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Title: Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 2,  February 1886
Author: Various
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 2,  February 1886" ***

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   DONAHOE'S MAGAZINE.

   Vol. XV.    BOSTON, FEBRUARY, 1886.     No. 2

     "THE future of the Irish race in this country, will depend largely
     upon their capability of assuming an independent attitude in
     American politics."--RIGHT REV. DOCTOR IRELAND, _St. Paul_, _Minn._



The Columbian Abbey of Derry.


One bright sunny day last summer I found myself in the city of Derry,
with some hours to spare. I passed them in rambling aimlessly about
whither fancy or accident led me,--now on the walls, endeavoring to
recall the particulars of that siege so graphically described by
Macaulay, now in the Protestant Cathedral musing on the proximity of
luxuriously-cushioned pew and cold sepulchral monument along which the
sun, streaming through the stained windows, threw a mellow glow that
softened but did not remove the hideousness of the death's emblems on
them--now wandering down the busy street and admiring the beauties of
the Casino College, which, like the alien cathedral a little distance
up, rejoices in the patronage of St. Columb and is built on the site of
his old monastery. Here I lingered long, trying to picture to myself the
olden glories of the spot on which I stood, for

   "I do love these ancient ruins;
   We never tread upon them
   But we set our foot upon some reverend history;"

although here not an ivy-clasped gable, or even a mossy stone remains to
claim the "passing tribute" of a sigh, or a vain regret for the golden
days of our Irish Church. Yet its very barrenness of ruins made it
dearer to my heart, for one never clings more fondly to the memory of a
dear friend than when all mementoes of him are lost. As warned by the
stroke of the town-clock, I hurried down to the station to be whirled
away to Dublin, I thought that perhaps my fellow-readers of the MAGAZINE
would bear with me while I gossiped for half an hour on the story of
this grand old monastery, the mother-house of Iona.

You know where Derry is, or if you don't your atlas will tell you, that
it is away up in the north of Ireland, where, situated on the shores of
the Lough Foyle, coiling its streets round the slopes of a hill till on
the very summit they culminate in the cross-crowned tower of St.
Columb's Cathedral, it lies in the midst of a beautiful country just
like a cameo fallen into a basket of flowers. The houses cluster round
the base of the hill on the land side, spread themselves in irregular
masses over the adjoining level, or clamber up the opposite rise on the
brow of which stands St. Eugene's Cathedral, yet unfinished, and the
pile of turrets which constitute Magee College. A noble bridge spans the
Foyle, and through a forest of shipmasts one may see on the other side
the city rising up from the water, and stretching along the bending
shore till it becomes lost in the villa-studded woods of Prehen.

The massive walls, half hidden by encroaching commerce, the grim-looking
gates, and the old rusty cannon whose mouth thundered the "No" of the
"Maiden City" to the rough advances of James, in 1689, give the city a
mediæval air that well accords with its monastic origin. For, let her
citizens gild the bitter pill as they may, the cradle of Derry--the
Rochelle of Irish Protestantism--was rocked by monks--aye, by monks in
as close communion with Rome as are the dread Jesuits to-day.

Fourteen hundred years ago the Foyle flowed on to mingle its waters with
ocean as calmly as it does to-day, but its peaceful bosom reflected a
far different scene. Then the fair, fresh face of nature was unsullied
by the hand of man. "The tides flowed round the hill which was of an
oval form, and rose 119 feet above the level of the sea, thus forming an
island of about 200 acres."[1] A Daire or oak grove spread its leafy
shade over the whole, and gave shelter to the red deer and an unceasing
choir of little songsters. It was called in the language of the time
"Daire-Calgachi." The first part of the name in the modern form of
Derry, still remains--though now the stately rows of oak have given way
to the streets of a busy city, and the smoke of numerous factories
clouds the atmosphere.

One day, in the early part of 546, there visited the grove, in company
with the local chieftain, a youth named Columba, a scion of the royal
race of the O'Donnells. He was captivated by its beauty. It seemed the
very spot for the monastery he was anxious to establish. He was only a
deacon; but the fame of his sanctity had already filled the land, and
the princes of his family were ever urging him to found a monastery
whose monks, they hoped, would reflect his virtues and increase the
faith and piety of their clan. This seemed the very spot for such an
establishment. The neighborhood of the royal fortress of Aileach, that

       "Sits evermore like a queen on her throne
   And smiles on the valleys of green Innishowen,"

promised security; the river an unfailing supply of fish; the woods
material to build with; and, better than all, the lord of the district
was his cousin Ainmire, from whom Columba had only to ask to receive. He
did ask the island for God, and his request was joyfully complied with.

It was just three years after the deacon-abbot of Monte Casino had
passed to his reward, that the young Irish deacon began his monastery.
To erect monastic buildings in those days was a work of very little
labor. A wooden church, destined in the course of time to give place to
a more durable edifice--the seat of a bishopric--was first erected. Then
the cells of the monks were put up. They were of circular form and of
the simplest construction. A stout post was firmly planted in what was
to be the centre, and a number of slighter poles were then placed at
equal distances round it. The interstices--space however having been
left for a door--were filled up with willow or hazel saplings in the
form of basketwork. From the outer poles rafters sprang to the
centre-posts, and across them were laid rows of laths over which a fibry
web of sod was thrown, and the whole thatched with straw or rushes. The
inside of the wall was lined with moss--the outside plastered with soft
clay. A rough wooden bed--and in the case of Columba himself and many of
his monks--a stone pillow, a polaire or leathern satchel for holding
books, a writing-desk and seat, formed the furniture of this rude cell,
which was the ordinary dwelling of monk and student during the golden
age of the Irish Church.

Only a few weeks elapsed from the time that the first tree was felled
till the new community, or rather order, took up their abode in it, and
the swelling strain of their vespers was borne down the Lough by the
rippling breeze and echoed by the religious, whose convents, presided
over by SS. Frigidian and Cardens sentinelled the mouth of the Lough at
Moville and Coleraine. The habit of these monks--similar to that of Iona
and Lindisfarne, consisted of "[2]the cowl--of coarse texture, made of
wool, retaining its natural color and the tunic, or under habit, which
was also white. If the weather was particularly severe an amphibalus, or
double mantle, was permitted. When engaged at work on the farm the
brethern wore sandals which were not used within the monastery."

Though their time was mainly devoted to prayer, meditation and the
various other religious exercises, yet their rule made them apply every
spare moment to copying and illuminating MSS. or some other kind of
manual or intellectual labor, according as their strength and talents
permitted. By this, people were attracted to the spot. Houses sprang up
in the neighborhood of the monastery, that continually increasing in
number, at length grew into a city, just as from a similar monastic germ
have sprung nearly all the great German cities.

Columba in the busy years that elapsed between 546 and his final
departure from Ireland in 563, looked upon Derry as his home. It was his
first and dearest monastery. It was in his own Tyrconnell, but a few
miles from that home by Lough Gartan, where he first saw the light, and
from his foster home amid the mountains of Kilmacrenan, that, rising
with their green belts of trees and purple mantles of heather over the
valleys, seemed like huge festoons hung from the blue-patched horizon.
Then the very air was redolent of sanctity. If he turned to the south,
the warm breezes that swayed his cowl reminded him that away behind
those wooded hills in Ardstraw, prayed Eugene, destined to share with
him the patronage of the diocese, and that farther up, St. Creggan,
whose name the Presbyterian farmers unconsciously preserve in the
designation of their townland, Magheracreggan, presided over
Scarrabern, the daughter-house of Ardstraw. Then turning slowly
northwards he would meet with the persons, or relics, of St. O'Heney in
Banagher, St. Sura in Maghera, St. Martin in Desertmartin, St. Canice in
Limavady, St. Goar in Aghadoey, St. Cardens in Coleraine, St. Frigidian
in Moville, St. Comgell in Culdaff, St. McCartin in Donagh, St. Egneach
in the wildly beautiful pass of Mamore, St. Mura in Fahan, and his own
old teacher, St. Cruithnecan in Kilmacrenan. All these, and many others,
whose names tradition but feebly echoes, were contemporary, or nearly
so, with him; and with many of them, he was united in the warmest bonds
of friendship,--a friendship that served to rivet him the more to Derry.
Even the budding glories of Durrow and Kells could not draw him away
from his "loved oak-grove;" and at length, when the time had come for
him to go forth and plant the faith in a foreign land, it was the monks
of Derry who received his last embrace ere he seated himself with his
twelve companions, also monks of Derry, in his little osier coracle, and
with tearful eyes watched his grove till the topmost leaf had sunk
beneath the curving wave.

