous oentrebits 

Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights, 
While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps as he sits 

To pestle a poisoned poison behind the crimson lights.' " * 

" He wrote that fifty years ago when he was a young man.*' 
:said Mr. Verdim. " We have progressed since then." 

" Did he P" said the young man with a sneer ; " did he ? But 
-what did he write yesterday, in his old age P Listen : — 

' Pluck the mighty from their seat, but set us meek ones in their place, 
pillory wisdom in your markets, and pelt your ofial in her face. 
Tumble Nature heel over head, and yelling with the yelling street 
Set the feet above the bnin, and swear the brain is in the feet. 
Feed the budding rose of boyhood with the drainage of your sewer, 
Bend the drain into the fountam, lest the stream should issue pnre^ 
Set the maiden fancies wallowing in the troughs of Zolaism — 
Forward, forward, ay, and backward, downward too into the abysm. 
Do your beht to charm the worst, to lower the rising race of men. 
Have we risen fiom out the beast? then back into the beast again.* 

There is your Literature ! Now here's your Progress ! 

* There among the glooming alleys Ptogress halts on palsied feet. 
Grime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street. 
There the master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, 
There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. 
Nay, your pardon, cry your ** Forward ! " yours are hope and youth, but I — 
Eighty winters leave the dog too lame to f oUow with the cry. 
Lame and old, and past his time, and passing now into the night, 
Yet I would the rising race were half as eager for the light.* t 

♦ " Maud." Tennyaon. 
* *' Lock«ley Ball : Forty yean a ter." Tennyaon. 

:i62 The Irinh Monthly. 

*'*' So would I ! Bat the light won't oome ! And neither scienoe 
nor culture, nor humanitj will bring it ! Fojr my part, I have 
thought the whole thing over, and I agree with old Thomas 
("arlyle, when he declared, looking up at the splendours of heaven 
and down on the gloom of earth, ' Eh ! it's a sad sight ! ' I agree 
with George Eliot in that famous remark she made to her bosom 
friend in her old age : * There is but one remedy, my child, for the- 
sad race of men — one grand simultaneous act of suicide ! ' " 

This was rather too much, I thought ; so I went on deck. It 
was a glorious night. Far, far down the horizon, great masses of 
cloud, their blackness softened into purple by the lingering light, 
overtopped each other, and built up their airy battlements high 
into the zenith. Everywhere beside the sky was a pale liquid 
azure, through which the dim stars shone, and peace. Nature's 
sublime peace, slept over all. I strolled up and down the deck, 
alone with my thoughts, and these thoughts were of the strange 
discussion I had heard. . Who was right P — or who was even 
nearest the truth — apostles of humanity, of science, and of culture ? 
Had they found the great central secret of the Universe, or were 
they, after all, but blind leaders of the blind — ^men puffed up with 
knowledge and pride, to whom the great Bevelation should never 
come P I confess my sympathies were altogether with the prophet 
of himianity. Yet I knew, and knew well, that all the wealth of 
sterling probity and enthusiasm could never reduce his theories to 
practice — ^it would be all in vain : — 

« The still, sad musio of hmnanitj, 
lake moaning^ cff a midnight dea,** 

would still be heard, and still would the words of the poet 
continue : — 

** Fop morning never wore to eve, 
But some poor human heart did break.*' 

And yet how could ihe Almighty Creator have framed this 
marvellous universe, with all its splendours, for a race of splenetic 
and unhappy men P Look around ! what a miracle of splendour I 
The great moon is lifting itself above the waste of waters, and 
flinging a rippling splendour over the waves. She is scarred and 
clothed with fleecy clouds, which she drops one by one, until now 
she looks forth the acknowledged empress of the night, and the 
stars grow pale and draw in their lights when they behold her. 

The Two Civilisations. 36* 

The silence which Nature loves is upon all things — ^that silence 
which Nature never breaks but in music — ^the miisic of the birds 
and streams, and the solemn Gfregorian of the ocean ! I can hear 
the splash of the water at the stem, and the throbbing of the- 
powerful engines, that with every sweep of the propeller drives 
the giant ship through the waters. I can hear the tinkling of a 
piano in the saloon, and a lady's voice, and the first notes of ^^ La 
ci darem si mano." My friends have turned from philosophy to* 
music. So much the better. But here, too, is another sound,, 
which I certainly have heard before, but I cannot locate it. It 
seems to be creeping along the side .of the vessel, and even to be 
rising from the water. It pauses and swells in rhythmical rotation,, 
like the sweep of a storm in a pine forest, or the mournful cadences 
of the sea, as it thunders in cataracts on the beach. And there is 
a something about it which reminds you of a Gh:eek chorus. The 
tiny monotone of one voice, and the hoarse murmur of many. It 
comes not from the saloon or deck of the steamer ; not from the 
wind, there is none ; not from the waves — ^the shores are fifty miles 
distant. Let us look forward. Yes, here it is coming unmistake- 
ably from the dark depths of the steerage. We descend. What 
a sight ! All along the sides of the vessel, pale and angular Nor- 
wegian faces, lean and hungry Italian faces, calm and heavy 
Teutonic faces, are looking — ^at what P A spectacle for angels and 
men, and even for philosophers ! An aged Irish peasant, clad in 
rough, homespun frieze, and without any ornament save the glory 
of white hair that streams upon his shoulders, is surrounded by a 
group of Irish men, women, and children. Their heads are^ 
reverently bent, and the deep bass voice of the men and the light 
tenors of the women and children blend in touching harmony. 
And what are they chaunting F Not the ^^La oi darem '' of an 
Italian maestro of yesterday, but a certain canticle that was com- 
posed by an archangel some nineteen centuries ago, and hi& 
audience was a woman, but blessed above all and among all. And 
the chorus is another canticle, composed by a chorus of 100,000 
voices fourteen centuries ago, and on the streets of an Asiatic city,, 
when the gates of the Cathedral were thrown open, and mitred 
prelates came forth, and the people anticipated the decision of their 
pastors, and proclaimed the woman of Nasareth to be the mother 
of the living Gh>d. And these two canticles go on and are 
repeated in the musical murmur of human voices, until they con- 

-364 The Irish Monthly. 

•elude with the great hymn of praiBe to the Father, the Son and 
the Spirit, who are and have been and shall for ever be ! The 
cantiole of the Bosary is familiar to these poor eidles. They 
learned it at their mother's knees — they sang it in the lonely white- 
washed ohapel on the Irish hills — ^they will carry it in their hearts 
:and on their lips, and like the ohildx^n of Israel by the waters of 
Babylon, they will sing that song of Sion in a strange land ! 

Onoe more upon deok — ^this time with some new sensations. 
Here I find myself right in the midst of two dvilisations. 

The civilisation of the saloon, though in concrete form it dates 
but from yesterday, is but a series of broken lights, caught from 
the suspended or rejected philosophies of the past. The mysticism 
of Plato, the doubtings of Epicurus, the blan)c materialism of 
Lucretius, have been revived in our time, and find issue in 
speculative and intellectual Atheism, and in such barren and hope- 
less solutions of the great problem of human happiness as those to 
which we have just listened. Science, groping with a thousand 
«xms in every direction, finds itself even in the material world con- 
fronted by a wall of blackness, impenetrable, insurmountable ; 
and somehow the wayward movements of humanity, which it 
hoped to bring under oosmieal discipline, break away from its 
arbitrary laws, and rush into chaos and disorder. With every 
appliance that wealth can a£Eord, with all the facilities that private 
patronage and governmental support can give, with all the 
enthusiasm with which the public follow each fresh advance, and 
liail each fresh revelation, modem pagan civilisation is inconsistent 
and illogical in its teachings, false in its professions, and a dismal 
failure in its attempts to meet the moral and intellectual needs of 
ilien. A teacher without knowledge, a prophet witiiout inspira- 
tion, a magician who has lost his charm, its judgment is the 
reverse of that which fell on the Jewish prophet, for it curses where 
it seeks to bless. 

Far different is the civilisation which is represented by the 
humble occupants of the steerage, &r difierent^ the philosophy 
on which it unconsciously rests, far different the gigantic 
effects whidi it produces and will never cease to produce. 
These poor exiles do not know that the philosophy which they 
profess is the steady light of reason that burned in the mind of 
Aristotie centuries before Christ, and was afterwards incorporated 
into the scholastic teaching of the Church. They do not know 

The Tiro Civilisafions. 365- 

that their faith is buttressed by weighty arguments which all the- 
ingenuity of satanio intelligenoe has not shaken, though put forth 
jn language so eloquent that the soul refuses to forget its musio^ 
even when the reason has recognised its falsehood. They do not 
know that Augustine and Aquinas, that Jerome and Bernard, ex- 
hausted all the riches of their matchless intellects to illuminate and 
adorn the faith which they, in all simplicity, profess ; and that in 
the full white light of the nineteenth century such colossal geniuses 
as Newman and Manning, having passed through every phase of 
speculative belief or unbelief, have become at last, in the full vigour 
and maturity of mental power, little children, professing the same 
doctrines, the exiles hold, and finding their strength in the same- 
prayers the exiles are just repeating. They only know that the- 
history of their faith is this. A morning of sunshine, when, like 
the haze over a summer sea, the sunshine of faith lay warmly over 
the land ; and then a long night of darkness and gloom, streaked 
with fire, into which their historians plunging, have only heard, aa^ 
Biohter in his dream, the rain falling pitilessly in the abysses, and 
the cry of a despairing people, ^* Father in Heaven, where art 
thou ? '^ From the gloom and the storm and the shadow, from 
the wreck and ruin of seven centuries, they have saved the memory 
and tradition of the loftiest ideas that can guide the principles and 
sway the emotions of men. And now at last emancipated, about 
to tread on free soil, to breath the free air, under the pulsing of a 
free flag, they will be given an opportunity of testing and showing,, 
side by side with the barrenness of Pagan civilisation, the fruitful- 
ness of the Christian ideal. For ^^ Forward " too is the motto of 
these exiles ; and their eyes, wet with the despair of the past, are 
straining after the hope of the future. Let us follow them. In a 
few days, masters and servsmts, the wise ones and the f ooUsh, will 
be hustled together for a moment on the quays of New York, and 
then will separate. The masters will go into their drawing rooms- 
and counting houses, the servants into the kitchens and workshops. 
The masters will hang their splendid rooms with Oriental 
tapestries, and wonderful pictures of actresses and opera singers, 
of horses and dogs, will gleam from the gilded walls. The 
servants will hang on the whitewash of their attics some penny 
prints,, but they will be pictures of angels and saints. The 
masters will write and lecture on humanity and philanthropy — 
the servants know nothing of these things, but they will build 


366 The Irish Monthly. 

^th their hard earnings oonventSy colleges, asylums, and 
magnificent hospitals, where the highest medical skill will 
minister to suffering humanity, where holy nuns will lay their 
^ft .hands on the throbbing brows of the sick, and priests will 
whisper to dying ears the only message that can bring solace to 
the stricken. The masters will build superb palaces for themselves, 
glistening in white marble ; and with a kind of unconscious irony, 
the servants will erect side by side with these palaces mighiy tem- 
ples which look down with disdain on these abodes of mortals, and 
whose glittering spires, like fingers of fire, teach to these prbud 
masters the lesson of the kitchen and the attic, that ^' forward " 
means '^ upward,'' or else a rushing towards eternal destruction. 
And some day, when the sun is shining very brightly, the masters 
will come down from their high places and ^ey will stand on the 
mosaic pavement of these temples, and they will stare and wonder 
at their marvellous beauty — ^the carving and the fluting and foliat- 
ing of the pillars, the white glimmering statues of saints; the 
poems that are wrought in the stained glass of lancelights and rose 
windows. But they will never know that all this architectural 
loveliness was wrought by the prayers and faith of the rough- 
handed labourers on the quays and railways, and the modest Irish 
girls who minister to their own lordly wants at home. Unnoticed 
and unrecognised, they carry on the great process of civilisation 
save when some great seer, like Emerson, points to their work, and 
tells his countrymen that even the material prosperity of their 
great Eepublic has been built by the hands of the Irish race. And 
not only in America, but in Australia and New 2iealand, in '^ the 
simmier isles of Eden " that slumber on the broad bosom of the 
Pacific, in every region that is hallowed by the light of the South- 
em Gross, the same miracle is wrought by the same consecrated 
race. To them has been whispered the great mediseval secret that 
built Cologne Cathedral and Westminster Abbey, the secret that 
has placed »St. Patrick's Cathedral a shining symbol in the heart 
of the most worldly of modem cities — ^the secret that made the 
Irish miners of Australia take the Cathedral of Sydney three times 
from the teeth of the flames, and three times flung it higher and 
higher into the blue vault of Heaven. And the spiritual influence 
of the race is quite equal to the material. Wherever they go, they 
shed around the light of faith that is almost ^dsion, of purity un- 
assailable, of strong enthusiasm for what is just and right, or -fierce 

The Two Cmlisatiwis. 367 

hatred for what is cruel and wrong, and a passionate love for that 
hallowed isle in the Northern seas, where they helieve that every 
blade of grass that grows springs from the relics of a hero or a 
saint. And who can doubt that if truth is great and must prevail, 
if all these wonders are manifestations of a supernatural mission 
and a supernatural power — ^if they are evidences that the faith 
these exiles hold is the only philosophy on which civilisation can be 
built — who can doubt that the final resolution in the history of the 
world will be effected by the silent forces these exiles wield — ^by 
the new life they will quicken, by the contempt they will pour on 
the idols of a vanising philosophy, and by the mastery in . every 
department of religious and scientific thought they will infallibly 
win ? Let the world and the leaders of modem thought say what 
they please. To my mind it is certain as if written .with a finger 
of fire on the firmament of Heaven, that the only civilising agency 
in the woild to-day is the Catholic Church, working chiefly through 
the apostles of the Irish race. 

Whilst I am thus thinking pf them, they are sunk in profound 
slumber. They are dreaming of the piirple heather and the yel- 
low gorse — of the pattern and the dance— of the white-haired 
mother who stretched her hands in a long farewell from the cabin 

It is just striking twelve. I hear steps coming up the com- 
panionway from the saloon. Three men stand before me in the 

" I tell you," said one, " the kings of the future are the men of 
science." , 

" No," said the second, " but the men of culture, education and 

" Nay, nay," said Mr. G., ** but they in whose hearts are found 
some deep echoes of the great voice of humanity." 

"Not even these," thought I, "but the men of faith and 

P. A. Sheehan. 

368 The Imh Monthhj. 


A BABE on the breast of hiB mother 
^ Reolines in the valley of love, 
And smiles like a beautiful lilj 
Caressed by the rays from above. 

A child at the knee of his mother, 
Who is counting her decades of prayer. 

Discovers the cross of her chaplet, 
And kisses the Sufferer there. 

A boy with a rosary kneeling 

Alone in the temple of Gk)d, 
And begging the wonderful favour 

To walk where the Crucified trod. 

A student alone in his study, 
With paUid and innocent face ; 

He raises his head from the pages 
And lists to the murmur of grace. 

A cleric with mortified features, 

Studious, humble and still, 
In every motion a meaning. 

In evezy action a will. 

A man at the foot of an altar, — 
A Christ at the foot of the cross. 

Where every loss is a profit, 
And evezy gain is a loss. 

A Deified Man on a mountain, 
His arms uplifted and spread — 

With one he is raising the living, 
With one he is loosing the dead. 

D. B. Collins. 

Went Troy, New YorV. 

Michael Bkke, Bishop of Dronore. 369 


** 'Tis to be wished it had been sooner done, 
But stories tiomehbw lengthen when begun. "—Byron. 

A STORY belonging to an earlier part of our narrative may be 
mentioned here. I do not call it an incident, for that would, imply 
that it had actually happened. The legend ran that the snow- 
white hair which made Dr. Blake's old age more venerable had 
not waited for old age to come. Very early in his priestly course 
he was spending the evening with some friends, when a summons 
came for him to attend some dying person. His mother — so we 
think the tale was told to us — ^received the message, and, not 
thinking it urgent, refused to allow her son's Uttle social enjoy- 
ment to be interrupted. It would seem that more pressing 
messages reached him later, announcing that the sick person was 
at the last gasp ; and, when he heard of the delay and the danger, 
his grief and holy indignation, as Sir Walter Scott says, " blanched 
at once the hair. " If such things are not true, how do they start 
up P What sort of person takes the trouble of inventing them P 
Such things have certainly happened. Lord Byron mentions 
" Ludovioo Sforza and others " in his note to the opening of 
" The Prisoner of ChiUon " :— 

** My hair is grey, but not with years. 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night 
As men* 8 have grown from sudden fears/* 

A newspaper cutting which we once put aside for the sake of 
its bearing on the present subject begins with the German form of 
Ludovico, referring evidently to a different person : — 

"The hair of Ludwig, of Bayaria, who died in 1294, on his learning the 
izmooenoe of his wife, whom he had caused to be put to death, became almost sud- 
denly aa white as snow. The same thing happened to the Hellenist VanviUiers, in 
eonseqnence of a terrible dream, and also to the French comedian, Blizard, who, 

* This numbering is adopted for the purpose of including the two intercalary 
papers, ''Dr. Blake of Dromore and Father O'Neill of Bostrevor," pp. 248 and 
320 of this Yolume. 

Vol. xTin. No. 20o. 76 

370 The Irish Monthltj. 

having fallen into the Rhone, remained for some time in imminent danger of his 
life, clinging to an iron ring in one of the piles of a bridge. A like change was 
wrought in the case of Charles I., in a single night, when he attempted to escape 
from Garisbrooke Castle. Harie Antoinette, the unfortunate queen of Louis XVI., 
found her hair suddenly changed by her distresses, and gBxe to a faithful friend 
her portrait, inscribed *' whitened by affliction.** The beard and hair of the Duks 
of Brunswick whitened in twenty-four hours, upon his learning that his father had 
been mortally wounded in the battle of Auerstadt. Sometimes even one night of 
intense suffering has been sufficient to bleach a rsTen head. We are told of a 
soldier in India who, for some breach of his duty, was condemned to pass one night 
in the dark cell appointed for solitary confinement, and who, having thrown himself 
upon the ground, presently felt a large cobra-oapella gliding oyer his body, and 
forming itself into a coil upon his chest, attracted by the warmth. Knowing that 
his only hope of safety consisted in perfect quiescence, he remained motionless 
throughout the fearful night until the prison door was opened in the morning, 
which disturbed his fearful companion, and the cobra glided away. The poor 
soldier left the cell with a head as white as snow. As an instance of more gradual 
effect, we may cite the American President, Polk, who entered upon his official 
duties with a head of magnificent black hair, and left them at the end of four years 
with one completely white." 

Some interesting letters addressed to Br. Blake have come into 
our hands too late to use them in the proper place. For instance,, 
the Primate, Dr. Curtis, writes a long letter from Drogheda on the 
12th of October, 1825, bearing postage 3s. 4d., and the following 
bilingual superscription : Reverendo admodum D, D. Michaeli BMc^ 
Archidiacono 8. T, D., 8fc.y Sfc, Sfe., nel Convento di Oem e Mana^ 
Via del Corso^ Roma, Archdeacon Blake — as his title then was — 
did not guess how much interested he himself was in the following 
paragraph, in which the third of the Dromore selections was, na 
doubt, Father Peter Kenney, S.J. " I beg leave to refer you to 
what I had the honour of writing to you in August last, of the 
selection then in progress of three candidates to be presented by 
the clergy of the Diocese of Dromore to the Holy See for appoint- 
ing a successor to their late Bishop, Dr. Hugh O'Kelly. They 
have since presented to me, as Metropolitan, and I have confirmed 
a statement of that selection, with an humble petition to His 
Holiness proposing Drs. Kelly, M*Ardle and Kenney, but advert- 
ing that all, and Dr. M*Ardle particularly, prayed the preference 
may be given to the Eev. Dr. Kelly, then Dean of Maynooth, and 
since appointed Professor of Dogmatic Theology there, in the room 
of Dr. M'Hale." 

In the same letter the Primate says : ^' On the 15th September 
eight Prelates, Trustees of Maynooth, met in Dublin at Dr. 

Michael Blake^ Bishop of Droniore. 371 

Murray's, where we saw, admired, and praised your two last letters 
to His Grace, and your irresistible exertions in favour of your 
College, for which you are the only fit person for adopting studies^ 
rules, and regulations." A subsequent letter of the same Prelate 
(Drogheda, 20th May, 1827) was probably less agreeable to Dr. 
Blake, for it ran counter to one of his favourite projects with 
regard to the new Irish CoUege at Bome. '^ As to what you mention 
of our sending thither, for their ulterior improvement, after finish- 
ing their ordinary studies in our Colleges here, some of our most 
talented and hopeful students, I cannot, for the moment, hold out any 
great encouragement. The great distance and expense are generally 
excepted against as almost insuperable difficulties, and promising 
but little utility. Nay, at Maynooth the very project has appeared 
offensive and rather an insult to that College, where they think a 
greater progress might be made with less trouble and cost than by 
straggling on the continent. Indeed it happened, awkwardly 
enough, that poor Dr. Callan appeared to many to have lost in- 
stead of gaining any great information or polish by his tour, 
though made in your own company, and in fine, that coeium, nan 
animum mutant, &c." He went on to express very pointedly his 
regret that Dr. Blake proposed to return to Ireland, and he even 
said that this step would be fatal to the young College. " We 
neither have at present, nor can we expect to have for several years 
to come, any person to whom we could confide the government of 
that College. Such a person should be educat^ and formed by 
long and useful residence at Biome, and have more personal merit 
than is easily met with. I fear that some part of what my natural 
sincerity and candour have obliged me to mention above may be 
disagreeable to you, and I am sorry for it, as I should be very 
happy to render you any service or kind and friendly office in my 

One of the letters of Archdeacon Blake — ^to give for once this 
nnfamilmr title — to which Dr. Curtis referred with praise, has 
by some chance fallen into our hands, though it was evidently not 
a mere copy or rough draft, but prepared for transmission to Dr. 
Murray. Perhaps Dr. Blake, in trying to utilise the last moment 
before the departure of the mail, succeeded in just missing the 
post by a few minutes, and then, turning the mischance to good 
account, made an improved second edition of his letter- It ia 
dated " Rome, October 12, 1824,'* and tells how he had reached 

372 The Irish Month hj, 

the Eternal City on the 2nd of that month, about four o'clock in 
the afternoon. Even he could not begin his official work that 
evening; but the next day he waited on Cardinal Somaglia and 
Monsignor Caprano. When invited to set down in writing the 
objects of his mission^ he does ^ot allow himself two or three days 
for the purpose, but the next day presents the document of which 
we have before us now the copy that he made for the Irish Arch- 
bishops. This state paper informs the Eminentissimo Principe in 
Italian which is too intelligible to be very classical, that, though in 
Ireland there are seminaries enough to supply a sufficient number 
of priests, yet there is a lack of acquaintance with canon law, 
eeremonial according to the Boman rite, and other branches of 
ecclesiastical science; and that, therefore, the Archbishops and 
Bishops of Ireland would desire to seie established, at the centre of 
Christianity and under the eye of the common Father of the faith- 
ful, a college in which certain chosen students, who had almost 
finished their course in the home seminaries, might spend two years 
in perfecting themselves in their theological studies, <S:c. This, we 
knew already, was Dr. Blake's original idea, which he was soon 
forced to modify. As for the means of carrying out the project, 
he enumerates "treoenta lire sterlini," that is "1,200 soudi," 
which he brought with him ; and he says his library " will be 
sold " for £500. Probably he overrated its market value, and a 
remittance of £150 from Dr. Tore was, perhaps, the proceeds of 
the library. A ffiend had promised £2,000 ; and he reckoned on 
getting back all that remained of the property of the old Irish 
. College in which he himself had studied thirty years before. 

Why was not this document given when we described the 
weary lustrum that Dr. Blake spent at Bome refounding the Irish 
College ? Nemo dat quod turn hahet. Some also of Dr. Murray's 
letters came to our hands subsequently. The earliest of these 
sedms to have been sent to Dr. Blake after he had set out on his 
Roman mission, although it is dated August 27, 1824, and 
although we have just seen that Biome was only reached on the 
2nd of October by a pilgrim who was not wont to loiter on the 
way. In this first letter and in most of the others the Irish Sisters 
of Charity seem to hold the first place in the writer's thoughts : — 

** I praj YOU to urge, with all your influence) the approbation of the Bules and 
Gonstitutionii of the SiAters of Charity. The Monks or Brothers of the CSmstian 
Schools, who.recently obtained the sanotioB of their Constitutions, afford a precedent 

Michael Blake, Bishop of Droinore, 373 

which it will not be easy to get over. Our Sinters are surely as well entitled as 
they to that favour. But it becomes still more necessary for them on account of 
the oircnmatanoes which I mentioned the other day ; namely, that they were 
embodied by apostolical authority under the rules of the Virgoes Anglicanae of 
York, as far as the said rules were compatible with the duties of our Sisters. This 
might afford ground for scruples which it might seem expedient that the Holy See 
would remove. I fear I shall not have time to write by you to Monsignor Caprano ; 
but I will write to him by post, recommending you and your commission to his 
]>rotection, and mentioning that I have directed you to renew my supplication to 
the Sacred Congregation on the subject of the Sisters of Charity, whom I am most 
anxious to see placed on a solid and permanent footing. May the blessing of Gk>d 
accompany you and bring you back in safety to us.'* • 

In his first letter from Eome, from which we have given a few 
extracts a moment ago, the last words are : — " I have not yet suc- 
ceeded with Monsignor Caprano for the Sisters of Charity ; but I 
hope soon to have good news for them." But there was still many 
a month, and even several years, before the accomplishment of that 
secondary object and of the principal purpose of his sojourn in 
Bome. With regard to the latter the following letter was written 
more than a year after Dr. Blake's arrival. We need not say that 
all our documents are original, and have never been printed before- 

" North Cumberland-street, Dublin, 
" 7th Nov., 1825. 
" Mt DBAS Doctor Blazb, 

"Since the receipt of your last kind letter I have been in almost constant 
expectation of hearing that you were in possession of your long-expected College. 
The three weeks which you mentioned have flown away, and several otiiers after 
them, and still you languish under the pain of hope deferred. I give myself some 
i:redit for not having applied to tiie bishops to send forward subjects for the new 
establishment, as I had some anticipations that you might be doomed to suffer 
stiU further disappointment ; and, in that event, the situation of the young men, 
Hhould they in the meantime arrive in Bome, might be far from being pleasant. 
I hope you will have fortitude enough not to allow your spirits to sink under these 
repeated disappointments. Though I have very littie claim to the kindness of my 
correspondents, I could not help wishing that, without waiting for my answers, 
3'^ou had favoured me a littie oftener with a few lines, even if you had nothing to 
tell me but the state of your own health, which must be always dear to me. 

** I send by this post to Messrs. Bamewall and Sons, London, a bill of the 
Bank of Ireland, on Messrs. Coutts and Co., to be forwarded to you — ^amount 
£223 6s. 3d. British. This is not all for yourself, it is made up of the foUowintr 
Kums: — 

From Mr. Yore to you, - - £150 Irish. 

From Dr. Curtis to you as his agent 
From Dr. Coppioger do. do. 
From myself do. C. ^. 

From myself to Mr. Argenti, 








374 The Irish Monthly. 

From the priests of Liffey street, and the 
ReT. Mr. Einsella, of Carlow, for the re- 
building of St Paul's Church, - £9 

From myself for the same purpose, • 50 

Balance of your former account after 
paying your letter of credit, - 2 9 

£242 2 9 Irish. 

'* The preceding sums produced the English bill which is marked on the reverse, 
and which when turned into Roman crowns you must take the trouble of applying 
in the manner just mentioned. 

'* Were it not foi^ the distressed state of our new chapel, which owes about £7000 
— ^for the recovery of which the contractors have entered a lawsuit ag^ainst me and 
some of the parishioners — ^I have no doubt but I should be able to procure a much 
larger sum for the rebuilding of St Paul's. But while my own chapel is in dan- 
ger of being seized on by the creditors, applications (at least on my part) for the 
above purpose, how much soever it is calculated to engage the feeUngs of 6v«ry 
Catholic, must be almost hopeless. 

'* On Monday next, the feast of St. Laurence O'Toole, the patron of this Diocese, 
we are to open our new chapel (which we now call a church), although it is in a 
very unfinished state, and heavily burthened with debt. 

'' Tou will be surprised to hear, if you have not yet heard it, that on the 29th 
ult. I married Marquess Wellesley to Mrs. Patterson, a widow lady of America, a 
Roman Catholic, and sister-in-law to Mrs. Jerome Bonaparte. The ceremony was 
first performed by the Ptotestant Primate. 