When twenty-seven years after he visited his native land, as the deputy
of an infant nation and the saviour of the bards, on whom, but for his
kindly intercession, the hand of infuriated justice had heavily fallen,
his first visit was to Derry. It was probably during this visit that he
founded that church on the other side of the Foyle, whose ivy-clad walls
and gravelled area the reader of "Thackeray's Sketch Book" may remember;
but few know that it was wantonly demolished by Dr. Weston (1467-1484),
the only Englishman who ever held the See of Derry; and "who," adds
Colgan, "began out of the ruins to build a palace for himself, which the
avenging hand of God did not allow him to complete."

Columba's heart ever yearned to Derry. In one of his poems he tells us
"how my boat would fly if its prow were turned to my Irish oak grove."
And one day when "that grey eye, which ever turned to Erin," was gazing
wistfully at the horizon, where Ireland ought to appear, his love for
Derry found expression in a little poem, the English version of which I
transcribed from Cardinal Moran's "Irish Saints."

   "Were the tribute of all Alba mine,
   From its centre to its border,
   I would prefer the sight of one cell
   In the middle of fair Derry.

   "The reason I love Derry is
   For its quietness, for its purity;
   Crowded full of heaven's angels,
   Is every leaf of the oaks of Derry.

   "My Derry, my little oak grove,
   My abode and my little cell,
   O eternal God in heaven above,
   Woe be to him who violates it."

With the same love that he himself had for his "little oak grove," he
seems to have inspired the annalists of his race, for on turning over
the pages of the Four Masters, the eye is arrested by such entries as,--

   "1146, a violent tempest blew down sixty oaks in Derry-Columbkille."
   "1178, a storm prostrated one hundred and twenty oaks in
   Derry-Columbkille."

       *       *       *       *       *

These little tokens of reverence for the trees, which had been
sanctified by his presence and love, show us how deep a root his memory
had in the affections of the Donegal Franciscans, when they paused in
their serious and compendious work to record every little accident that
happened to his monastery. But, alas, all the protection that
O'Donnell's clan might afford, all the fear that Columba's "Woe" might
inspire, could not save his grove. Like many a similar one in Ireland,
storms, and the destructive hand of man, have combined to blot it off
the face of the landscape, and nothing now remains but the name.

The monastery, too, shared the same fate. Burned by the Danes in 812,
989, 997 and 1095, phoenix-like it rose again from its ashes, each
time in greater beauty. The church, after one of these burnings, was
rebuilt of stone; and from its charred and blackened appearance after
the next burning, received the name of Dubh-Regles or Black Church of
the Abbey--a name by which in the Annals the monastery itself is often
called.

But Derry had other enemies than the Danes. In 1124 we find "Ardgar,
Prince of Aileach, killed by the ecclesiastics of Doire-Columbkille in
the defence of their church. His followers in revenge burned the town
and churches." The then abbot was St. Gelasius, who, after presiding
sixteen years over the monastery, which he had entered a novice in early
youth, was, in 1137, raised to the Primatial See of Armagh; and dying in
1174, nearly closes the long calendar of Irish Saints. The first year of
his abbacy (1121) had been marked by the death in the monastery of
"Domwald Magloughlin Ardrigh of Erin, a generous prince, charitable to
the poor and liberal to the rich, who, feeling his end approaching, had
withdrawn thither,"--a fact which shows the great veneration in which
this monastery was held.

The name of the next abbot, Flathbert O'Brolcan, or Bradley, is one of
the brightest in the Annals of Derry. He was greatly distinguished for
his sanctity and learning, but still more for his administrative
abilities. As abbot of Derry he was present at the Synod of Kells in
1152. Six years after, at the Synod of Brightaig (near Trim, county
Meath), a continuation or prorogation of that of Kells, Derry was
created an Episcopal See and Flathbert appointed its first bishop. A
much more honorable distinction was given him, when by the same synod,
he was appointed "prefect general of all the abbeys of Ireland," an
appointment which must probably be limited to the Columbian Abbeys,
which were at the time very numerous. Some idea of the wealth and power
of the Columbian order may be gathered from the records that the Masters
have given us of Flathbert's visitations. "In 1150 he visited Tireoghain
(Tyrone), and obtained a horse from every chieftain; a cow from every
two biataghs; a cow from every three freeholders; a cow from every four
villeins; and twenty cows from the king himself; a gold ring of five
ounces, his horse and battle-dregs from the son of O'Lochlain, king of
Ireland." "In 1153 he visited Down and Antrim and got a horse from
every chieftain; a sheep from every hearth; a horse and five cows from
O'Dunlevy, and an ounce of gold from his wife." And in 1161 he visited
Ossory, and "in lieu of the tribute of seven score oxen due to him,
accepted four hundred and twenty ounces of pure silver."

But though thus honored by the hierarchy and people, enemies were not
wanting to him. In 1144 the monastery had been burned and hostile clouds
were again gathering round it, when in 1163 Flathbert erected a cashel
or series of earthen fortifications, which baffled for a time the enmity
of the plunderer. A passing calm was thus assured him, of which he took
advantage, in 1164, to commence the building of his Cathedral, called in
Irish "Teampull-mor," a name which one of the city parishes still
retains. But the times were troublous, and hardly was the Cathedral
finished than we find in 1166 "O'More burning Derry as far as the church
Dubh-Regles."

In 1175, on the death of their abbot the monks of Iona elected
Flathbert; but he felt that the shadows of death were gathering round
him, and he would not leave his own monastery of Derry. He died the same
year, and "was buried in the monastery, leaving a great reputation for
wisdom and liberality;" but before his death he had the pleasure of
knowing that "1175, Donough O'Carolan perfected a treaty of friendship
with the abbey and town, and gave to the abbey a betagh townland of
Donoughmore and certain duties."

Some years before his death Flathbert had resigned the See of Derry in
favor of Dr. Muredach O'Coffey,[3] who, having been consecrated bishop
of Ardstraw had, in 1150, transferred that See to Maghera or Rathlure,
thus uniting Ardstraw and Rathlure. His accession to Derry joined the
three into one, to which under Dr. O'Carolan in the next century,
Innishowen was added, thus forming the modern diocese.

Dr. O'Coffey took up his residence in the abbey where, on the 10th of
February, 1173, he breathed his last. Archdall in his Monasticon calls
him "St. Muredach;" but the old Annalists content themselves with saying
that "he was the sun of science, the precious stone and resplendent gem
of knowledge, the bright star and rich treasury of learning; and as in
charity so, too, was he powerful in pilgrimage and prayer." The Masters
add that "a great miracle was performed on the night of his death; the
dark night was illumined from midnight to day-break; and the neighboring
parts of the world which were visible were in one blaze of light; and
all persons arose from their beds imagining it was day."

But I must now hasten to the end, for there is little in the history of
the next four centuries over which one loves to linger. The story it
tells is the old one of robberies and murders and burnings. It records
the first rumblings of that storm so soon to break over that land and
make of our island a vast coliseum, drenching it with the blood of
martyrs. I have often thought what a pang it must have cost the heart of
Brother Michael Oblery to pen such entries as these:

     "1195, Rury, son of Dunlere, chief of Ulidia, plunders
     Derry-Columbkille with an English force."

     "1197, Sir John De Courcy plunders the abbey of Derry."

     "1198, Sir John De Courcy again plunders Derry abbey."

How his eyes must have filled as he glanced in memory over the long tale
of his country's sufferings, on the record of which he was about to
enter. 'Twas bad enough to see the Dane lay sacrilegious hands on the
sacred vessels; but it was worse still to behold one's fellow-Catholic
apply the robber's torch to the church of God where, perhaps, at that
very moment our Lord himself lay hid under the sacramental veils. Yet
these were the men who, from the Loire to the Jordan had fought the
church's battle so gallantly,--whose countrymen would only hold the
Calabrian kingdom, that their lances had purchased so dearly, as vassals
of the Pope,--the very men who themselves were studding the Pale with
those architectural gems, of which the ruins of Dunbrody and its sister
abbeys still speak so eloquently. It was a strange fancy that made them
tumble the Irish monastery to-day, and lay the foundation of an
Anglo-Irish one to-morrow. Yet so it was; for in the charters of many of
those monasteries, in which, it was enacted in 1380, that no mere
Irishman should be allowed to take vows, the name of John De Courcy is
entered as founder or benefactor. One hardly knows whether to condemn
him for destroying Columba's favorite abbey, or praise him for the
solicitude he expresses in his letter to the Pope for the proper
preservation of Columba's relics. The acts of the man and his nation are
so contradictory, that the only reasonable conclusion we can draw from
them is the practical one, never again to wonder that the faith of such
men withered at the first blast of persecution.

Nevertheless, the monastery survived these attacks; for in the early
part of the fifteenth century, we find the then abbot of Derry
negotiating a peace between the English and O'Donnell. But in its
subsequent annals nothing more than the mere date of an inmate's death
meets us till we come to the great catastrophe, which ended at once the
monastery and order of Columba. Cox thus tells the story: "Colonel
Saintlow succeeded Randolph in the command of the garrison and lived as
quietly as could be desired, for the rebels were so daunted by the
former defeat that they did not dare to make any new attempt; but
unluckily on the 24th of April, 1566, the ammunition took fire and blew
up the town and fort of Derry, so that the soldiers were obliged to
embark for Dublin."[4] "This disaster was regarded at the time as a
divine chastisement for the profanation of St. Columba's church and
cell, the latter being used by the heretical soldiery as a repository of
ammunition, while the former was defiled by their profane worship."[5]

                                                     J. MCH.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Sampson.]

[Footnote 2: Cardinal Moran "Irish Saints in G. Brit." p 121.]

[Footnote 3: Theiner. Mon. Vat. p. 48.]


An actor once delivered a letter of introduction to a manager, which
described him as an actor of great merit, and concluded: "He plays
Virginius, Richelieu, Hamlet, Shylock, and billiards. He plays billiards
the best."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: Cox. Hist. pt. I. p. 322.]

[Footnote 5: O'Sulliv. Cath. Hist. p. 96.]



The Penitent on the Cross.


   Few deeds of guilt are strangers to my eyes,
     These hands of mine have wrought full share of sin,
   My very heart seemed steeled to pity's cries:
     Whence then this thought that melts my soul within?

   What is there in that Form that moves me so?
     So sweet a victim ne'er mine eyes beheld;
   That beauteous face, that majesty of woe,
     That hidden something from my sight withheld.

   Cease thou at least, nor join the mocking throng,
     Thou heartless sharer in our common doom!
   Just meed for us, but He hath done no wrong;
     All seems so strange--what means the gathering gloom?

   That lonely mother, there oppressed with woe,
     O'erheard me now I saw her raise her eyes;
   To bless me--and with clasping hands as though
     She craved a something, through the darkening skies.

   Hear how the priests discuss with mocking scorn
     The triple scroll above His crownèd head.
   "Jesus of Nazareth," the lowly born;
     "King of the Jews," in Royal David's stead.

   Ah, me; but I have heard that name of old
     From waylaid victims in my outlaw den.
   They won me from fell purpose as they told
     His deeds of love and wonder amongst men.

   They told me how the sea in billows dashed
     Became as marble smooth beneath His feet;
   How He rebuked the winds to fury lashed,
     And they were hushed to murmurs low and sweet.

   He, then it was that gave the blind their sight,
     And made the palsied leap with bounding tread;
   And as you'd wake the sleeping in the night
     From even their sleep awoke the slumbering dead.

   Oh, Master, had I known Thee in those days,
     Fain might I too have followed Thee as Friend;
   But then I was an outlaw by the ways,
     And now 'tis late--my days are at an end.

   "No, not too late." Oh, God! whose is that voice
     That sounds within me such a heavenly strain,
   And makes my being to its depths rejoice
     As if it felt creation's touch again?

   What is that light, that glorious light which brings
     Such wondrous knowledge of things all unseen,
   And yet wherein I see fair, far-off things
     To mortal vision hid, however keen.

   And centred in that flood of golden light,
     One truth that catches all its scattered beams--
   Illumed above the rest so fair, so bright:
     It is thy God whose blood beside thee streams.

   Oh, God of glory! hear the outlaw's prayer,
     And in Thy home but kindly think of me;
   I dare but ask to be remembered there,
     Nor heaven I seek, but to be loved by Thee.

   From off the Cross whereon the Saviour hung
     Fell on his ears response of wondrous love,
   More sweet than though the cherubim had sung
     The sweetest songs they sing in heaven above.

   Yes, loved but not remembered thou shalt be--
     The absent only may remembrance claim--
   But in my kingdom thou shalt dwell with me,
     Companion of my glory as my shame.

   Amen, amen, I say to thee that thou,
     Ere yet another day illume the skies,
   With crown unlike to this that binds my brow
     Shalt share the glories of my paradise.

                                                 F. E. EMON.



The Celt in America.

It is the common delusion of our day that Americans as a people are of
Anglo-Saxon lineage. This has been said and reiterated, until it
descends into the lowest depths of sycophancy and utter folly. It is
false in fact, for above all other claimants, that of the Celt is by far
the best. Glancing back to our primeval history, we find the Kelt to be
the centre-figure of its legends and traditions. We are told by an old
chronicle, that Brendan, an Irishman, discovered this continent about
550 A. D., and named it Irland-Kir-Mikla, or Great Eire; this is
corroborated by the Scandinavians. Iceland was settled in the sixth
century by Irish, and when the Norsemen settled there, they found the
remains of an Irish civilization in churches, ruins, crosses and urns:
thus, it is not at all improbable that the Celts of those islands sent
out exploring parties who discovered for the first time the American
continent. Passing over the myths and legends of that curious and quaint
era, let us read the pages of authentic American history.

On that memorable October day, when the caravels of Columbus came to
anchor in the New World, the Celt acted well his part in that great
drama. He who first reached land, from the ships of Columbus, was a
Patrick Maguiras, an Irishman. Columbus in his second voyage had on
board an Irish priest, Father Boyle, and several of his crew were Celts.
In the early discoveries and settlements the Kelt was ever in the van of
the pioneers of Western civilization; he explored rivers, bays, and
forests, while the Anglo-Saxon scarce tread on American soil until the
close of the sixteenth century. The first gateway to civilization for
the West, was made by priests from France, among whom were many Irish
missionaries, who were forced to fly their native land and seek shelter
elsewhere. St. Augustine and New Mexico were founded by the Spaniards
long before a cabin was built in Jamestown, and the Spanish and French
sovereigns ruled numerous flourishing dependencies in the New World ere
the English Pilgrims had seen Plymouth. The Anglo-Saxons, then, were not
so forward in explorations and discoveries as their neighbors, the Celts
and Latins. Review the epoch of the colonial development, and we find
that the Celt surpasses the Saxon.

The Huguenots fled from France; the Scotchman left his native heather to
escape despotism; the Irishman exiled from his patrimony sought a home
in the American wilds. Many a Spaniard made his Nova Iberia in the
South, and the log-cabins of the French pioneers dotted the
north-western wilderness. The Swedes founded Delaware, and New York was
created by the stolid Dutch. The Moravians and the Welsh came hither
likewise; the Puritans fled Merry England and Quakers sought religious
freedom in America; but the great body of the English people believing
in the State and the religion of their sovereign, had no desire to risk
fortune here, especially when the laws were made for their benefit even
if at the expense of the colonists. Thus, with exceptions of the Quaker
and the Puritan, some few Cavaliers and the paupers, the great body of
the Anglo-Saxon people remained at home. In American colonization,
Anglo-Saxonism was but a drop in the bucket. Among all the famous
thirteen colonies there was not one settled by Saxons exclusively; and
in all of the colonies the Celt predominated. The Puritans when they
founded Massachusetts, rigorously excluded all who differed from them;
nevertheless the Celt waxed strong in New England. "It was," says
Hawthorne, "no uncommon thing in those days to see an
advertisement in the colonial paper, of the
arrival of fresh Irish slaves and potatoes." Bunker Hill itself was
named after a knoll in county Antrim. Faneuil Hall was the gift of a
Celt, and the plan of it was drawn by Berkeley, the Irish philosopher,
who said prophetically,

   "Westward the course of empire takes its way;
     The four first acts already past,
   A fifth shall close the drama with the day;
     Time's noblest empire is the last."