*'Our partial conferences, at all of which I could not assist, were not as well 
attended as I could wish. I have therefore established one general conference for all 
the secular priests of Dublin, to be held in my own presence in your Lirge parlour ; 
and this I find to answer much better. I have run out my paper and said little, 
and have now only space to request you to write to me often, and to believe me 
most truly, 

"Dear Dr. Blake, 

** Your assured friend and servant, 


'' The chapel which we now call a church," was the present 
Pro-Cathedral in Marlborough-street. Dr. Curtis and all these 
old bishops had excellent styles of hand- writing, none bolder or 
clearer than Dr. Murray's, from which we print a letter that started 
from North Cumberland-street (what number ? ) the month fol- 
lowing the preceding letter : — 

'» lUiblin, 17th December, 1825. 
*' Mt Dbab Doctor Blake, 

** Though it win not, I fear, be possible for me at present to give you more than 

a few lines, I am anxious not to let this post pass without putting you in possession 

of the sentiments of the Archbishops regarding your present prospects at Rome. 

As far as they have been made acquainted with your proceeding's, they highly 

approve of all that yon have said and done in their name and in their behalf, and 

in particular they approve of the manner in which you urged your objections 

Michael Blake^ Bishop of Dromore, 375 

^wbioh are alao theirs) against the placing of an Italian Beetor at the head of the 
intended Irish College. In addition to the argmnents which yon used, I beg to add 
that one of our objects in wishing to have a respectable Irish Clergyman at the 
head of that establishment was that we might, in him, have a confidential agent, 
through whom we could freely and safely communicate with the centre of CathoUc 
unity. This object would be wholly defeated by the proposed plan. The English 
can goveni their college at Rome through a National Superior ; the Scotch ean do 
the same ; it is then only the Irish that are considered unfit for the enjoyment of 
such an advantage. In short, a college with an Italian Hector was not solicited by 
un, nor did the idea of such an arrangement once enter our minds when you an- 
nounced with expressions of gratitude, to which every heart among us was respon- 
sive, that the Holy Father had most benignly granted the prayer of our petition. 
If this unforeseen difficulty impede the accomplishment of our hopes, we have, of 
•course, no right to complain ; but we have great reason to regret that an earlier 
intimation of it did not enable you to save much valuable time and much money, 
which could have been otherwise more )>rofitably employed. If the conditions 
which you mention be ultimately insisted on, you have but to decline, in the most 
respectful manner possible, the gracious offer of his Holiness. I do not know 
whether, in that case, you will stand in need of a procuration from us to re -transfer 
the money which you vested in the Roman funds. If so, send me by the return of 
the post the form of one, and it will probably overtake the Archbishops in Dublin, 
as the College Trustees are to meet on the 18th January, and will not separate for 
a few days. Your last letter reached me in sixteen days, and I perceive that mine 
reached you in seventeen days. I hurry off this, that I may have a chance of re- 
ceiving your answer during the sitting of the board. It was only on the 3rd iast. 
that I answered Monsignor Caprano's letter enclosing the Pope's circular regarding 
St. Paul's. I mentioned to him that I had transmitted to you my poor offering, 
and prayed him to entreat His Holiness's gpracious acceptance of it. I have just 
learned that poor Dr. Bussell has got a bilious fever. Should it be after all neces- 
sary for you to return home, re infeeta, you will not think of stirring until after 
Easter. I may have, too, some commissions for you, which I cannot mention, or 
rather which I need not mention until after your next lette r. Mr. Tore is doing 
your duty with grea,t zeal and effect. 

'* I remain, dear Doctor Blake, 

*' Tours most faithfully, 

" D. MinuuT. 
** I hope you will be enabled to say that our Holy Father is quite recovered." 

This energetic letter seems to have had the desired effect, for, 
when the next letter was written, 8th January, 1827, the Irish 
College seems to have been begun on the original plan, as there is 
question already of relieving Dr. Blake, and yielding to his en- 
treaty to have a successor appointed. But the other object of Dr. 
Murray's solicitude would seem to be still at this time very far 
from being realised. For he discussed the objections as follows : — 

" I must now beg to say a word about the difficulties which have been urged 
against the approbation of the Constitutions of the Sisters of Charity. The first i» 
the incompatibility of enclosure with the nature of their institute, and the conse- 

376 The IrUh Monthly, 

qnent inexpediency of its rules being approved by the Holy See, whereby it would 
be made a Religious Order. 2ndly, the dangen to which our Sisters of Charity are 
exposed, without any protection from the Goyemment or civil magistrate. 3rdiy, 
the Superioress of the whole Order is required to be subject to the Archbishop of 
Dublin, which might mar the spreading of the Order or give occasion to trouble- 
some remonstrances. 

<< I must say I was somewhat surprised at reading the first difficulty. I never 
thought of procuring for the Sisters of Charity the dignity of a religious order. 
Their name is the Piowt Cot^regation of the Sisters of Charity. The approbation of 
their Constitutions by the Holy See would give them no title to the privileges of^a 
religious order, nor would it take the holy engagement into which the Sisters enter 
out of the rank of simple vows. Benedict XIV. in his Brief, Quamris juato, clearly 
draws the distinction between the approbation of the rulen of a pious Institute by 
the Holy See and the approbation of the Institute itself. Proving that the Vtiyinet 
Anfflicanae did not constitute a religious order, though their rules were approved by 
Clement XI. in his Brief, Inserutabili. His Holiness says : * Ipsis denique Literis 
apposita legitur clausula salutaris, videlicet, "Caeterum non intendimus per 
praesentes ipsum Conservatorium in aliquo approbare " : quae tunc apponi con- 
snevit cum approbantur sen confirmantur Begulae alicujus Couservatorii aut 
Konasterii muUerum sine clausura viventium.* His Holiness afterwards decides 
authoritatively, 'Virgines Anglicanas non esse vere Beligiosas,' and that th^ 
promises are but simple vows. Now these are precisely the Rules m approved by 
Clement XI. and confirmed by Benedict XIT., under which the first foundresses of 
oar Sisters of Charity were in York trained to a religious life, and under which 
Rifles they were ordered to live, as far as should be compatible with the duties of 
their Institute. Finding that, for this purpose, extensive alterations should be 
made, they thought it better, with the approbation of my illustrious predecessor, 
retaining the spirit of their former rules, to form a new body of regulations more 
analogfous to their present duties. This is the body of regulations submitted to the 
Holy See by my predecessor and by me, and we solicited for it only the same ap- 
probation which had been given to the rules under which the Sisters had, as far as 
possible, previously Uved. 

** The second difficulty exists only in name. The Sisters are looked on with 
veneration by all. I never heard of an insult being offered to them, and you will, 
perhap:!, be surprised to learn that when they visit the poor female convicts in the 
jaU of Eilmainham (as they are in the habit of doing) they are always welcomed by 
all the officers of the prison, and are treated by them on all occasions with every 
possible mark of respect. 

'* To the third difficulty I say that the Chef-lieuy or Mother House of the 
Institute, is in Dublin. That is the natural residence of the Superioress, as it 
affords the greatest faoOity of communication. The Institute, too, was established 
principally for Dublin ; and, if other Prelates introduce it into their dioceses, thia 
regulation could not afford any grievous ground of offence, as the Sisters are sub- 
ject in each diocese to the jurisdiction of the Ordinary. But if it be expedient ta 
alter this regulation, let it be so done : I do not object to the change. 

** Yours affectionately in Christ, 

Those who are interested in this subject must for fuller details 
consult Mrs. Atkinson's admirable biography of Mary Aikenhead^ 

Michael Blakcy Bishop of Dromore, t377 

Foundress of the Irish Sisters of Charity. We are only supple- 
menting it on this point by extracts from the original correspon- 
dence placed in our hands. The last reference that we notice is in 
the letter dated August 20thy 1828, in the middle of which Dr. 
Murray says : " As for the constitutions of the Sisters of Charity, 
I hardly venture to touch upon them, hut I think you will be in 
danger of being sent back if you return without them." Dr. 
Meagher, in a note to his sermon at the funeral of Archbishop 
Murray, states that he afterwards, in a personal interview with the 
Pope, obtained still higher privileges for the Sisters of Charity. 

Meanwhile Mary Catherine Macaulay had, with great courage 
smd energy, begun the kindred yet very distinct Institute of the 
Sisters of Mercy. Of this Order, also, Dr. Blake was in a material 
and literal sense a founder, for we read in the delightful Life of 
Mrs. Macaulay, by Mother Austin Carroll of New Orleans, that 
'* early in July, 1824, the first stone of the Mother House, in 
Baggot-street, Dublin, was blessed and laid by the Very Rev. Dr. 
Blake ; but just as the building was commenced, he was called ta 
Rome " — ^for the object that we wot of. Thirty years later we find 
him giving a little mark of his paternal affection for the young 
house of that Sisterhood which he had established in Newry. The 
firm, minute, and perfectly formed handwriting is wonderful for a 
man in his Slst year : — 

« Violet HiU, Newry, 

"July 2nd, 1856. 
'< Dbab Ret. Motueb, 

** I beg the acceptance by you and your venerable community of the picture of 
Our Lord's Crncifixion, which I purchased while lately in Dublin and received here 
yesterday evening. The expression of the countenance is full of agony and charity, 
and seems to repeat to us, * Not my will, O Father, but thine be done.* 

*' Tou will nptice the shades and lights in the picture when you are about to 
place it on the wall of the chapel. The shades should be farthest off from the 
window, in order to give proper relief to the more lightsome parts. 

** Hoping that you and all your children in CJhrist are in good health, and all 

** I renuiin, dear Rev. Mother, 

** Your faithful servant in Christ, 

** Michael Bljlkk. 
'* 77#<? Rev. Mother Superioress of t/te Cofivetit of MereyJ^"* 

I passing on from this topic we may emphasise Dr. Blake's 
share in the work by quoting a passage from Dr. Moriarty's ser- 
mon at his Month's Mind ; and we continue the quotation beyond 
what regards the Sisters of Mercy, though some topics are touched 

378 The IriHh Monthly. 

upon whiph we have already referred to, and some to which we 
must return : — 

** Br. Blake aided with all his energy and his wiadom the late Mrs. M'Aolej in 
the foundation of the Order of the Sisters of Meroy — an Order whioh is the greatest 
glory of Ireland's latter days — an Order which has been blessed with a wonderful 
efficiency for all g^ood works, and with a most sing^alar and almost miracoloiiM 
fecundity. Planted, like the grain of mustard-seed, in the parish of St. Andrew's, 
some years ago, it has literally spread to the very ends of the earth, bearing to 
every clime the embodied image of that meroy whioh came from heaven to seek 
what was lost, to bind what was broken, and to strengthen what was weak. 
Wherever that Order dwells, let it be known that it owes its existence and its form 
in a great measure to the illustrious Dr. Blake. Several charitable institutions, 
such as St. Joseph's Asylum, Fortiand Bow, the Purgatorian Societies, and others, 
owe their existence to his charity. Charity made him a patriot in the true sense of 
the word, and he did love his country very warmly. I mentioned before his earnest 
•co-operation with O'Gonnell in all his struggles for the liberation of Ireland. But 
Dr. Blake was not one of those narrow-minded men who can sympathise only with 
those who think and act like themselves. He loved all who sincerely loved their 
native land, whether they were old or young. I will mention one fact illustrative 
of Dr. Blake's charity, and illustrative of his whole character, ever practical, ever 
active, ever inventive in well-doing. When in Dublin, he peroeived the little 
chimney sweepers of the city were most destitute of spiritual care. Put to their 
wretched trade in earliest childhood, they had no opportunity of getting school 
education. Their sooty faces and their dirty clothes prevented their attendance at 
worship or instruction on Sundays. He brought them togfether in a little confra- 
ternity. He provided them with clothes, that they might sanctify the Sunday by 
attending at Kass. He induced them by little rewards and feasts to meet for 
instruction in catechism, and it was his practice on Christmas-day to eat his own 
Christmas dinner at the same table and in company with these poor little i^mney- 
£weepers. He, whose courtesy of manner and dignity of bearing would have 
g^raced the most brilliant society, never feasted more cheerfully than^ with these 
tlie poorest and lowliest of his flock." 

There is a phrase in this passage whioh seems to me to illustrate 
rather strikingly the difficulty which often puzzles us as to the 
meaning of certain things in ancient authors, whioh, no doubt, to 
their contemporaries appeared perfectly dear and intelligible. 
" He loved all who sincerely loved their native land, wfiether they 
were old or young^ Many of our readers are too yoimg to detect 
in the words I have italicised a clever allusion to the unhappy 
divisions towards the close of O'Connell's life, which broke up the 
Irish Nationalists into Old Ireland and Young Ireland. Though 
devoted to O'Connell, Dr. Blake, like Dr. Moriarty himself, was 
able to appreciate the fine qualities of Qavan Duffy and his con- 
federates ; and accordingly he appeared as a witness for the de- 
fence, not only in the State Trials of 1844, but also five years latei- 

Michael Shke^ Bishop of Dromore, 379 

in the trial of the editor of The Nation, On the first of these 
two oocasionB he addressed the following letter to his devoted and 
T^ued friend, Mr. James Murphy : — 

" Violet Hill, N«wry, 

« January 28, 1844. 
'' DiAH Mb. Mubfht, 

" I recelTed a letter this morning from Jir. M. Grean, Deputy Secretary to the 
Bepeal ABsociation, and another from Mr. Gartlan, law agent for the trayeraeii 
in the caufie now pending, reque^sting that I would attend in Dublin to give testi- 
mony on Wednesday next. I regret very much that I have been selected for that 
^purpose, for I live so seoluded from political society and so confined to my own 
profeflsional dutiee, that my testimoay can amount to very little ; and though I 
otjntbme my usual exertions here, I am still much annoyed by a night-cough. 
The state of my hearing also makes me apprehensive of acquitting myself very im- 
perfectly when I have to answer interrogations. However, as the request has been 
sent to me, I thought it right at least to show my goodwill ; and therefore I have 
written to Mr. Crean that I will be in Dublin, please God, on next Tuesday even- 
ing. I have endeavoured to make him sensible of my unfitness for rendering the 
service for which I have been selected, but that I would attend unless I should 
receive a counter notice. 

'*! beg, therefore, to trouble you with two requests : first, that you will provide 
for me a lodging in Mr. Walsh's for Tuesday and Wednesday night, and secondly, 
that you will enquire of Mr. Orean .whether my attendance be still considered ex- 

'* As I must engage my seat immediately for Tuesday, there will not be time 
for receiving your answer until I arrive in Dublin. 

" I remain very sincerely, 

** Dear Mr. Murphy, 

** Your faithful servant, 

"M. Blaxb." 