The Boston Irish Charitable Society was organized near a century and a
half ago, and the first paper mill in Massachusetts was built by a Celt
named Thomas Smith. The names of Belfast, Londonderry, Ulster, Sullivan
and Bangor show the nationality of their settlers. The founders of the
Empire State were Teutons; but when it passed to the English realm,
James II. sent over as Governor, Colonel Dongan, an Irishman. This
Governor during his term of office, brought over large numbers of Irish
emigrants. Pennsylvania was the most Keltic of the colonies. The first
daily paper in the United States was founded by John Dunlap, an
Irishman. So great was Celtic emigration to this State that in one year
(1729) there came to Pennsylvania no fewer than 6,208 persons, of whom
242 were Germans, 247 English, and 5,653 Irishmen. So numerous were
Celts that Washington once said, "Put me in Rockbridge County, and I'll
find men enough to save the Revolution." In Maryland it was the same.
The first ship that sailed into Baltimore was Irish, though the
figure-head, Cecil Calvert, was English; but the town from which he
derived his title, and after which the metropolis of Maryland is named,
is in Galway, Ireland. In the Old Dominion, the first settlers were in
good part English. The Scotch and Welsh were very powerful, and the
Irish were very numerous. The impress if the Celts in Virginia is seen
in Carroll and Logan counties, Lynchburg, Burkesville, Brucktown and
Wheeling.

In 1652, Cromwell recommended that Irishwomen be sold to merchants, and
shipped to New England and Virginia, there to be sold as wives to the
colonists. A manuscript of Dr. Lingard's puts the number sold, at about
60,000; Brondin, a contemporary, places the number at 100,000. The names
of these women have become anglicized, for the English law forbade the
Irish to have an Irish name, and commanded them to assume English names.
North Carolina was settled mainly by the Scotch and Welsh, with English
and Irish additions. So was Georgia. In South Carolina the Irish
predominated. "Of all the countries," says the historian of South
Carolina, "none has furnished this province with so many inhabitants as
Ireland. Scarce a ship leaves any of its ports for Charleston that is
not crowded with men, women, and children." So much for the so-called
English colonies. Among the foremost of distinguished men in the
colonial times were the Celts. The first man elected to an office, not
appointed by the Crown, was James Moore, Governor of North Carolina.
James Logan, the successor of Penn, and William Thompson, were both
Celts. Let us glance at the Revolution; it is in this struggle that the
Celt was covered with glory; and either on the field or in the forum he
was always in the van. The Celts of Mecklenburg made a declaration of
freedom over a year before the Declaration of Independence was made.

Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Independence, was of
Welsh ancestry, and thus a Celt. John Hancock inherited Celtic blood
from his mother, Nora O'Flaherty. Behold the array of Celts who signed
the Declaration in 1776: Carroll, Thornton, McKean, Rutledge, Lewis,
Hart, Lynch, Jefferson and Reed. A merchant of Philadelphia, John Nixon,
first read to the people that immortal paper. Charles Thompson, Thomas
McHenry and Patrick Henry, the Demosthenes of the Revolution, were
Celts. The poetry of the loyal English writers afford abundant proof of
the influence and numbers of the Celts in those days. The first blow for
Independence was struck by James Sullivan of New Hampshire, and the
first blow on sea was struck by Jeremiah O'Brien, of Machias, Maine. A
Celt, Thomas Cargill, of Ballyshannon, saved the records of Concord when
the British soldiery went out from Boston to destroy the military stores
in Middlesex. Nor was it in the opening scenes alone that the Celts were
prominent; but from the death of McClary on Bunker Hill, to the close of
the war, they fought with a vigor and bravery unsurpassed. Who charged
through the snowdrifts around Quebec but Montgomery, a Celt.

Who fought so bravely at Brandywine? at Bemis's Heights, who saved the
day but Morgan's Irish Rifles. Was it not mad Anthony Wayne, a Celt, who
won Stony Point? General Sullivan, a Celt, avenged the Wyoming Massacre.
General Hand, a Celt, first routed the Hessians. The hero of Bennington
was a Celt, General Stark; so were Generals Conway, Knox, Greene, Lewis,
Brigadier Generals Moore, Fitzgerald, Hogan, Colonels Moylan and Butler.
In fact, American annals are so replete with trophies of Celtic valor
that it would be vain to narrate them all.

   "A hundred battlefields attest, a hundred victories show,
   How well at liberty's behest they fought our country's foe."

The only society that ever had the honor of enrolling the name of
Washington among its members was the Friendly Knights of St. Patrick. It
is an incident worthy of remark that at Yorktown it was a Celt, General
O'Hara, who gave to America the symbol of England's final defeat. When
the war of the Revolution was ended the Celt laid aside the sword to
engage in the arts of peace and build up the industries of the country.

Twenty Irish merchants subscribed $500,000 to pay the soldiers, and they
aided in every possible way the young and weak government. Then the
Celtic statesmen rose to view Hamilton, Jefferson, Gov. Sullivan of New
Hampshire, Gov. Sullivan of Massachusetts, De Witt Clinton of New York,
John Armstrong, jr., of Pennsylvania, Calhoun, Louis McLane and George
Campbell. Since those days the numbers and influence of the Celts has
been constantly increasing, and were it not for the sturdy Scotchman,
the Welshman, and Irishman our nation would still be a conjury of the
future. On the battlefield Grant, Meade, McClellan, Scott, Sheridan,
McDowell, Shields, Butler, McCook, McPherson, Kearney, Stonewall
Jackson, McClernand, Rowan, Corcoran, Porter, Claiborne and Logan show
the valor of the Celt. Jones, Barry, Decatur, McDonough, Stewart and
Blakely are the ideals of the American sailor. Morse, McCormack, Fulton
are among our greatest inventors. Jackson, Pierce, Buchanan, Wilson,
Cameron, Douglas, Blaine, Arthur and Hill are our Celtic statesmen.
Charles O'Conor, McVeagh, Stuart, Black, Campbell, McKinley, McLean,
Rutledge are our greatest jurists. Poe, Greeley, Shea, Baker, Savage,
England, Hughes, Spalding, O'Rielly, Barrett, Purcell, Keene,
McCullough, Boucicault, Bennett, Connery and Jones are Celts, names
famous in journalism, religion, literature and drama. The Celt, in the
words of Henry Clay, are "bone of our bone" and "flesh of our flesh,"
thus acknowledging him to be part and parcel of our nation.

Let us leave the flowery field of rhetoric and strike the hard pan of
statistics. The official census of 1870 numbers the Celts at 24,000,000,
the Saxons at 5,000,000, and the whole population at 38,500,000. In
proportion the Celts were five-eighths and the Saxons one-eighth of the
people of the country, two-eighths being of other origin. There are now
50,000,000 inhabitants, of which (20,000,000 are Irish-Americans)
five-eighths are Celts who number 32,500,000, and one-eighth Saxon, or
7,000,000, and the residue being filled with other races. Thus we see
that in numbers the nation is Celtic or nearly so. Let not national
vanity or prejudice of race assert itself too strongly, for here came
all to obtain their just and lawful liberty.

   Worcester, Mass.                             J. SULLIVAN.



Southern Sketches.

XVII.

IN HAVANA, CUBA.--DESCRIPTION OF THE CITY, ITS PEOPLE, CHURCHES AND
CIVIL INSTITUTIONS.


On approaching the Isle of Cuba, the sight of this queen of the Antilles
seemed like the realization of some beautiful Eastern dream. As our
vessel neared the verdant, palm-clad hills, our party were caressed by
warm, odorous breezes. The softest of blue skies looked down upon us,
and we gazed on the smoothest and clearest of seas. No wonder that the
brave and holy Columbus, with his crew, should feel transported with joy
at the sight of the tropical isles on which they first set foot. The
poetic effect of the scenes then viewed must have been greatly increased
by the appearance of the native Indians, whose costumes and wild graces
were so strange to European eyes.

Richly painted boats filled with gay, chattering Cubans moved briskly
over the waters as we neared the entrance to the harbor. A beautiful
picture now appeared before us. It seemed as if enchanted palaces,
gardens, castles and towers had suddenly issued from the depths of the
green, transparent waves. Nearly every building had a peculiarly
exquisite tint, and all were flooded and enriched with the mellow,
tropical sunlight. Fort Morro, to the left, beetled over the waves like
some sombre and impregnable defence of the Middle Ages. Its golden-brown
and colossal walls sprung like a master-piece of feudal art from the
dark, wave-washed, slippery rocks below. The tall, slender light-house
connected with it greatly added to its attractions. Soldiers in bright
uniforms paced to and fro on the ramparts, while the flag of old Spain,
with its mingled hues of blood and gold, floated proudly above the
battlements. The harbor was narrow at the entrance and widened further
on, appearing in shape like the palm of one's hand. I felt so dazzled
with the splendors around me, that I could not grasp at once the
beauties of individual objects.

Opposite Fort Morro stood El Castillo de La Punta, an older, but
smaller defence erected by Philip II., in 1589. Immediately behind the
Morro, Fort La Cahanas spread away for nearly half a mile on the top of
a picturesque range of hills. This is one of the largest forts in the
world, and cost (as I was informed) thirty million dollars. When the
King of Spain heard of its vast price, he took his telescope at once,
and told his courtiers that so expensive a building ought to be plainly
seen from the top of his Madrid palace. White-stoned cottages lined the
waters to the left, and decorated the slopes of the hills, which were
full of cacti, century plants and thousands of other floral beauties.
Everything around us reflected the poetry of color and motion. The great
walls of the prison (el Carcel) appeared at the rear of the Punta, and
the hoary, weather-stained walls and towers of the cathedral were
conspicuous amid the many highly-colored houses of the city. The sight
of this strange and picturesquely colored town made me feel like
visiting the queer and lovely old Moorish cities of Spain, so charmingly
described by Washington Irving.

Havana has two quarters, the _intramural_ and the _extramural_; the
former lies along the bay. It has the narrowest streets and the oldest
buildings, dim, dusty, but poetic. The latter quarter spreads along the
ocean, and has the newest structures and widest streets, adorned with
palm and Indian laurel trees. The contrast from the moving ship appeared
very fine, and the glowing panorama was enriched by the presence of
stately men-of-war and merchant vessels from the United States, France,
Spain, Italy and other nations. Every mast, spar, flag and rope was
reflected on the dazzling waters. Through the vast collection of masts,
golden vistas were seen up the bay. Lovely isles and emerald shores
presented their wealth of waving palms, bananas, and tropical growths.
The fact of the thermometer being up to eighty degrees on this February
morning added immensely to the sense of enjoyment derived from these
luxuriant scenes. The booming of cannon from the Morro, the sound of
trumpets calling soldiers to their posts, and the whistling, laughing
and shouting of boatmen contributed no little interest to the picture.
Numerous boats sped here and there over the bay as our vessel anchored
in the basin outside the custom-house. Each one had some lively Cuban
boatmen and messengers from hotels, who came to row passengers to shore,
and solicit patronage for particular houses. The whole scene presented a
most animated picture, and the green, red, blue and yellow boats, with
the white-dressed, broad-hatted, dark-eyed occupants looked uncommonly
grand. When the health-officer came on board, each person was inspected
as to his sanitary condition, and then left to excited crowds, who
delivered their solicitations for patronage in excellent Spanish mixed
with a little broken English. Cards, bearing pictures of "the Hotel de
San Carlos," "El Teleprafo," "Hotel de Inglaterra," "de Europa," and
others were tossed rather than handed to us by white-clad characters who
thronged the decks. Among the smaller brown-faced, curly-headed boatmen
were some lithe and powerful Cubans dressed in simple white shirt and
pants, blue neck-ties and Panama hats. Having agreed with one of these
to go from the vessel to the city at the rate of fifty cents apiece in
gold, our party passed down the companion-ladder and entered a
well-built bumboat, painted in green, blue and yellow, adorned with
carpets, cushions, one sail and a gorgeous awning. The soft, tropical
sun shone down on this poetical scene, and as the powerful arms of the
oarsmen propelled the boat, the breezes played over us and the green
waters.

On embarking at the custom-house, an unpretending wooden structure, our
luggage was carefully overhauled by a courteous officer, attired in
spotless, light-blue linen. Passing through the building I emerged on
the street where crowds of negroes, Cuban and foreigners were engaged in
smoking, chatting, and watching the newly-arrived travellers. Numerous
coaches were drawn up in this neighborhood, and a person could visit any
part of the city in one of them for a trifling sum. The Hotel de Europa,
where I intended to stay, was only a few minutes' walk from the
custom-house, and was delightfully situated on the Plaza de St.
Francisco, facing the bay.

The first sight of Havana reveals to the United States visitor, who
never saw a Spanish city, a style of architecture, habits and scenes
entirely characteristic of Spain. The streets through which I passed
were but wide enough for one vehicle; the sidewalks could only
accommodate one foot passenger, and the houses, usually of one story,
were built of stone as thick, solid and gloomy looking as fortresses. On
my way I noticed that the windows had no glass, but were as large as
doors, fortified within by iron bars like those of a prison, and
additionally defended by heavy, wooden shutters generally painted green.
The shops were on a level with the pavement, and their rich and rare
collection of goods were all exposed to the view of the public. Awnings
now and then extended overhead across the street. Now some darkies and
Chinamen moved along bearing big burthens on their heads, and announcing
their wares in loud tones in the Spanish language. These were followed
by what appeared to me to be mysterious moving stalks of corn. As the
latter came nearer, the heads and legs of donkeys were seen amidst the
green mass. Then came a Cuban chicken vender from the country, with a
great big hat and blue shirt, leading his mule by the reins, while the
panniers on each side of the animal's back were filled with live fowl.
Immense wagons, laden with hogsheads of sugar and molasses, rattled over
the rough pavements as they were drawn by huge oxen, that were steered
by stout ropes, which were cruelly passed through their nostrils. I was
not a little surprised to see three or four cows walking silently on and
stopping at the doors of the houses to be milked before the public.
Customers need have no fears that any adulteration could take place on
such occasions, as the liquid comes from the pure and natural fountain
right before their eyes. Two old sailors, each minus an arm, were
singing patriotic songs and the signors, signoras and signoritas who
listened to them at the doors and balconies, seemed thrilled with
delight, at the musical recital of the grand victories of old Spain.
Peddlers moved along with an immense heap of miscellaneous wares fixed
in boxes on the backs of their mules. Tall, stately negresses, with
long, trailing dresses, of flashy green and yellow, walked along quite
independently, as at Key West, smoking cigars which in New York would
cost twenty-five cents a piece. One or two Cuban ladies hurried by,
wearing satin slippers, silken dresses and mantillas of rich black lace.
The Hotel de Europa, which I soon reached, is a large, plain, solid
building adorned by a piazza, which runs along the second story, and by
numerous little balconies higher up. It is a very well-managed
institution, has an agreeable interpreter in its office, an excellent
table, and on the hottest day a cool, refreshing breeze from the bay
sweeps through the rooms. The office on the second story is reached by a
large stone staircase. The house is built around a spacious courtyard,
in the centre of which is a beautiful fountain, encircled by choice
native flowers. The music of the fountain and the shade of the trees
have a pleasing and cooling effect.