The eloquent Bishop of Kerry, in the passage quoted before 
this letter, merely names St. Joseph's Asylum, Portland-row, 
Dublin; yet this institution is entitled to mose than a pas- 
sing mention in any sketch of Dr. Blake. Among the many 
*%vorks of christian benevolence which he foimded or helped to 
maintain, this was, perhaps, his work of predilection.* It is still 
maintained in full vigour among us, and it has quite recently 
been placed on a still more permanent basis by being confided to 
the care of a community of the Poor Servants of the Mother of 

* A very interesting account of St. Joseph's and of some holy souls connected 
vrith it — Dr.* Blake himself. Father Henry Young, Lady Qeorgiana Fullerton, and 
MiM Ellen Kerr— will be found in a little book published by the Catholic Trutli 
Society : ** A Shrine and a Story," by the author of Ty borne , whom we venture t<» 
identify with Mother Magdalen Taylor, the Superior-General of the newest com- 
munity introduced into Dublin to take charge of St. Joseph's Asylum. 

'i80 The Irish Monthly. 

God. His ohief co-operator in founding and maintaining tkis 
Asylum for single females of unblemished life was Mr. James 
Murphy, who is still, after more than half a century, as earnest 
and as active in promoting the welfare of this holy institution 
as he has been without intermission every we^ during all the 
intervening years. In all likelihood this will be Dr. Blake's most 
lasting memorial. Every sermon preached for its benefit, every 
document issued in connection with it, mentions him as the founder. 
His interest endured till his death, and no doubt beyond it. It 
was he who preached the first charity sermon for this his favourite 
institution in the Church of the •Jesuit Fathers, St. Francis 
Xavier's, Upper Qturdiner Street, on the 5th of May, 1839'; and 
for the following six years consecutively he came to Dublin to 
plead the same cause, in the same church which has listened to the 
same appeal every year since then. The last sermon he ever 
preached in his old diocese was delivered in the little church of 
St. Joseph, Portland Row, on the occasion of the dedication of the 
church, October 15th, 1856, thus testifying how enduring was 
his interest in this institution. Another instance of his solicitude 
for St. Joseph's : when he himself could no longer, on account of 
his advanced age and infirmities, journey to Dublin to preach the 
Annual Sermon, he deputed his venerated coadjutor, the Most 
Rev. Dr. Leahy, to do so on two occasions. And in his last will 
he says : " I hereby direct my executors to divide my assets into 
twelve shares, of which three shares are to be given to the benefit 
of St. Joseph's Asylum, Portland Row, Dublin, that my soul may 
be prayed for by its inmates in offering up their prayers, particu- 
larly at Mass." The other participators in his posthumous 
charity only receive two shares or one. 

In previous portions of this necessarily desultory sketch we 
have alluded incidentally to the cordial friendship between Dr. 
Blake and O'Connell. The library of the University of Notre 
Dame, in Indiana, has a copy of O'Connell's " Memoir of Ireland, 
Native and Saxon," on the fly-leaf of which is this inscription in 
the big, brawny hand-writing of the Liberator: "Respectfully 
and affectionately inscribed to his ever- venerated friend, the Right 
Rev. Dr. Blake, Lord Bishop of Dromore, by Daniel O'Connell, 
M.P., February 15, 1843." At a public meeting in Dublin he 
paid this tribute : — 

'* A more pure apostle was not in the Church from the days of St. Peter to tlie 

Michael Blake^ Buhop of Dromore. 381 

present — 9. heart more disengaged from all that the world had of imworthlnesa. A 
spirit more pious never entered the presence of the Fountain of laght and Hetj — a 
human being more devoted to all his duties — the fearless friend of the poor, the 
example of the wealthier classes, the dauntless corrector of the vices, of the great ; 
he whom no pestilence could deter from the dying bed of the wretched parishioner — 
whom no quantity of property could bribe to the least desertion of his duty, 
lliat man had declared himself one of the foremost in the struggle for Repeal, and 
his adhesion gave a kind of sanctification to their cause, and, he would say, exalted 
the patriotism that animated them in seeking to restore to Ireland her national inde- 

In the same spirit Father Mathew had spoken of him publicly 
in 1841, as " that bishop after St. Paul's own heart." A little 
• later Gavan DuSj fttw the old bishop under peouUar cirouni- 
fitanoes, which he thus describes in his volume, Young Ireland : — 

** From Downpatrick we went to Ballynahinch, and thence to Banbridge, where 
Mitchel resides. Next morning two of us went to Mass in the Parish Chapel, and 
witnessed a scene singularly solemn and impressive. A venerable old man, whose 
liead I thought' I would have recognised as the head of a Christian £ishop if I met 
it in an African desert, was receiving a public offender back into the Church. He 
•questioned him as to the sincerity of his repentance, then prayed over him and 
exhorted the c<)ngregation, in language wonderfully impressive, to be charitable to 
their erring brother, as they too might fall. ' 

We have given sundry indications that Dr. Blake belonged, not 
to the school of saints who are easy on others and hard only on 
themselves, but to that class of saints who are hard both on others 
and on themselves. Yet he had a kind and affectionate heart, and 
was easily propitiated by anything that looked like sincere humil- 
ity and repentance. Towards himself he was more implacable. 
He was a rigorous faster. He did not look with much favour on 
modem improvements in that department. We have seen how he 
still observed, and encouraged others to observe, abstinence on 
Wednesday and Saturday. During Lent he never tasted flesh- 
meat, and took but one meal of Lenten fare after noon with a cup 
of thin gruel at night. Nay, the yoimg lads in his seminary were 
supposed, in accordance with immemorial tradition, to crave per- 
mission from him to abstain from flesh-meat during the entire 
Lent ; and this petition he always received with the ejaculation, 
^' Thank God ! " — and he was wont to point to his " young men " 
from the pulpit at the end of Lent, as proving by their appearance 
the excellent effect of this austere regimen. All through the year, 
as his housekeeper (dead these many years) informed my informant, 

382 The Lish Monthly. 

he never made a remark about his f ood, whether it suited him or 
not, although his health in his last years required great care in 
this respect. Instead of calling on his attendant, he would him- 
self oarry large books upstairs, whilst so feeble as to be forced to 
rest several times on the way. He once rebuked a servant sharply 
in the presence of others, for naturally his temper was quick ; but 
he took occasion that same evening, when all the servants were 
together, to make an humble apology. 

He made his visitation of every parish in his not very exten- 
sive diocese every year, examining every child carefully in Ghns* 
tian Doctrine. He distributed edition after edition of an excellent 
prayerbook which he compiled for his people*. In his own Cathe- 
dral in Newry he preached assiduously to his people, even when 
so enfeebled and crippled as to require the assistance of two per- 
sons to make his way into the pulpit. We do not pretend that 
the eagerness of all his flock to hear their old bishop, with the 
snows of eighty-five winters upon his head, was equal to his 
fidelity to his supposed duty. For instance, one poor woman, who 
was probably responsible for the Sunday dinner of her husband 
and several healthy young appetites, was overheard remarking 
on such an occasion : ^' Lord bless us, the putting him in and 
getting him out will take an hour ! " — and off she started to cater 
for the healthy appetites aforesaid. The reader will notice here 
and elsewhere our readiness to admit a little shading into the pic- 
ture by way of variety, if the materials requisite for this purpose 
had been forthcoming. 

From sundry published books, some of which we have named, 
and from the memories of certain priests and others who were once 
younger than they are, it would be possible to gather several other 
particulars about Michael Blake, Bishop of Dromore. But, pro- 
bably, it is more judicious to leave off here ; and, in doing so, I 
have before my mind a remark of Sir Arthur Helps that " the art 
of leaving off judiciously is but the art of beginning something 
else which needs to be done." 

Among the notes that I have passed over, one refers to letters 
published in the newspapers* by Dr. Blake in the beginning of his 

* I find these daten in the Annals of BatteT»b7's Irifih Catholic Directory for 
1838 ; but a hurried visit to the library of Olonliffe College did not enable me to 
find the letters in its valuable series of I%e Freeman's Journal, At that time 
bishope and priests divided their patronage as regards such documents between 

Michael Blake^ Bishop ofDromore. 383 

episcopate: about the hardships of Catholic tenants in Newry 
(Jan. 14, 1836), and about the Elections (July 28, 1837). Of a 
very different nature is the last letter we shall quote from our old 
bishop, the latest specimen of his handwriting, firm and dear to 
the end, dated a few months before his death : — 

'* Violet Hill, Newry, 

" Au^ruat 18, 1859. 
*' Dbab Rsyrbbitd Mothbb, 

<< I recommend that it be understood generally that largfe contributions of money 
are not expected from charitable donors for the objects of your Institution. The 
widow's mite, when offered from a truly charitable motive, is very acceptable in the 
sight of God. A crown or half-crown, or a shUling or a sixpence, when frequently 
griven, is more likely to be of service on ordinary occasions and more likely to 
exercise a spirit of charity thann larger sum, and when that spirit is often exer- 
cised, it becomes habitual, and not only easy but gratifjring to its possessor. I 
know that my clerg^y ai^ not able to a^ve much almsdeeds or to do great pecuniary 
rharitable acts, and I may say the same of myself ; but a small sum given from 
time to time would not long be missed when given for so good and so great a pur- 
pose. I am anxious, therefore, to encourage that practice, and I wish to beg^ by 
example, and now send as my first contribution one pound as some littie impulse 
for the success of the little plan for the poor which I have so much at heart. May 
the Pather of Mercies and the Ood of all consolation pour in upon your establish- 
ment abundance of means for the constant exercise of that special virtue which is 
so dear to Him, is the fervent prayer, 

" Dear Eeverend Mother, 

" Of your faithful servant in Christ, 

** Michael Blakb. 
" To the JRev. Mother Superior of the venerable eommtmity 
of the Stater H of Mercy in Newry^ 

The fatherly regard which Dr. Blake thus to the last showed 
towards the Sisters of Mercy did not diminish the interest he had 
taken from the first in the pioneer convent of the Black North — 
the Poor Clares who had boldly sent out a colony from Harold's 
Cross, Dublin, to the High Street of Newry, some thirty years 
before the first Sisters of Mercy ventured across the Boyne. The 
two communities also shared equally iii the distribution of his little 
property directed in his will. 

That testament began with these words : " I bequeath my soul 
to God, firmly believing in the gracious promises of my Divine 
Bedeemer, and humbly confident of His mercy. I desire that my 
body may be buried in the graveyard adjoining the old Eoman 

The Freeman and The Dublin Evening Fo»ty which makes it harder to trace references 
of this kind than it would be nowadays, when The Freeman enjoys a monopoly of 
this branch of literature. 

384 The Irish Monthly. 

Oaiholio Church of -Newrj, without any unneoessarj expense, in a 
plain coffin, .and that a slab or small headstone be placed at the 
head of my grave, with a simple inscription expressive of my 
humble hope of a. happy resurrection, and supplicating those who 
come after me to pray for the happy repose of my immortal soul," 
The Bishop was buried accordingly in the graveyard of the Old 
Chapel ; but the following inscription has not obeyed his other 
directions perhaps as fully as his humility would have desired. It 
may fitly conclude the sketch, which it summarises well, adding 
the only remaining date, the day and year of Dr. Blake's death : — 

" Here lies the body of the Eight Eev. Michael Blake, D.D., 
for twenty-seven years Bishop of Dromore. Previously Vicar- 
General of Dublin, Restorer and Bector^of the Irish College at 
Rome. The whole course of his long life wap distinguished by 
piety, charity to the poor, and zeal ft)r the interests of religion. 
Unwearied in the fulfilment of his arduous duties, he continued to 
discharge them assiduously, even when bowed down by age and 
infirmities ; and he never ceased to preach the words of eternal life 
until he was laid in the bed of deatii. Born 16th July, 1776, he 
died 6th March, 1860, in the sure hope of the final resurrection. 
Pray for his repose." 

And so of a holy life, and of a simple and straggling record of 
it, this is at last 


Sick Calk, 385 


AOANDLE-TJGHT in window pane, 
Beneath a seaside thatch ; 
A dim sail on the sobbing main, 

Two eyes that weep and watch. 
Two lips that move in prayer ; two hearts 

Eaoh yearning unto each, — 
One in frail boat, far, far afloat, 
One on the windy beach ! 

A wild wind from the stormy moon. 

The shriek of lashing foam ; 
A ghostly gale, like banshee's wail 

Around a silent home. 
Where seagulls dip in snowy surge, 

A white face in the morn ; 
A winding sheet, a woman's dirge, 

A life for aye forlorn. 

Patrick J. Colkman. 


THEY lived by the boundary wall of a demesne at the side of 
a bridle road. When the summer sun was shining, and yoii 
looked up along the aocKvity towards the place, it was very calm 
and inviting ; or as you passed in the rich moonlight nights, and 
saw the majesty of the grand beech trees or chestnuts, and their 
distant shadows on the lane, it looked romantic. 

They were an old couple, very old. The husband was eighty- 
four and some months, and the woman was not far behind in th<^ 
scoring. They lived in what was once a strong dwellinghouse^ 
but which was old and unoared for now ; and they were old and 
worn too— one of them deaf and the other nearly blind, living oa 
two shillings or 2s. 6d. a- week, outdoor relief. 

Vol. xmx. No. 205. 77 

386 Th^ Tmh Monthli/. 

It was in the early part of a dark rainy night I was called to 
the old woman. The kitchen was full of kippeem or faggots ; the 
old man hung groping over the fire, and the invalid was in '^ the 
room." A neighbouring woman got some things ready for me. 
The bed was wretched, the walls were black and damp, and the 
rain through the roof dropped and pattered on the floor, so that a 
piece of a board was laid on the floor for me to stand on. Never 
a word of complaint from that poor woman ; the only thing that 
troubled her was — " Oh vo ! that the poor priest had to come out 
in sich a night ! " 

I " prepared " her, gave her Holy Viaticum, anointed her, 
and when all was over, " Father," she said, " I feel so happy that, 
if you like, asthorey I'll sing you a song." 

I asked the woman in attendance to get the poor old couple 
some nourishment, and left, thanking God for giving such happi- 
ness of mind to our poor. 