After securing my room I was shown to it by a bright-eyed, garrulous
Cuban youth named "Josepho," who was well acquainted with his own, but
lamentably ignorant of the English language. He tried to compensate for
this drawback by a copious and intelligent use of gesture. Josepho soon
led me to my room, which stood at the end of a corridor, that was
flanked on one side by the courtyard, and on the other by sleeping
apartments. Two great jars, of Pompeian style, stood on a side-board
outside the door, and were full of cold water. These were for the use of
the guests on the corridor. When I entered my room I found it had a
floor of red and yellow tiles, immense, thick rough rafters overhead,
painted blue and white, an iron bedstead, a great chest of drawers, no
carpet, and shutters as heavy and ponderous as those of some old
European prison. Yet everything was pleasant and cool. The view from the
window of the bay, forts, shipping and houses was very beautiful, and,
surely, I had keener apprehension of it than the lazy mulateers, whom I
saw sleeping in their ox-carts below on the square, their red-blue caps
and white jackets flooded in sunshine. The visitors to Cuba need not
expect the luxury of a feather bed or a mattress. Neither was visible in
my room. The couch consisted of a piece of canvas tightly spread over
the iron frame, and strongly attached to it. A single sheet constituted
the only covering, and the stranger will find that the pillow, filled
with the moss of the island is not at all too soft. The nights are so
pleasant that Cuban hotel keepers think this amount of bed furniture
quite sufficient.

After a little rest, I decided that the famous Jesuit College, "De
Belen," would be the first institution worth seeing. I went alone, and
soon found it on the corner of Lutz and Compostilla Streets. A stranger
cannot miss it, as it is one of the most formidable buildings in Havana.
Though its style has something of the barbaric about it, yet it is
chiefly so on account of its ruggedness, vastness and stern grandeur. It
is built of stone, cemented and brown in color. The main arched entrance
is very lofty, and on the steps as I passed by I noticed a gaunt,
diseased and ragged negro, with outstretched arms soliciting alms. I
rang the bell. A porter admitted me, and after asking for one of the
priests in fair Spanish, I was conducted to a grand saloon up stairs and
politely requested to await the arrival of Father Pinan who was
conversant with English. The saloon was a magnificent apartment, about
one hundred feet long by thirty wide. Its walls were adorned with
splendid paintings done by ancient masters, and all represented dear,
religious scenes. The lofty white pillars and the blue mouldings of the
saloon produced a charming effect. Several rows of rocking-chairs,
placed in pairs so that those occupying them would face one another and
converse freely, were in this saloon, as is the custom in all others in
Cuba. As I was admiring the pictures Father Pinan entered, and at once
welcomed me very cordially to the college. The news, from the States
interested him, and he promised to give me all the information he could
regarding the college. "Ah," said he, "it is good to hear that there are
so many good Catholics and converts in the United States. I do hope that
they will persevere earnestly."

Father Pinan's frankness, intelligence and hospitality charmed and
encouraged me. Passing from the saloon through a lofty arch, we entered
the Museum of Natural History, which was very large and contained a
splendid collection. Here I saw gorgeous stuffed birds from tropical
lands, ostriches' eggs, skins of boas, the maha (a large, harmless
snake), porcupines, sea bulls, flying fish, immense sword fish, jaws of
enormous sharks, brilliant big butterflies from South America, and an
immense sea cockroach caught by Spanish men-of-war and presented by a
general of the navy. Very large sponges, natural crosses of white rock
from Spain, splendid pearls, magnificent shells from the Pacific Ocean
and Mediterranean Sea, ivory baskets and miniature churches from China,
beautiful Oriental slippers, Chinese grapes and apples, royal green
birds from Mexico, relics of Columbus from St. Domingo, fragments of the
stone on which General Pizarro sat after his victories, cannon balls
used by Cortez in his conquest of Mexico, dust from the streets of
Naples, lava from Vesuvius, pebbles from Mount Ararat, fragments from
the homes of the vestals of Pompeii, and some of the ruins of Ninevah.
Here Father Pinan was obliged to take his leave to attend class, and his
place was splendidly filled by Father Osoro, a young and engaging
Spanish priest, who was passionately attached to the sciences of Natural
History and Philosophy. He introduced me at once to the relics with the
spirit of an enthusiast. He pointed out to me some of the remains of
Babylon, grand illuminated copies of the Holy Bible and of the office of
the Blessed Virgin, done on parchment by the monks in 1514, and
handsomely embellished with gold. He showed me gifts from kings and
princes of marvellous precious stones, opals, rubies, sapphires,
diamonds, agates, amethysts, cups of agate, golden snuff-boxes, natural
crosses in agate, skulls made into cases and pocket books, brilliant
mosaics and rosaries of gold. Father Osoro directed my attention to the
paper money of the French Revolution, of the Cuban (so-called) Republic
and of St. Domingo. He showed me Roman, Spanish, Lusatanian, English,
French, Belgian, Australian, German, Swedish, Danish, Chinese and
Japanese coins. Here were immense stone earrings of Indians, mineral and
geological relics of Guatamala, grand green crystals, teeth of
antedeluvian beasts, fossils of various kinds, sulphur and iron ore of
Cuba, and specimens of one hundred and eight different kinds of wood
that grow on the island. I saw hundreds of other rare and lovely
curiosities, but it would take a volume to describe all of them. Father
Osoro next introduced me to the hall of Chemistry and Natural
Philosophy, a fine room, full of all the modern instruments designed to
practically illustrate the workings of these useful and interesting
systems.

From there we went to the refectory, which was capable of seating five
hundred pupils. Everything here was remarkable for neatness, solidity
and order. The dormitories, containing five hundred beds, were very
lofty and airy. I saw handsome crucifixes in conspicuous places here,
and holy pictures, also, all to remind the pupils of the spirit of
devotion which they owed to God and his saints. We noticed men washing
and ironing in the large laundry; no women were employed in the house.
Here were several grand marble swimming basins for the boys, with large
apparatuses for hot and cold water, splendid gymnasiums, forty or fifty
feet long by thirty wide, with pillars painted sky blue, and supporting
a magnificent ceiling. Swings, dumb-bells, Indian clubs and instruments
for raising weights were strewn all over the sawdust floors. We passed
by six court-yards adorned with statues, flowers, fountains and ponds
full of gold fish. I noticed in front of the church entrance a large and
splendid representation of the grotto of Lourdes made by one of the
Jesuit Fathers. Two noble palm-trees which grew near the grotto, added
greatly to its beauty. The exterior of the church was plain, but massive
in its appearance, and the interior with its handsome marble floor,
paintings, frescos and altars, formed a sight of no little interest to
the stranger. Soft vermillion, pink, rosy and violet reflections from
the stained glass windows filled the sacred edifice, and gave an
exquisite coloring to the superb old pictures. On the right, a grand and
costly crucifix looked down with life-like agony on the priests who were
vesting in the sacristy. Enormous chests lined the walls of several
rooms, and in those were stored gorgeous vestments, wonderfully
beautiful in color and material, and enriched with gold and precious
stones. Costly presents from kings and Spanish grandees were shown to me
by the brother sacristan, who took an honest pride in exhibiting those
blessed things. Magnificent society banners, used during processions on
great festivals, were subjects of intense interest to the good brother.
I saw lace albs there, with crotchet work marvellously executed by hand,
and adorned with brilliants. Each of these cost $1,500. The chapel of
St. Placidus, attached to the church is a perfect gem with its pillars
of white and gold. While in Havana, I had the pleasure of saying Mass in
the Jesuit Church. Other priests were celebrating at the same time, and
a magnificent congregation of men and women attended. The music was
exquisitely rendered, but I could not see how the people could continue
standing and kneeling so patiently all the time. In this, as in the rest
of the Cuban churches, there are but a few pews. The majority of the
people, who bring neither seats nor cushions with them, stand, kneel, or
sit on their heels at intervals. I do not think our Catholics in the
United States could muster up sufficient courage to endure all this.

After seeing the handsome, dark-eyed boys of the college, its fine
library and other interesting apartments, I ascended with Father Osoro
to look at the observatory en the top of the building.