After a time she recovered ; but quite recently I was called to 
the old man. He was religious and pious all his days ; and when 
he was told that the priest was now come, he began to cry out in 
his earnestness — " Oh, how can I ever meet God ? How can I 
«ver go before God? " It was not despair at all — ^it was an over- 
whelming sense of the purity of God ; something akin to what 
drew from the Centurion the cry, memorable ever since — " Lor<i, 
I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof." Ho 
received the Holy Viaticum calmly and with intense devotion. 
When he was told about the effects of Extreme Unction and how it 
takes away the sins of our eyes and of each of our senses, and 
when I said to him, " I am going to do that now " ; and then as I 
anointed his eyes, " thank you," he said — ^and his ears, " thank 
you " — ^and his nostrils and lips, " thank ypu." When I anointed 
his hands, he raised them hastily to his lips, and kissed them 
warmly and heartily ; and then he cried, '' Now when I m^et God, 
I can shake hands with ELim." And he kissed them again and 
again, crying out, '* Now when I meet my God, I can shake hands 
with Him." 

E. O'K. 

Note^ on New Books, 387 


1. The Coadjutor Bishop of Olonfert has made a noble addition 
to our Irish historical literature in giving us this large octavo volume 
entitled '* Insula Sanctorum et Doctorum, or Ireland's Ancient Schools 
and Scholars," (Dublin : Sealj, Bryers» and Walker). The seoondarj 
title recalls to one's mind Mother Eaphael Drane's most learned work, 
'* Christian Schools and Scholars," and we intend to give the highest 
praise to both works when we say that thej are worthy of being 
named together. The researches, however, which the Irish bishop 
had to make in the performance of his task were of a much more 
original and difficult kind ; he has not only pored over the old books 
and manuscripts in the libraries, but he has examined every grave- 
yard and ruin in Ireland that may have been connected with any part 
of his subject. He has the true antiquarian spirit, but, luckily, for 
setting forth his stores of learning he had at his command a much 
better medium than the lumbering style that has found favour with 
too many learned antiquaries. Dr. Healy, on the other hand, does not 
aim at the ostentatiously picturesque manner of some of our modems, 
who set themselves to popularise history or philosophy. His style is 
clear^ unaffected,^ and vigorous,* and it is peculiarly fitted for his 
present theme. The book opens well with a large map of " Ancient 
Ireland, showing the ancient schools and principal territorial divisions 
before the Anglo-Norman Invasion." Our little island is represented 
as consisting of only two parts, divided by a line running almost 
straight from Dublin to Galway. We cannot now mention in even 
the most summary way, the contents of the twenty-four chapters which 
are analysed at the beginning more fully and satisfactorily than they 
are indexed at the end of this volume. All about druids, bards, and 
brehons — all about Irish schools and scholars before St. Patrick and 
after St. Patrick— all about St. Patrick himself, and St. Brigid, and 
St Colman of Dromore, St. Enda of Arran, St. Einnian of Clonard, 
St. Brendan of Clonf ert, St. Finnian of MoviQe, St. Ciaran of Clon- 

* We yenture to olaim for this Magazine the diotinotion of having been Dr. 
Uealy'B first medium of publioation, In our seventh volume, for instanoe, we notice 
elaborate papers from his pen on Lough Derg, on Giraldna Gambrensis, and on the 
Annals of Lough Key. Will the learned prelate allow us to identifj him with the 
** J. H." who at page 638 of our fifth volume throws into fine rolling ballad metre 
*' Hugh Boe O'Dozmell's Address to his soldiers before the Battle of the Curlew 
Kountains " ? This poem alone shows the writer's wonderfully minute acquaint- 
anoe with Irish topography. An Irish schoolboy could not desiie a more spirited 
piece for declamation. 

388 The Irish Monthly. 

macnoise, St. Gerald of Mayo, St. Columba, [St. Fmtan, St. Aen^us, 
St. Laurence O'Toole, and a great many other shunts, and many 
learned and holy men nncanonised : these are only a few of the sab- 
jects on which henceforth every student of the early history of Ghris- 
tian Ireland will be bound to consult the author of '' Insula Sanctorum 
et Doctorum, or Ireland's Ancient Schools and Scholars." 

2. Why do we speak of Father Da Fonte ? It is by this name 
that Father Fa^er quotes him. The Italian form is rather del PatUe ; 
and why should we make him an Italian ? In his own Spanish the 
name is de la Puente, in Latin De Fonte, in French Dapont, and, if 
English were equally tyrannical in making foreign names conform to 
its own pattern, we should have a name common enough in England 
and call him Father Le^is Bridge. Ferhaps the Latin form is the 
best compromise, just as we speak of Blessed Peter Faber, and not by 
his Savoyard name of Favre. Father De Fonte came into the world 
when the Society of Jesus was just twenty years old, and he was him- 
self twenty years old when he entered the Society. When we add 
the fundamental date — ^namely, that 1534 was the birth-year of the 
Company of Jesus — we fix Father De Ponte's place with regard to St. 
Ignatius, of whose Ezerdtia Spiritualia he is the most celebrated 
commentator, and we see how near to the fountain-head was this 
copious stream of spirituality, which has ever since refreshed souls in-^ 
numerable. His immediate master in the religious life was Father 
Baltassar Alvarez, whose greatest glory is derived from St. Theresa, 
whose confessor he was fpr some time. He was debarred by his con- 
stant delicacy — tenui vel potius nuUa valetudine — from other sacred 
ministries, and he determined to try and make some compensation 
with his pen. To how many thousands of chosen souls has he preached 
in the most effective manner during these three centuries ? Father 
Lehmkuhl, S.J.— whose own work on Moral Theology has been by 
far the greatest success of our time in its special department — has 
edited for Herder of Friburg a new edition of the Latin translation of 
Father De Fonte's Meditations, in six handy volumes, which will help 
many a priest in the twentieth century '* not to degenerate from the 
high thoughts of the sons of Ood." 

3. Two Tales that had dropped out of print have reappeared in 
second editions. One is " The Wild Birds of Killeevy," by Rosa Mul- 
holland (London : Bums and Gates'). The form in which it is repro- 
duced is just as pretty as before, while the price is much less. This 
idyllic romance is, in the judgment of many, even more full of the 
author's characteristic charm than her more matter-of-fact novels^ 
^' Marcella Grace," and '' A Fair Emigrant " — to name only the more 
recent volumes which are still procurable. The other reprint is Mrs. 

Notes on Netc Boohs, 389 

Frank Pentrill's *' OdHe," (DubHn : M. H. QiU and Son). This " Tale 
of the 'Commune " is really too cheap at a florin — two hundred pages 
of such bold tjpe in a handsome binding. Catholic households and 
<3atholic libraries will do well to add it to their stores. It is whole- 
some and pleasant. The writer knows well the French scenes and 
characters she describes, and, besides having a good story to tell, she 
has a bright, pure, clever style to tell it with. 

4. We have a word, good or bad, for every book that asks a word 
from us ; and therefore, though it is somewhat abrupt and incongruous 
after welcoming a new edition of *' The Wild Birds of Killeevy," we 
announce the first volume of Dr. Jungmann's edition of Feseler's ''In- 
stitutiones Patrologise," published by Pustet of Batisbon, Cincinnati 
and New York. The well-known IVofessor of Ecclesiastical History 
in the Catholic University of Louvain has vastly increased the utility 
of the original work, which was already distinguished for the German 
fulness and accuracy of its erudition and for its methodical arrange- 
ment. It is a most interesting and useful guide to the study of the 
works of all the Fathers of the Church, and teems with information 
about every point connected with Patristic literature ; and it is mani- 
festly the fruit of many years of patient research not only on the part 
of the author, but also on that of his new editor, who has greatly 
added to some parts of the work and condensed others. Dr. Jung- 
mann has a high reputation not only as an historian but as a theolo- 
gian, and his latest task required both qualifications. 

5. It approaches perilously near to that self-praise which the 
proverb makes out to be no praise at all, to quote in these pages any 
kind opinions expressed about " The Harp of Jesus," (Dublin : M. H. 

*<}ill and Son). But our advertising columns have become so valuable 
that we caimot afford tu insert there any extracts from the criticismi^ 
of this little book. We venture to quote a few in this place in the 
hope that they may induce some others who have charge of children 
(besides the veiy many who have already done so), to give the author 
a chance of reaching a few additional thousands of these young hearts. 
The Dublin Sevifw of April, 1890 — which, by the way, cherishes 
sanguine hopes of seeing Aubrey deVere succeed Lord Tennyson 
as Poet-Laureate^is good enough to mention ''The Harp of Jesus" 
in two places. At page 470 it is said : — '* This tiny volume, styled 
on the title-page 'A Prayerbook in Verse,' ought to have a place 
among the devotional books of every Catholic. Prayers and aspira- 
tions, beautiful in their simplicity, are given metrical form in melo- 
dious verse, facilitating their committal to memory. It is, for this 
reason, specially adapted to children, but not the less will the older 
generation find in it ideas to elevate and instruct." Twenty pages 

390 Tlie Irish Monthly. 

further on, aaoiher reviewer describes the same little volume aa ''a 
pleasing book of religious verse, embracing a large number of 
transcriptions of ordinary prayers, by a well-known writer." At 
greater length The Weekly Register of May 24, 1890, pronounces 
this kindly judgment: — 

'* Poetay and piety have conspired with charminK effect in Father Kiuifiell^B latest 
and well -named little book, Tht Harp of Jews, It is a prayer-book in yerBe, a 
little breviary, or book of hours for children, and for those gprown-up persons who 
have kept their child-heart pious in the thought that Qod \& their Father, and that 
they are His children, a relation which is the ▼ery essence of ^ecy and the very 
meaning of the word. Following the Venerable Bede, Father Kusseli thinks that 
the young may be drawn more easily to learn and to recite prayers in rhyme, and 
M(i < to lisp in numbers,' though they may not be budding poets. And the Tones of 
this book will admirably attain that end ; fervent as they are, and pithy, and to 
the point. There is a subtle and seemingly almost artless art in many of the^ 
paraphrases. The * Our Father,' the ' Hail mary,' the * Apostles' Creed.' Uie prose 
of these no poet shall supersede ; but we do not feel the same about * llie Medita- 
tion on the 8ig^ of the Cross,' or * The Acts of Faith, Hope, Charity and Con- 
trition.' The book is small enough, as well as pleasant and pious enough, to be 
carried in the breast pocket — near the heart." 

6. Some of our readers may occasionally have noticed that we do 
not feel bound to praise a book merely because it happens to be 
written by a well-intentioned Catholic and brought out by a Catholic 
publisher. In particular we have a sort of spite against stories with 
a controversial smack where everything is edifying and smooth in 
religious matters, but where often the story is very poor and the 
theology somewhat childish. This personal observation is meant to 
emphasise the hearty praise that we are able to bestow on a new book 
by Mrs. Parsons, '^ Thomas Rileton " (London : Burns and Gates). 
It is, indeed, frankly controversial, but the controversy is very good 
of its kind, and it is boiled down judiciously in an interesting narra* 
tive with a good many nice characters and a fair amount of incident. 
The rescue of Dedding*s daughter is not made probable enough, as 
far as a rather precipitate reader could perceive. Are not the con- 
versions a little overcrowded ? Mrs. Parsons has an excellent style of 
her own, and that is a great advantage even in a religious novel. 

7. The publisher of Father Lehmkuhl's De Ponte — Herder of 
Freiburg, who has houses also in Munich, Strasburg, and Vienna — 
publishes at St. Louis in Missouri an admirable essay by Mr. Conde 
Fallen, '* The Catholic Church and Socialism.*' Of a more practical 
character are two earnest addresses to the Brothers of the Oratory of 
St. Philip Neri in London which Father Kenelm Digby Best has 
published under the title '* Why no good Catholic can he a Socialiit '* 
(London : Bums and Oates). The Oratorian Father discusses Social- 
ism in its relations with property, and with authority, quoting many 
decrees bearing on the subject. 

8. Father Monsabr^, O.P., who has filled the pulpit of Notre 

Notes on Netc Books, 391 

Dame in Paris for some twenty Lents, devoted one series of his con- 
ferences to Christian Matrimony. M. Hopper has translated this 
Tolimie, and the Benzigers (New York, Chicago, and Cincinnati) havo 
published it with fitting care. Yet we think many parts of the book 
are unsuited for this country, however it may be with the original 
hearers, many of them prone to be influenced by the corrupt society 
around them. 

9. We fear it is late to announce Mr. Wilfrid Robinson's " Pil- 
.grim's Handbook to Jerusalem" (London : Burns and Gates), illus- 
trated with several maps and plans, but printed on very thin paper : 
too late especially as even this paragraph has by accident been held 
•over in type for more than a month. 

10. Mr. Washboume, 18 Paternoster How, London, has issued a 
large illustrated and illuminated card for framing, with room for the 
•entry of the dates of baptism, confirmation, and first communion. By 
the way it was to a book issued by this Publisher that the puzzling 
initials, I. O. G. D., were affixed. We are informed that these letters 
stand for In omnibus glorifieeiur Deun, and we are referred to the fifty- 
seventh chapter of *^ St. Benedict's Bule." 

11. Father Henry Sebastian Bowden, of the Gratory, has prefixed 
•an introduction on certainty to an authorised translation of the first 
volume of Hettinger's great work, ** Apology for Christianity.*' This 
volume is called *' Natural Beligion'' .another will follow on 
Bevealed Beligion. This work is pronoimced by those most competent 
to judge to be a work of the most solid merit, and Father Bowden 
has conferred a great service on the student of philosophy and theology 
to whom the German language is a^ insuperable barrier. The Eng- 
lish version seems to be admirably executed and is produced with 
faultless taste by Bums and Gates. 

12. Two poetical volumes, recently published, can only receive the 
most inadequate notice at present. "Wreaths of Songs from Fields of 
Philosophy " (Dublin : M. H. Gill and Son) is manifestly the work of 
a Professor of Moral Philosophy whose whole soul is steeped and 
saturated in reflections on the most profound and abstract truths. 
Only to a kindred spirit could such songs be intelligible. Many of the 
phrases resemble the literal translation of German compound words ; 
.and there is hardly one of these philosophical lyrics that does not need 
to be interpreted by the poet himself. So interpreted, they would be 
found to be full of high and spiritual thought. Happy the souls that 
can breathe so pure and rarefied an atmosphere ! Gn a lower level, 
nearer to our ordinary work-a-day world, is the other volume of verse, 
published by the same firm, ** Poems of the Past," by Moi-mSme. In 
oiir antipathy for such pen-names we reveal all we know : that this 

392 The Irish Monthly. 

signature often appeared in the defunct Messenger of St. Joseph, and ia 
the Cwrk Examiner^ and that ^'Moi-mSme" is reported to be a nua. 
This volume of 330 pages contains about 200 poems, the very namea 
of which show the poetical spirit of the author, and also her reIigioii» 
spirit. '^ A Child's Heart " is as sweet as any of them, or " Jesus autem 
t4tcebat," or the "Legend of the Robin," or "Wait." But this last, 
though it comes second in the volume, shows what most of the pieces 
show, that this Muse is too much of an Improvisatrice and has not had 
the advantage of any very stern censorship from her own literary 
conscience or from any external monitor. After the first two stanzas 
have determined the metre and accustomed the ear to find the odd 
lines unrhymed, suddenly this covenant is broken through in the third 
stanza without any warning or any reason. Though **Moi-m6me*' 
has a musical ear, she has let many an. unrhythmical line pass 
unchided, and this not merely by constantly treating torn, warm, and 
similar words as dissyllables. " The Opening Leaflet," which comes 
first of aU and might be supposed to be specially on its good 
behavioiir, has at least four lawless lines that refuse utterly to be 
" scanned." This Irish nun has plenty of ideas and plenty of words 
to match ; but her book would have been holier and better for more 
study, more compression, more concentration, more self-criticism of 
sound and sense and tenses and everything, and a more resolute 
striving after that perfection of form of which an English nun has 
furnished a remarkable example in " Songs in the Night." 

13. It is proper to "accuse the reception" of some periodicals 
that take the trouble of coming to us from afar. The American 
Catholic Quarterly y which fully maintains its high standard of merit, 
is henceforth to be edited by the Archbishop of Philadelphia, Dr. P. 
J. Eyan, assisted by two of his priests and Mr. George Dering Wolf, 
who will probably be for it what Mr. Cashel Hoey once was for 7'he 
Dublin Review. Tl^e Catholic World has begun a full and elaborate 
" Life of Father Hecker," its founder and first editor. The Fordhaai 
Monthly is kept up with great -spirit, and must be of , enthralling 
interest for its own immediate world, seeing that it is not without a 
charm even for fogeys and outsiders across some thousand leagues of 
foam and sea-sickness. Le Couteu/x Leader is a bright little paper, 
presided over by a clever pen and a judicious pair of scissors. Tlie 
American Messenger of the Sacred Meart, published at Philadelphia, has 
been made, imder the editorship of Father Baphael Dewey, S. J., quite 
a large religious magazine of high literary merit. In May, 1890, the 
dve Maria celebrated its silver jubilee. It was founded in May, 1865, 
by the Very Eev. Edward Sorin, now Superior-General of the Con- 
gregation of the Holy Cross. Its second editor was Father Gillespie 
till 1 874, and then, after the brief reign of Father Colovin (also dead), 
it came imder the gentle but potent sway of Father Daniel Hudson, 
feliciter regnans. We have heard that its printers (and it is printed 

well) belong to the same sex as the new Senior Wrangler at Cam- 
bridge, PhiHppa Fawcett. 

14. We must end this month with the jojrful announcement that 
Sir Charles Gavan Duffy's "Life of Thomas Davis " (London : Kegan, 
Paul, Trench and Co.) has at last appeared. We can only mention it 
uuw, the first of many times that it is sure to come before our readers. 

A U GU ST, I 890 





BY all who saw her on the day of the Drawin groom Sylvia 
Atherstone was much admired, and universally allowed to b& 
the handsomest and most distinguished looking of all the fair ddhutantes. 
She was, declared these judges of female beauty, the loveliest girl 
tliey had ever seen, and worthy in every respect of the good old name 
she bore. 

But of all this admiration Sylvia was calmly unconscious. She 
was pleased when the ordeal of making her curtsey to the Queen was 
over, and rejoiced to think that she had passed through it without 
betraying any undue nervousness or agitation. But more than this 
nhe did not care. For, as Sir Eustace had said, she was not vain, nor 
likely to become so. Her miud was of too high an order to admit of 
such a petty vice as mere personal vanity. So she troubled herself 
but little as to what anyone might say about her looks or bearing ou 
the day of her presentation. 

But if Sylvia were indifferent as to the judgment pronounced upon 
her by society, on her first appearance at Court, Lady Ashfield was. 
keenly anxious upon the subject. For some time she had been 
tortured with doubts as to the truth of Madge Neil's story. The 
horrible idea that Sylvia might after all be the daughter of poor, 
insignificant people had kept her awake at night and unhappy by day. 
The dream of her life had been to see this beautiful heiress married 
to her only son, Charles Lord Ashfield. But as the dreadful possi- 
Vol.. xviii. No. 206. 78 

394 The Irish Monthly. 

l)ility that she might not be, after all, what she seemed roAe up before 
her, she resolved to be cautious — ^not to push on the marriage till this 
«tory had been carefully looked into and settled one wajr or another 
for ever. Sylvia Atherstone, with her large fortune and blue blood, 
would be a wife fit in every respect for Lord Ashfield ; but the same 
girl, good and beautiful ^ough she might be, without money or 
family, should never wed with son of hers. 

Lord Ashfield was full of what his mother was pleased to call 
** Radical ideas." He professed a decided contempt for persons whose 
only boast was their pedigree and ancient family. He admired 
genius, courting the society of those who had risen by their own 
talents and industry rather than that of gentlemen who coimted kings 
4md crusaders amongst their ancestors. This strange taste, thought 
Lady Ashfield, was the sign of some terrible warp in his nature, and 
would surely lead him into mischief — perhaps be the cause of his 
marrying someone much beneath him in station. But against this 
she was determined to guard. And imtil Madge appeared upon the 
scene, she had considered Sylvia the one only girl whom she would be 
pleased to welcome as her daughter-in-law. And even after she had 
listened to the story of the wreck and heard of the declared substitu- 
tion of one child for another, she was still true to Sylvia. She refused 
to believe Madge's statement, resolved to treat it as a bare-faced 
invention, and showed Lord Ashfield as plainly as she dared that she 
wished him to many Sylvia Atherstone, granddaughter of her best 
4uid oldest friend. 

But then an awful fear took possession of her. What if this tale 
were found to be true? And she trembled lest she should have 
4klready gone too far, have urged this marriage too earnestly upon her 
flon. Then came the recollection of the approaching Drawingroom. 
If she presented Sylvia, she was in a manner responsible for her. 
Hitherto she had not felt uneasy. But now ! What if this girl, whose 
beauty and elegance she had lauded to her friends, should prove to be 
^ nobody ? What if she were found less lovely, less aristocratic look- 
ing than she had imagined her to be, wanting in the many points that 
show birth and family ? What if this should be the verdict pro- 
nounced upon Sylvia on her first appearance in the world ? How she 
would be laughed at for her ignorance and simplicity. 

So as the day of the presentation drew near her soul was torn with 

At last the ominous hour arrived, and Lady Ashfield swept through 
the stately rooms of Buckingham Palace, with Sylvia by her side. 

Suddenly, her doubts melted away. She became completely re- 
assured. All around she saw looks of admiration and approval, and 

A Striking Contrast. 395 

«he gazed at her companion, full of a growing and fixed belief that 
«he was certainly Sir Eustace Atherstone's granddaughter. It was 
not possible to think otherwise. The tall, slim figure ; the graceful, 
Hiignified carriage; the well-shaped head; the dazzlingly beautiful, 
jet high-bred face ; the perfectly easy, unconscious manner of the 
joung girl could only belong to one of good— of noble birth. So, 
there and then. Lady Ashfield's mind was definitely made up. This 
wild story that had filled her with terror was utterly false, and was, 
doubtless, concocted for the purpose of extracting money from her. 
She would see Madge again soon, and buy a promise of silence from 
her, even though it should cost her several hundreds. Thus all fear 
^f trouble on that score would be speedily disposed of, and Sylvia 
should marry Lord Ashfield before the end of the season. 

''Your granddaughter has had a great triumph, Sir Eustace," 
fiaid Lady Ashfield sweetly, as she watched the girl move gracefully 
about amongst the many friends who had come to see her on her 
return from the Drawingroom^ ''She was universally admired, I 
iissure you. And really I do not wonder. I consider her quite 

Sir Eustace smiled, and his eyes rested lovingly on his darling's 

" Indeed," he said, " and was it necessary she should put on a 
train several yards long before you could find that out ? I always 
knew she was perfect." 

"You have had advantages I did not enjoy. But, even so, had I 
been in your place, I would have mistrusted my own judgment a 
little. One never knows what the opinion of society may be, and that 
is the important point, Sir Eustace." 

** Not a bit of it. I don't care one jot what society says or thinks, 
so long as I know that my Sylvia's heart is in the right place. And 
I have only to look in her bonnie eyes to know that." 

" True. But society will not trouble much about that. Hearts go 
for very little, I assure you. However, Sylvia is a success, and I 
congratulate you. And now I must run away. I have two other teas 
to go to on my way home." 

'* It was most kind of you to come to us," said Sir Eustace as he 
^ave her his arm down-stairs, ''you are very good to my child, and 
I tliank you a thousand times." 

"My dear friend, I require no thanks. Eemomber, I look upon 
Sylvia as my daughter. You know I hope to call her so one day." 

"Yes," he answered gravely, "and I feel deeply complimented 
that you should. But pray do not forget that ' iniomme propose, et 
Dieu dispose.' My Sylvia shall do as bhe pleases. I sent away Paul 

396 The Irish Monthly. 

Vyner by your advice, but I will not urge her to marry Lord Ash- 

'^ Of oourse not— I never thought of such a thing. Still I lik» 
you to know what I feel about the dear child." 

" You are very kind. A true friend to us both. And Ashfield is- 
an extremely fine young fellow. But I am selfish in my love. I want 
to keep my darling to myself." 

Lady Asbfield laughed. 

** That you shall not be allowed to do long, I promise you. But 
good-night. We meet this evening at the Treheme's, I suppose ? '^ 

" Yes, Sylvia and I are dining there." 

" Then au revatr. Sir Eustace, au revoir" 

And stepping into her carriage, Lady Ashfield drove away. 

*' Poor old man ! How wrapt up in that girl he is," she cried, a» 
she went along. ^'This story of Madge Neil's would kill him, I 
believe. But he shall never hear it, if I can prevent it. It is only th& 
raving of a mad-woman, but still it would give intense pain and 
worry. But I'll soon put an end to it, and Ashfield shall marry 
Sylvia, I am determined he shall." 

But for some days Lady Ashfield was busy, she had many people 
to visit, many places to go to. And though anxious to see Madge and 
silence her for ever, she dreaded the interview, and postponed it from 
liour to hour. Thus the time passed, and, notwithstanding good 
resolutions she had made, she neither saw nor heard anything of the 
Neills. Lord Ashfield did not mention them again ; and his manner 
to his mother was kind and affectionate as before. 

** He has forgotten them," she said to herself ; '* so much the better. 
I may take my own time and go to Madge when it suits me. There 
is no hurry. But I really expected that Ashfield would have made^ 
more fuss about my visiting those girls. However, I am pleased that 
he does not torment me. He seems now as though he did not care 
whether I went or not." 

But in this Lady Ashfield was mistaken. Her son was far from 
having forgotten the Neills. He remembered them only too well ; 
and not a day passed without his sending fruit, flowers, or books to 
Dora. True, they were not sent in his name, nor did he visit the girls 
in their lodgings. But that was because he felt a dehcacy in doing 
so, since his mother held aloof. He was determined to help them 
more substantially, as soon as he possibly could. This, however, was 
a difficult thing to do, and gave him many hours of anxious thought. 
The sisters were ladies, he felt, in spite of their poor surroimdings *,. 
and from what he had seen of Dorothy, he was sure she would be 
keeniv sensitive. He wanted a woman to advise him as to how h& 

A Striking Contrast. 397 

«hould act ; and he knew not one to whom he could turn for assist- 
4ince. He had pleaded for them with his mother, but siiq had pained 
liim by her cold indifference. Her manner of speaking of Madge, 
and the apparent disUke she had taken to her, wounded him exceed- 
ingly, and he resolved to let the subject drop. He did not wish to 
6ee the girls insulted by having charity dispensed to them through a 
maid ; and that, he saw, was all Lady Ash£eld would do for. them at 
present. So in her presence their names never passed his lips ; and 
she was completely deceived by his seeming forgetfulness 

One day, as Lord Ashfield strolled through the park, pondering 
•deeply over the curious dilemma in which he now found himself, 
he suddenly thought of Sylvia Atherstone. She would surely help 
liim. He had known her as a ohild, as a growing girl. She was 
always kind and generous, and would surely have no difficulty in find- 
ing some feasible way in which to assist Dora and her sister. 

"Why did I not think of her before?" he cried. **lf J can in- 
terest her in these poor orphans, their troubles and mine are practically 
-at an end. And if I can only persuade her to visit them, and she 
49008 little Dora, she cannot fail to become their friend. And Sylvia 
is so good — so kind, she is sure to grant my request. But how can 1 
aee her, I wonder ? She lives in a whirl of gaiety since her presenta- 
tion, and is probably never at home. I must ask my mother ; she 
knows all her doings, as she is her chaperon everywhere she goes. It 
is just tea-time, and perhaps, by a stroke of good luck, I may £nd the 
madre in the house. I'll try anyway." 

Lady Ashfield was at home, enjoying a rest and afternoon tea in 
her own particular* sanctum, the pretty boudoir that Madge had 
.admired so much. 

"My dear Ashfield, what a delightful surprise," she exclaimed 
joyfully, as her son entered the room and greeted her with a loving 
kiss. •* Why, it is ages since you came to have tea with me." 

" Well, mother, you are not often to be found here at this hour," 
he answered smilingly. " Methinks, you more frequently drink tea 
abroad than at home.' 

** True," she said, sighing, *• I lead a busy life and have many en- 
gagements. And since I have had Sylvia to chaperon, I have scarcely 
a moment's peace." ^ 

Afihfield laughed softly, and helped himself to a dainty roll of 
bread and butter. '* Now, mother, confess. You know you delight in 
living in a whirl." 

" Indeed, you are much mistaken, Ashfidd. I delight in nothing 
of the kind. But it is a duty I owe to society." 

"Poor mother! What a tyrant society is. But tell me, doea 
fiylvia feel herself a victim also ? " 

398 The Irish Monthly, 

*' Sylvia ? That girl is never tired. She ruBhes here, and rushes 
there, and always looks as fresh as possiiile. I tell her it is unlady- 
like to be so strong. But she only laughs and starts oSL for something- 

<' Quite right. I am glad she enjoys hersell I suppose it would 
be impossible to find her at home, at tea-time for instance ? I daresay 
she is either out or entertaining a crowd of people ? " 

Lady Ashfield looked at her son in astonishment, then bent over 
the tea-pot to hide the pleasure in her eyes. 