This solid and business-like structure possesses the newest and most
complete astronomical and meteorological instruments, and the accuracy
of the scientific results arrived at by the Fathers, has become justly
celebrated. They received a manifestation of merit from the Centennial
Exposition of '76, on account of their meteorological observations, and
the Parisian Exhibition presented them with a magnificent medal. Father
Benito Vines, the president, communicates regularly with Washington and
nearly every civilized nation. After viewing the interior of the
observatory, we came out on the roof, and here I beheld a novel and
wonderfully lovely sight. Stone and brick walks, four or five feet wide,
with railings at each side spread away, intersecting each other at
different points, and all were above the dark, red-tiled roofs of the
institution. Strong little edifices like watch towers, painted in blue
and white, stood out prominently near the walks, and no sooner did the
eye turn from these immediate objects, than it was dazzled by the superb
panorama of city, ocean, bay, sky and woodland that spread before it.

Father Osoro enjoyed the expressions of admiration that escaped me, as I
gazed on the high and low roofs on every side, the black turrets, the
walls of houses, red, green, blue, crimson, yellow, and white all
mellowed by age. Down below us were the narrow streets, the iron-barred
windows, the curious shops, verandas, balconies, flag staffs, flying
pigeons, flowers blooming on the roofs, and bananas growing. Away to the
north-east stood the grand Morro Castle, the sentinel of the harbor,
with its frowning guns, and its grand, revolving light shining like a
gem above the sea. Behind it, Fort Cabaña looked long, bold and ancient,
backed on the east by evergreen hills, and decorated on the south by
palms and other tropical trees. The harbor, which glittered with
sunlight, was full of ships, buoys, sail-boats, music and sailors. On
this side of the bay appeared the old cathedral, with its dark gray
walls and black and brown roof. Yellow pillars, old towers, picturesque
wind-mills, brown iron stairs running up to the roofs of mansions,
palaces, domes, cupolas, plants of great beauty in vases on roofs, and
numerous old spires intervened. On the right, near the bay, could be
seen the old church, de San Francisco (now a customs storehouse), the
church de San Augustin, the church de Sancto Spiritu, and the palace of
the admiral to the south, the church de Mercede, that of St. Paul, the
arsenal, military hospital, gas houses, the Castello de Princepe, and
the suburban gardens of the captain-general. On the north, we beheld the
ocean, the Castello de Punta and the Casus de Benefecentia.
The Campo de Marte, Parque de Isabella, the parade grounds, trees,
statues, fountains and hotels appeared to the west. A refreshing breeze
stirred an atmosphere of seventy-eight degrees, and not a particle of
dust arose on street or house-top as the rain which fell on the
preceding night made all things clean. I would have remained on the top
of the college 'till dusk, contemplating that superb prospect, but I had
no time, so bidding good-by to the kind Fathers I determined to see more
of the city. Before leaving them, however, I could not help reflecting
upon the immense amount of good which they were doing in Havana. Before
the Liberals got hold of the Spanish government, the constitutional
authority of the church in Cuba was not interfered with, but since the
accession of Freemasons and Freethinkers to power, ecclesiastical
property has suffered violence from the hands of the State, and the
nomination and appointment of priests and bishops to place has been
arrogantly wrested from those appointed by God to legislate in
spirituals, and assumed by a class of irreligious despots. Though the
State pays the clergy, still it owns the church property, and entirely
cripples the power of the bishop, who cannot remove a bad and refractory
priest, if it suits not the pleasure of the civil authorities. Such a
state of things naturally caused some demoralization among the clergy,
and, as a consequence, much religious indifference among the people.
Societies like the Jesuits, who have been but a few years in Havana, are
gradually removing pernicious influences like these by the learning,
piety and zeal which they exhibit from the pulpit and among the people.
Hundreds of men, as well as of women, are drawn to the sacraments by
their persuasive eloquence and self-sacrificing, holy lives. The good
work will continue and bear glorious fruit, if these noble men be not
persecuted in Havana. My earnest hope is that the glorious influence of
Catholic Spain will protect them from danger.

                                          REV. M. W. NEWMAN.



A Valiant Soldier of the Cross.

By the Author of "Leaves from the Annals of the Sisters of Mercy."


In describing scenes over which mine eye has wandered, I have kept so
faithfully to the land of the sun, where winter seldom or never leaves
his icy footprints, that my discursive papers were not improperly styled
"Southern Sketches." Yet other latitudes in America are not wholly
unknown to me. Month after month have I gazed on the white monotony of
unthawing snow. No one could admire more than I the chaste beauty of the
feathery flakes, or the gorgeous sparkle of trees bereft of leaves and
covered with crystals that flashed every hue of the rainbow. But even in
this bright September day, with the mercury among the eighties, I get
chilled through and through, and shake with the "shivers" when I imagine
myself once more among the hard frosts of New Hampshire. Unlike the
brave soldier of Christ whom I am about to introduce to the readers of
the "Irish Monthly," and who found the heat of a short Northern summer
simply "intolerable," the tropics and their environs rather allure me.
True, soldiers and old residents speak of places between which and the
lower regions there is but a sheet of non-combustible tissue paper.
Nevertheless, the writer who has lived in both places would rather, as a
matter of choice, summer in the Tropics than winter in New Hampshire.

Though this State, in which my hero passed the greater part of his holy
life, be the Switzerland of America, a grandly beautiful section, full
of picturesque rivers, tall mountains, and dreamy-looking lakes,
attracting more tourists than any other place in America save Niagara,
yet I will pass over its stern and rugged scenery to write of a man
whose titles to our admiration are wholly of the supernatural order.

To me, the finest landscape is but a painted picture unless a human
being enliven it. Just one fisherwoman on a sandy beach, or a lone
shepherd on a bleak hill-side, and fancy can weave a drama of hope and
love and beauty about either. Faith tells of a beautiful immortal soul
imprisoned in forms gaunt and shrunken; a prayer that we may meet again
in heaven surges up in my heart. The landscape is made alive for me in
the twinkling of an eye, and stretches from this lower world to the
better and brighter land above. Father MacDonald was for forty-one years
the light of a manufacturing town. And when I think of its looms and
spindles and fire-engines, and forests of tall, red chimneys, and tens
of thousands of operatives, Father MacDonald is the figure which
illumines for me the weird and grimy spectacle, and casts over it a halo
of the supernatural. Little cared he for the sparkling rivers, or
bewitching lakes, or romantic mountains of the Granite State; his whole
interest was centred in souls.

Some fifty years ago, Irish immigrants began to come timidly, and in
small numbers, to the little manufacturing town of Manchester which
rises on both sides of the laughing waters of the Merrimac. Here, in the
heart of New Hampshire, one of the original thirteen States, and a
stronghold of everything non-Catholic, these poor but industrious aliens
knocked at the gates of the Puritan[6] for work. Strong and willing arms
were wanted; and Bishop Fitzpatrick, of Boston, learning that some
hundreds of Catholics working in the Manchester factories were sighing
for the ministrations of a parish, sent Father MacDonald, in July, 1844,
to take charge of their spiritual interests.

William MacDonald was born in the county Leitrim, in 1813, being the
youngest of a family of six sons and one daughter, whose parents were
John MacDonald and Winifred Reynolds. The now aged daughter is the sole
survivor of this large family. They were very strictly brought up by
their virtuous, pious parents, and through long and chequered lines,
were upright, honorable citizens, and thoroughly practical Catholics.
Years ago, the writer was told that no descendant of Mr. and Mrs.
MacDonald had ever seen the inside of a non-Catholic school. Charles and
William became priests, the former emigrating when quite young. William
attended the school of his native parish, where he received a solid
rudimentary education, after which he pursued his classical studies in
Dublin. In 1833, he joined his brother Charles, who was pastor of a
church at Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. Father Charles died in
his prime, with a high reputation for sanctity. William always carried
about him a little Latin Imitation of Christ, which had also been the
_vade mecum_ of his beloved brother. The spiritual life of both was
formed in that wonderful book, and Father William was wont to prescribe
a suitable chapter in the same for every mental trouble, difficulty, or
temptation referred to him.