<'Is he coming round to my views at last?"^he asked herself. 
** Is he now anxious to meet Sylvia and woo her as his wife ? It 
seems like it. For what other reason should he suddenly wish to sea 
her in her home ? He has heard her beauty praised, has seen how 
she is admired, and has doubtless discovered how much more charm* 
ing she is than any other girl he has ever met." 

However, she resolved to keep her thoughts to herself, but at the- 
same time give him every opportimity for cultivating 8ylvia's> 

'^Our little friend's moments at home are precious," she said 
aloud, *^ and are all devoted to her grandfather. She is the sweetest,^ 
most loving child poseible. Your best chance of meeting her would 
be if you would come about with me a little more — come to balls and 
evening parties." 

'* My dear mother, balls are not in my line. I don't dance, 

'* That is a pity — ^for this very evening Sir Eustace is giving a ball 
to celebrate Sylvia's coming out. It will be a brilliant affair. I am 
to help to receive the guests, as they are both new to everything and 
everyone. Therefore I go early." 

" Then I shall go with you. I don't affect such entertainments 
much as a rule," he said laughing. '* They rather bore me, I confess, 
but I should enjoy seeing Sylvia at her first ball. So you may count 
upon me as your escort to-night." 

'* That will be charming. I leave this at ten o'clock, sharp. So 
pray do not be late." 

'' Not for worlds. And to make my punctuality more certain, I 
will dine with you, mother, if you will allow me." 

** My dear boy, you know you are always welcome. I am quite^ 
alone to-night." 

" So much the better. It is a long time since we dined t^te-a-tete. 
Now I must be off. I have some business to transact. Farewell till 
dinner time." 

And well pleased at the thought of seeing Sylvia so soon, Lord 
Ashfield got|into a hansom and drove off to his dub. 

A Striking Contrast ' 39^ 



The ballroom is ablaze with lights. Every nook and comer i» 
filled with palms and sweet-smelling flowers. The doorways are hung^ 
with wreaths of deep yellow roses and maidenhair fern, and the- 
conservatory resembles a fairy bower, with its dainty lanterns and 
choice exotics. In a small gallery at the end of the room the- 
musicians are tuning their instruments, and the beautiful parquet 
shines like a mirror. Everything is ready, and awaits the arrival of 
the guests. 

" Oh, grandpapa, is it not lovely ?" cried Sylvia gliding across tho 
floor, her white tuUe dress floating gracefully about her slim figure. 
'* I never saw anything like the flowers. They are exquisite." 

*' I am glad you are pleased, my pet," said Sir Eustace, bending^ 
to kiss the girl's eager face. *^ And I really think it looks very nice. 
But Lady Ashfield is late. I hope she will soon come. I feel quit» 

Sylvia laughed merrily. 

" Nervous ! Oh, grandpapa, what a confession." 

"A terrible one, I admit. But I am old, Sylvia, and it is years, 
and years since I played the part of host at a ball." 

''Poor darling ! It was a shame to torment you into giving one," 
and she laid her hand caressingly upon his arm. *' You should hav» 
been firm and refused. I would not have cared in the least." 

" But Lady Ashfield would, dear. She insisted I should give it." 

** You must not allow yourself to be ruled so much by Lady Ash- 
field, grandpapa." And the white forehead was puckered into a 
frown. " You must not, indeed." 

** No, dearest, not after to-nighjb. But you will enjoy this ball, my 

The frown vanished ; the beautiful eyes sparkled with pleasure. 

'* Oh, yes. I enjoy everything so much, grandpapa." 

•« Th^t is right. That is what I want you to do." 

*• But do you know I sometimes feel frightened — as if —well as if 
I should not always be so happy." 

''My dear child, those are foolish thoughts. Put them away. 
My little granddaughter shall never have anything to make her un* 
happy, I hope — I pray." 

" Deaf grandpapa, not if you can help it, I am sure. You hav» 
always spoilt me. and saved me from even the smallest trouble." 

400 The /mA Monthly. 

*' Of course, I hayp. And now let me see my pet dance and enjoj 
herself. That will prevent me from feeling tired or worried. You 
are looking well to-night, my pretty Sylvia, and your triumph will 
make me happy." 

The j^l made him a sweeping curtsey and looked up with a 
merry glance. 

** Your granddaughter, Sylvia, 
Is too young ; 
She cannot bear 
Your flattering tongue/* 

Then suddenly recovering herself, she cried : 

" But a truce to our gaiety, sweet grandpapa. Here comes our 
kind assistant, Lady Ashfield. Now, I trust your mind is at rest." 

"Quite," said Sir Eustace laughing, '< I breathe more freely.'* 

" Fray do not confess your weakness, or we are undone," crietl 
Sylvia, melodramatically, *^ put on a bold front, my revered grand- 
father, and let no one say we are afraid to .face our guests. Look as 
though receptions such as this were quite an every-day occurrence. 
En avant. Courage ! " 

And taking the old man's arm, Sylvia drew him forward to meet 
Lady Ashfield and her son. 

" My dear Ashfield, this is indeed a pleasant surprise," exclaimed 
€ir Eustace, turning to his young guest and shaking him warmly by 
the hand. '* I did not expect you would honour us wifh your company 
to-night. I fancied political meetings were more to your taste than 
balls. But believe me, Sylvia and I are delighted to see you. Eh ! 

"Yes, grandpapa. Certainly we are. It was very kind of Lord 
Ashfield to come." 

" He came expressly to see you, Sylvia," whispered Lady Ashfield, 
""so I hope you wiU be nice to him.'* 

The girl raised her eyes, f uU of enquiry, to the lady's face. 

*' Why do you say that ? I always liked Lord Ashfield," she said 
frankly, " so of course I shaU be nice to him.'* 

" To be sure. I forgot. Sir Eustace, your granddaughter is ter- 
libly matter of fact." 

" She always says exactly what she means, and she is glad tc» 
4see your son. They are old friends, remember." 

" Yes. But come and take me round the rooms, that I may admire 
them before the crowd comes." 

" With pleasure." And offering his arm, he led her away. 

" It is extremely kind of you and Sir Eustace to welcome me so 

A Striking Contrast 401 

warmly, Miss Atherstone," said Ashfileld, '*aiid I hope you will 
reward what you call my goodness by granting me a dance.'' 

'* Certainly/' she answered smiling, '* which will you have ? I do 
not dance until number ten, as I must receive my friends.'* 

** May I have number ten ? " 

** Yes. But do you remember our first dance together, Lord Ash- 

•* Of course I do. You were a wonderful little fairy in those days, 
and very impertinent to your elders. I shall never forget how you 
ridiculed my attempt at dancing." 

'' But I was only a child," she said laughing and blushing, 
" and a very naughty one, I am afraid. That is eight yeeurs ago 
remember. I would not do so now." 

'* I am not so sure. There is a very mocking expression in your 
eyes, Miss Sylvia. But I shaU not put temptation in your way. I 
«hall not ask you to dance, but merely to sit out the waltz with me. 
1 have a favour to ask you." 

" I hope it will not be anything very difficult, for I should like to 
grant it. But see, our guests are arriving. You will find me on the 
landing outside the ballroom door, when it is time for our dance." 

And, bowing graciously, she took her place between Sir Eustace 
and Lady Ashfield. 

The ballroom now began to fill rapidly, and upon every side Lord 
Ashfield was greeted with exclamations of surprise. His appearance 
at an entertainment of this kind was so unusual, that his friends 
<oould not conceal their astonishment on beholding him. But he only 
smiled and gave them anything but satisfactory reasons for his coming 
forth from his seclusion to mix with the giddy crowd. He did not 
dance, but went about amongst the people he knew, laughing and 
talking, apparently unconcerned ; whilst in reality he was feverishly 
impatient. He longed for the time for his dance with Sylvia to come 
round, as he felt keenly anxious to know what she would advise about 
the Neils. 

At last the much desired moment arrived, and Lord Ashfield 
pressed forward through the crowd to claim his beautiful young 
hostess for the waltz. 

His mother looked up as he approached, and seeing the evident 
pleasure with which he reminded the girl of their engagement, she 
felt much delighted. 

'* How anxious he is to talk to her," she thought, as they vanished 
into the conservatory together. ''He seems thoroughly in earnest 

And so he was. But had Lady Ashfield known why, had she 

402 The Irish Monthly. 

guessed even faintly the cause of his earnestness, the subject of hb 
conversation, she would have done all that lajin her power to separate 
these two, and prevent the possibility of Sylvia meeting the Neils, at 
least until she had seen Madge and obtained her promise of secrecy. 
But she was blissfully unconscious of her son's intentions, and only too 
well pleased to see him acting, as she though^t, on the good advice she 
had given him. 

Meanwhile Sylvia and Ashfield made their way through the ball- 
room, and seated themselves on two comfortable chairs amongst the 

'' It is really a pleasure to sit down again," said Sylvia gaily ; 
*' standing shaking hands with several hundred people is a very 
fatiguing occupation." 

•*Very. But you seem to have done charmingly," he replied; 
*' your guests are loud in your praises, and your rooms are beautiful. 
They do you great credit. The decorations are perfect." 

" Yes, I think they are. But I had nothing to do with them. Mr. 
Algernon Armstrong did everything for us." 

" Indeed. That was kind. Is he a very old friend ? " 

Sylvia laughed merrily. 

*' Well, you are behind the age. Lord Ashfleld. But did you really 
never hear of Mr. Algernon Armstrong ? He does all the balls in 

'^ Then, I must confess to being woefully behind the age. I never 
heard of him till this moment. I thought ladies always looked after 
the decorations and chose their own flowers." 

*' Some may. But very few, I fancy. Certainly not ignorant girla 
like me." 

'' Then is this man a tradesman ? " 

Sylvia looked very much shocked. 

" Oh, no. He is a gentleman. He was in the^something hussars 
— ^but did not like the life ; so he sold out and took to this kind of 
thing. For a small fee — ten guineas or so — he does everything, 
settles everything, and arranges the rooms." 

*' A noble profession truly. But I think I should have preferred 
the hussars." 

*' I daresay. But I am glad he did not. He has saved grandpapa 
and me much trouble and anxiety." 

** Then he is deserving of both respect and gratitude." 

" Indeed he is. And grandpapa and I have had such a glorious 
day all through him." 

"How is that?" 

'' Well, you see, we had nothing to do at home. The house was 

A Striking CotUrmt. 40$ 

in a state of confdsion, bo we went out early, and pretended we were* 

" But how did you manage to do tliat ? " he asked feeling rather 

" In this way. We had coffee and rolls in our rooms, went off" 
then to the National Gallery, and saw a great many pictures by our 
old friends, Raphael, Andrea del Sarto, Francia, and Murillo. Then 
we visited Westminster Abbey, lunched at Blanchard's, and went to 
Yerbeck's. We had afternoon tea at the Giosvenor, and dined at the 
Grand Hotel. And then we came home just in time to dress for the- 

" Such a day ! My dear Miss Atherstone, how tired you must be." 

•* Not in the least. And do you know I could hardly believe 1 
was in London. It was just the kind of way grandpapa and I used to- 
live in Paris and other foreign places. I felt the whole day as if I 
were abroad." 

'' You have a lively imagination," he said smiling, '' and are easily 

"Yes. Lady Ashfield thinks me quite plebeian in my tastes. 
But," she cried, blushing deeply, "how egotistical you must think me. 
The dance is half over, and I have not asked you what you want me 
to do for you. Pray teU me now. Lord Ashfield." 

" Thank you. It is very kind of you to remember my words, Miss- 
Atherstone. And I trust you may not be annoyed with me for 
troubling you in this matter.'* 

" Annoyed ? I am greatly flattered that you should think of asking- 
me to do anything for you. I am indeed." 

" Your words encourage me. And now tell me, did you ever hear 
that there were two girls on board the Cimbria with you ? One about 
twelve, the other an infant ? " 

Sylvia looked at him in astonishment. 

"Of course I did. The Neils— Madge and Dora. They were 
both drowned, poor children." 

"Pardon me. They were not. They were washed ashore at a 
small village on the Cornish coast, where they have lived until now." 

Sylvia's eyes shone with pleasure, and she clasped her hands to- 
gether in delight. 

" Oh !" she cried, " how happy this will make papa. He used to> 
write so much about those children, and mourn their sad fate for a 
long, long time. Where are they, Lord Ashfield ? I should so like to 
see them. Poor little things ! " 

Ashfield gazed admiringly at the beautiful eager face. 

"They are not little now," he said smiling. " Madge is a youngs 

404 The Irish MotUhly. 

woman of seven or eight and twenty, and Dorothy i» about your own 
age, although I fancy she looks less ; when I saw her last she was 
.small and ethereal looking.'' 

"Where do they live?" 

** Here in London, not far from Belgrave-street." 

«• I am so glad. Whom do they live with ? " 

" No one. They live alone in a poor lodging, the rent of which 
they find very difficult to pay." 

" Are they so very poor, then ? " 

" Very. Madge teaches in a school, and would give music lessons 
if she could ; and Dorothy "—his voice faltered — '* sweet little Dora, 
who should have been surrounded with every luxury, tended, with the 
greatest care, was brought up in a wretched orphanage, and was 
obliged to work for her daily bread in a dressmaker's establishment, 
till her health broke down. She now lies on a sofa in their dreary 
lodging, fretting and pining because she cannot earn money and help 
her sister." 

*' This shall not go on," cried Sylvia decidedly ; '' something shall 
be done for them at once. Grandpapa '' 

" Pray do not say anything about t]^em yet to Sir Eustace," he 
said earnestly. *' Go and see the girls ; talk to them and get to know 
them, and then we shall see what can be done. They are very sensi- 
tive, and may be difficult to help in any substantial manner. My 
mother has taken some dislike to Madge, and should Sir Eustace 
mention them, she might say something to prejudice him against 

" Your mother ! Does Lady Ashfield know these girls too ? It is 
strange she never told me about them." 

" She was so indignant with Madge, why I cannot think, that she 
would do nothing for them. Her conduct in this matter has been a 
.great trouble to me. We are bound in honour, if in nothing else, to 
help them, for Dorothy by her presence of mind saved our lives.'* 

*' What a brave girl ! But when did she do that ? " 

" Two years ago." 

And then he told her the story of the runaway horses and 
Dorothy's struggle with the labourers. 

" She must be a darling," cried Sylvia, '< and wonderfully strong 
of will. I long to see heif and help to make her happy." 

" God bless you. I thought you would take an interest in them." 

'* Of course. I will go to see them to-morrow. But I really think 
I must tell grandpapa. I never have any secrets from him, and you 
jieed not be uneasy. Papa wrote so warmly about these girls and 
their father that, no matter what Lady Asbfield said, he would surely 
help them." 

A Striking Contrast 405 

" Very well. Perhaps you are rig^ht. And there is one thing you 
might do that would be kind. Take Anne Dane to see them. Madge 
is very anxious to meet her once more." 

*'I cannot do that as Anne is in the country. She is not strong 
and does not like London. But I am sure she will be glad to hear 
about the Neils. She has often wept bitterly in thinking of their sad 
fate. She was very fond of the little one." 

" Poor child ! Would that we had found them out sooner. They 
lived within ten miles of Ashfield Park. But then my mother and I 
were always away. If we had only heard about them some years ago, 
their lives might have been very different." 

'*Yes," said Sylvia in a voice full of emotion, "and what a contrast 
my life has been. And yet " 

She stopped abruptly ; a shudder passed over her slender frame. 

'*!, too," she whispered, '* might have been cast away on 8om» 
lonely shore, and never reached dear grandpapa." 

" Thank God you were saved from that fate," he said earnestly. 
** But pray do not let this etory depress you, Miss Atherstone. See, 
people are beginning to wonder at our solemn looks. There is 
nothing to grieve over now. Between us we shall surely be able to 
make these girls happy." 

**I sincerely hope so. And thank you a thousand times for 
allowing me the pleasure of . being the first to come to their assist- 

"The thanks should all come from me," he answered smiling, 
'* for you have taken a load from my shoulders. And now I must 
say good-night. Here comes your partner for the next waltz. I shall 
make my adieux to Sir Eustace and slip away. Good-night." 

** Good-night, Lord Ashfield. I shall long for to-morrow to come, 
and I think you may trust me to do what is right." 

And as Sylvia put her hand in his, she raised her lovely eyes, full 
of deep, tender feeling, to his. 

" I do not doubt it," he said with emotion. " You are as good as 
you are beautiful. May God bless you." 

And before the girl could speak again, he had vanished into^the 



As Mdme. Garniture drove away, Dora toiled wearily up the high 
staircase to her room. She walked like one in a dream, and was 

4C6 The Imh Monthly. 

scarcely conscious where she went. Habit alone guided her ; and so 
she unlocked her door, took oS her hat, and flung herself down once 
more upon the old hair-covered sofa. 

Her head was in a whirl, her mind bewildered and excited, her 
•<;heeks burned feverishly, and her eyes shone with a brilliant light. 

It was her dinner-hour, and there on the table was the chop that 
Madge had left ready for her before going out in the morning. She 
had only to put it on the Are, in her usual way, and eat it with the 
roll of fresh bread that her sister had taken care to provide for' her. 
But she forgot the time of day, forgot that she should be hungry, 
and lay upon the sofa staring at the ceiling and murmuring sadly 
irom time to time. 

** Sylvia at last, so good, so beautiful, and yet not Sylvia, but 
Dora. Mistress of all that should be h^ine. Happy and proud of her 
position. Poor girl, poor unsuspecting girl. Oh, what is to be done ? 
What is to be done?" 

Thus she remained all through the long afternoon, and no one 
came near to disturb her reverie. But at last, as the clock struck 
«ight, Madge*s foot was heard upon the stair, and Madge's voice cried 
out in surprise as she entered the room : 

'* Dora ! What have you been doing ? Why is there no light ? 
IJofire?"— ^ 

Dorothy sprang to her feet. 

" Oh, Madge," she gasped, ** I am so sorry. But " 

Then throwing her arms round her sister's neck, she burst into a 
£t of passionate weeping. 

*<My darling," said Madge gently, and caressing the golden head 
as it lay upon her breast, ''has that cruel landlord been here again ? 
Has he" 

*^ No, no — it is something more than that. Madge, Madge, I have ' 
found Sylvia Atherstone." 

Madge staggered slightly, her lips quivered; every vestige of 
<5olour left her cheeks. Her heart gave a wild bound— a leap of joy. 
And raising her eyes to heaven she murmured, ** My Gk)d, I thank 
Thee." *' And now, my pet," she said drawing Dora down upon the 
sofa, ''be calm, and tell me all. How and when did you see this 

"This morning in her own home, a splendid house in the Orom- 
well-road— a mansion Mme. Garniture cisJled it— but oh, Madge, she 
is so good, so beautiful." 

"I daresay ; she was a sweet, a lovely child." 

** She was so kind to me, Madge, so thoughtful, although I was 
there as a poor work girl," sobbed Dora ; " and when I heard who 

A Sirxkiny Contrast 407 

she was, I felt suoli » traitor, stealing into her home, learnings where 
she lived, that I might betray her and rob her of everything ! " 

" Do not call it robbery, Dora^ It will only be restitution." 

" Bestitution ! If — oh, if she would but give us a little of her 
wealth, we might allow her to remain as she is —not ask for restitu- 
tion, Madge." 

'^ My dear, it must be all or nothing. If I go to Sir Eustace — for 
that, though I never knew it until Lady Ashfield called him so, is 
the name of your grandfather, if I go to him, I must say * this girl 
is not your grandchild, but an impostor and my sister. Your son's 
daughter has been brought up as a pauper. Eestore her to her rights, 
send away this Sylvia, who, beautiful and graceful as she is, is only 
a usurper, and take to your heart this little, fragile, golden haired 
waif, who has suffered want and privation all these weary years.' " 

** Yes, yes. So I have," said Dora plaintively, ** and you too, my 
darling, you too. When I am rich, you 9hall share my wealth. 
2^othing shall separate us, Madge. Promise me that." 

" Not if I can help it, love.'' 

" And Sylvia shall live with us too. She will not mind me taking: 
her place, if I let her stay with me, and be my sister. She has been 
first all these years. She will not mind giving up to me so very much 
after all, perhaps. But oh, I do wish she had not been so kind and 
sweet. Were she proud, and cold, and hard, I should not care. But 
knowing that she" 

'' Dora, do not wish her different from what she is. If she is 
good, really good, so much the better. She will then bear this trial — 
for it will, it must be a trial — in the proper spirit. And now, let us 
forget her for the present. We know her address and can go to her when 
we choose to declare ourselves. But I must think the matter well out, 
■and determine how it is to be done. I do not wish to be scorned as a 
madwoman or a liar by Sir Eustace, as I was by Lady Ashfield. I 
must lay my plans and take Anne Dane by surprise. If I can force 
her to tell the truth, our troubles will soon be at an end." 

"Yes, dear. You are right. And now, ray poor Madge, you 
must want your supper." 

'' Yes. But you must want it more. For I £nd that you have 
never touched your chop, Dora, and, Dora, that was very wrong. So 
now I must be quick and get something ready." 

Then down upon her knees went Madge to light the fire whereon 
to cook their evening meal. 

Several days passed over and the girls were still in doubt as to the 
best manner in which to approach Sir Eustace Atherstone. 

Anne Dane, Madge found she could not see, for on inquiring 

408 The Irish Monthly. 

at 4 Cromwell Mansions, she was told that she did not lire there^ 
but in the country. This surprised the girl and increased her difB.- 
eulties a hundred-fold. She was much perplexed, and knew not what 
to do. To force her way into the old man's presence would, she 
felt, be folly, and only expose her to insult and humiliation. Lady 
Ashfield's reception of her story had taught her a lesson, and she 
resolved to wait as patiently as she could till some fitting opportunity 
should present itself. But as she went on with her work at the 
school, she prayed constantly that something might turn up, for her 
heart was full of anguish. It was hard to make ends meet; and 
Dora grew weaker and more fragile every day. This she knew waa 
for want of proper air and nourishment. And her mind became em- 
bittered, her soul full of hatred against these wealthy people whe 
were so cruelly defrauding her darling of her rights. 

One night, as she was returning from a weary day's teaching, she- 
passed by Sir Eustace Athers tone's splendid mansion. A carriage - 
was waiting, and presently the door opened ; the sound of rippling 
laughter was heard, and Sylvia, arrayed in pure white, her shoulders 
covered with a mantle of plush and swansdown, came forth on her 
grandfather's arm. 

The light of the lamps fell upon her beautiful face, and touched 
the rich auburn of her hair. 

Madge trembled, and leaned heavily against the railings. 

*' She is lovely,'' she cried, ** but oh, what a cruel wrong has been 
inflicted on my poor Dora. And by my sister ! All this should be 
hers, and shall be hers if there is justice on earth or in heaven." 

The carriage door was shut, the footman mounted the box, and 
all unconscious of the misery she had caused, Sylvia drove away to her 

After this Madge grew morose and taoitum. The g^rls at Pene- 
lope Lodge complained of her irritable temper, and one after the other 
refused to receive their lessons from her. Her employer was much 
annoyed, and sending for Madge, reprimanded her severely, theaten- 
ing to dismiss her immediately did she hear any further complaints. 
Terrified at what might be her fate and Dora's should she thus lose 
her salary, which, poor as it was, was their only means of subsistence, 
the girl promised to watch more carefully over her temper, and left 
the mistress's presence firmly resolved to do so. 

But, alas ! she knew not how severely she was to be tried. 

Schoolgirls are frequently wild and thoughtless. They trouble 
themselves little about the sufferings of their teachers — are selfish and 
unforgiving. This the pupils of Penelope Lodge soon proved by 
their unfeeling conduct towards the poor hard- worked governess. 

A Striking Contrast. 409 

Madge had angered them by her irritability and sharp words, 
and perfectly callous as to the consequences to her, they determined 
to get rid of her if they could. 

So they set to work in a systematic manner, annoying and insult- 
ing her on every possible occasion. It is needless to enter into 
particulars here, or recount the spiteful things that were done, the im- 
pertinent speeches that were made, the acts of disobedience that were 
committed. Poor liladge suffered keenly. But she struggled bravely 
with herself, smiled when her heart was ready to break, and spoke 
gently to her tormentors when wounded to the quick by their 

Had the girl been happy, had her mind been free from care, she 
would probably have triumphed over these cruel children, and made 
them see the error of their ways. But her nerves were unstrung. 
She was full of bitterness and sorrow ; . and at last, stung beyond 
•endurance, she flashed out angrily upon her pupils and upbraided ^ 
them for their insolence. In an instant the class was in rebellion, and 
further work was impossible. Mrs. Prim was sent for and called 
upon to decide between the girls and the governess. It was a 
difficult task. There were, doubtless, faults on both sides. But 
Madge's were the most apparent. She had been already warned, and 
had failed to proflt by the warning, and so must go. 

" I am sorry you could not manage to keep the peace. Miss Neil," 
said the schoolmistress stiffly. *' Sorry and surprised. But seeing 
that you are capable of* doing so, I must ask you to leave my service 
this day month." 

Madge bowed her head in silence. Her heart was too full for 
words. She felt ten pairs of eyes fixed upon her in triumph, and she 
trembled lest by look or speech she should show the anguish she 

"And now, young ladies," continued Mrs. Prim severely, "I beg 
that you will pay attention to your lesson. Miss Neil, you may go to 
the junior class. I wiU remain here." 

Madge bowed once more, and with throbbing brow and beating 
l^eart passed proudly across the room and out upon the stairs. Here 
a sob escaped^her and a shower of tears fell on her burning cheeks. 
But she had no time to indulge in grief. The class was waiting. 
She must do her duty. So drying her eyes and murmuring a fervent 
prayer for help, she ran on down stairs. 

'' A note for you. Miss Neil," said the porter as she passed through 
the ball. 

And seeing that the writing was Dora's, Madge tore open the 
envelope in alarm. 

Vol. xvra. No. 206. 79 

410 The Irish Monthly. 

" What can be wrong ? Why does she write ? God keep mj 
darling," she cried, as with trembling fingers she unfolded the letter. 

But she was quickly reassuredi Dora's note was a message of 
peace. It ran thus : — 

'< Come home soon, dearest Madge. I have »uoh good news .to tell 
you. — Dora." 

Madge kissed the signature and smiled. 

'^ I cannot ^o till my usual hour. I dare not ask such a favour 
to-night. But your words, sweet sister, have cleared away some of 
the clouds that enveloped me. The thought of your good tidings will 
help me to bear cheerfully whatever torture I may have to suffer 
before I go home." 

And, feeling considerably brighter, she entered the junior class- 
room, and quietly seated herself in Mrs. Prim's place behind the 

(2b he continued.) 


TITE climbed the hills together ; we were fain 
* » To learn the shepherd's trade, and wheresoe'er 
Our elders led we roamed, a happy pair ; 

But he will never tread our hills again. 

For my beloved — 0, the life-long pain ! — 
Died in the Spring, and I alone must fare — 
Died, ere the spring had yeaned his future care. 

He, ever the more eager of the twain. 

So seek I now no pleasure with my mates, 
But when my work is done his watch I keep ; 
For with a double flock I must away 
To meet him on the moimlains where he waits 

With the Good Shepherd, who will count my sheep 
For the new pastures of eternal day. 

John Fitzpateiok, O.M.I. 

* Patrick L. MacSheny, O.M.I. , who died during his prei>aration for the 

Sketches in Irish Biography. 411 

No. 19. — John Cornelius O'Callaghan. 

THE name of John Cornelius O'Callaghan is one entitled to a 
prominent place in the long list of Irish literary celebrities^ 
and is certainly deserving of fuller recognition than has yet been 
awarded to his life-long labours in the cause of his country's 

The newspaper obituaries at the time of his death and a slight 
sketch in this Magazine are the only record of a man whose 
individuality of character was as remarkable as his genius, and 
whose services in rescuing from misrepresentation and oblivion 
some of the least known and most important passages of Irish 
history are probably reserved for the appreciation of future times 
less troubled than the present. . If left unnoticed until then, how- 
ever, nothing more than his works can survive, and the personality 
of the man and those traits which were familiar to his contempo- 
raries will be no longer known. Hence, from the sources just 
mentioned, supplemented by circumstances referred to by O'Cal- 
laghan in his works or in Ins conversations during an acquaintance 
extending from those distant " boyhood's years " — ^now, alas ! 
more than poor Mangan's " Twenty Golden Tears Ago," when I 
first met Afr. O'Callaghan at my father's table, down to the time 
when, in the same company, I sat by his death-bed and followed 
his hearse to Qlasnevin Cemetery, and during which long period I 
enjoyed the privilege of intimate friendship with the historian of 
"The Irish Brigade," — ^has been compiled the following brief 
notice of a man who well merits a bett