Father MacDonald's education was finished in the College of Three
Rivers, Canada, under the Sulpician Fathers. After his ordination he
exercised the ministry in several places till sent by the Bishop of
Boston to Manchester. Here he found his co-religionists and countrymen
regarded as Helots, and far more despised by Yankee and Puritan than the
slaves in the South by their rulers. The Irish were denied the privilege
of sidewalks, and obliged, in order to avoid perpetual quarrels, to walk
in the middle of the streets. Wherever they appeared, they were hissed
and hooted, and "blood-hounds of hell" was the affectionate epithet the
ubiquitous small boy bestowed on them. Previous to Father MacDonald's
arrival, Father Daly, whose parish included nearly all New Hampshire and
Vermont, used to say Mass in Manchester with unfailing regularity every
three months. On one of these occasions, the floor of the temporary
chapel gave way, and priest, altar, and congregation, were precipitated
into the cellar. Providentially, beyond a few bruises and abrasions, no
one was injured. The previous day, the bigots having heard that Mass was
to be said in the room, had cut the supports from under the floor.

To these people, a priest was an object of hatred and scorn, whom they
believed it would be a good work to kill, and Father MacDonald settled
among them at the risk of his life. But when duty was in question, he
knew not fear. _The servant is not greater than his master_, he would
say: _If they have persecuted me they will persecute you also_. It was
in vain they used every means their perverse ingenuity suggested to
intimidate this dangerous papist. They even began to like him. Slowly
but surely, he won his way among them, and within a year of his arrival
he was able to hire the Granite Hall as a temporary chapel. In 1849, he
built a church on a square purchased with his own patrimony, at the
corner of Union and Merrimac Streets.

Besides the theological virtues which the "natives" valued not, Father
MacDonald possessed all the natural virtues which they pretend to
canonize. He was most frugal. To great objects he would give royally,
but it was doubtful if he ever wasted a dollar. He sought to live on as
little as possible, but it was that he might have more for the needy. He
was industrious; not a moment of his day was lost. For many years, he
was one of the only two priests in the State; but when his parochial
duties left him a little leisure, he was seen to handle the trowel and
use the broom. He paid cash for everything he bought, and whoever worked
for him received full pay on the day and hour agreed upon: no cutting
down of rates. If they wished to give to the church, very well; but they
must take their pay from him to the last farthing. He was neatness
personified. The fresh complexion and fine physique common among his
countrymen he did not possess. Barely reaching middle height, his spare
form, sharp features, sallow complexion, and keen, spectacled eyes, made
him look like a son of the soil. As for energy, no Yankee ever had more,
or perhaps so much. Non-Catholics knew that his power over his flock was
absolute. But they admitted that his wish, his word, and his work, were
always on the side of order, sobriety, frugality, and good citizenship.

When Father MacDonald's beautiful church was finished, the
Know-Nothings, or Native American Party, by way of celebrating in a
fitting manner the independence of the United States, burst upon the
defenceless Catholics, July 4, tore down their houses, destroyed their
furniture, dragged their sick out of bed into the streets, and finally
riddled the beautiful stained glass windows of the church. For these
damages no compensation was ever made. An Irishman having some dispute
with a native, the latter seized a monkey-wrench that was near, and
killed him. Father MacDonald asked for justice, but the officials
refused to arrest the murderer. Through his wise counsels, the
Catholics, though boiling with indignation, did not retaliate, and, as
it takes two parties to make a fight, the Know-Nothing excitement having
spent itself, soon subsided. But for years, the Irishmen of Manchester
and their brave pastor had to take turns at night to guard the church
buildings from sacrilegious hands.

So far from being frightened at the lawlessness of the mob, Father
MacDonald, at the height of the excitement, announced a daring project.
He would bring nuns to Manchester, and he called a meeting of his
parishioners to devise ways and means. But, for the first and last time,
they strenuously opposed him. "It would be madness. They had frequently
heard their employers say they would never allow a nunnery in the city."
He soon saw that if he waited for encouragement from any quarter his
object would never be accomplished. He built his convent. It was set on
fire when completed, but he was not to be baffled. He repaired the
damages. Though he declined some compensation offered on this occasion,
he was not slow to express his opinion as to the effect such evidences
of New England culture might have on his beloved and most generous
flock. He invited Sisters of Mercy from Providence, R.I., and had the
pleasure of welcoming them, July 16, 1858.

He received them in his own house, which they mistook for their convent.
Great was their surprise when they heard that the handsome pillared
edifice in the next square was theirs. "I will conduct you thither,"
said he; "but first we will visit our Lord in the church." The Rev.
Mother, M. Frances Warde, and the Sisters, admired the exquisite church,
and the extreme neatness and beauty of the altar. "No hand," said he,
"but mine has ever touched that altar. No secular has ever been admitted
within the sanctuary rails even to sweep. I myself sweep the sanctuary,
and attend to the cleanliness of everything that approaches the Blessed
Sacrament. But my work as sole priest here is now so arduous, that I
will resign this sweet and sacred duty to you."

Schools were immediately opened for boys, girls, adults. Night schools
and an academy for the higher studies followed. On account of the
superior instruction given in this institution, it has always been well
patronized by the best Protestant families in New Hampshire. Indeed, the
success of the Sisters of Mercy in this stronghold of Puritanism has
been phenomenal. During Father MacDonald's incumbency, Catholics
increased from a few despised aliens to more than half the population of
Manchester. He was never obliged to ask them for money; they gave him
all he needed. He never failed to meet his engagements; and in one way
or another every coin he handled went to God's church or God's poor. He
laid up nothing for himself. He had the most exalted ideas of the
priesthood, and he carried them out to the letter in his daily life.
Thousands of young men have been enrolled in his sodalities. As an
example to them, he totally abstained from tobacco and from intoxicating
drink. St. John's Total Abstinence Society was the pride of his heart.
One of his "Sodality Boys," Right Rev. Denis Bradley, became first
bishop of Manchester, and many have become zealous priests. From the
girls' schools and the sodalities, too, many religious vocations have
sprung, and the number of converts under instruction is always very
large. This worthy priest brought free Catholic education within the
reach of every Catholic in his adopted city. As soon as he finished one
good work he began another, and splendid churches, convents, schools,
orphanage, hospital, home for old ladies, etc., remain as monuments of
his zeal. These institutions are not excelled in the country. They are
all administered by the Sisters of Mercy, to whom he was a most generous
benefactor.

During the forty-one years of Father MacDonald's life in Manchester, he
never took a vacation but one, which his bishop compelled him to take.
He was so methodical in the distribution of his time that it was said he
did the work of six priests, and did it well. He knew every member of
his flock, and was to all friend and father as well as priest, their
refuge in every emergency. Every day he studied some point of theology,
visited his schools and other institutions, and went the rounds of his
sick and poor. Every home had its allotted duty, and grave, indeed,
should be the reasons that could induce him to deviate one iota from his
ordinary routine. His charities were unbounded, yet given with
discrimination, nor did his left hand know what his right hand gave.
With the sick and the aged, he was like a woman, or a mother. He would
make their fires, warm drinks for them, see that they had sufficient
covering. Though they all doated on "Father Mac," they must not thank
him, or even pretend they saw what he was doing for them, so well did
they know that he worked solely _for Him who seeth in secret_. Monday,
August 24, 1885, this holy man was stricken with paralysis of the brain,
and died two days later, while the bishop and the Sisters of Mercy were
praying for his soul. It is almost certain that he had some presentiment
of his death, as he selected the Gregorian Requiem Mass for his
obsequies, and asked the choir to practise it. August 28, his sacred
remains were committed to the earth, the funeral sermon being preached
by the bishop, who had been as a son to the venerable patriarch. In
real, personal holiness, Father MacDonald possessed the only power that
makes the knee bend. Over twenty years ago, his sexton said to the
writer: "I never opened the church in the morning that I did not find
Father MacDonald kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament." What time he
entered it, no one knew. How edifying this must have been to the poor
factory hands, who were wont to beg God's blessing on their daily labor,
in the short, scorching summer, and the bitter cold of the long winter,
for at that time the church was not heated. Never did these children of
toil miss that bent and venerable form, absorbed in prayer before the
hidden Jesus, of whose august presence he had such a vivid realization.

Before such a life of toil and prayer, no bigotry could stand. By sheer
force of virtue alone, this holy man wrought a complete change in the
sentiments of his adversaries. Hence the extraordinary respect shown to
his memory. The non-Catholic press says that no man ever exercised so
much influence in Manchester for forty years as Father MacDonald, and
that he was the man whom Manchester could least afford to lose. The
mayor and the city government attended his obsequies in a body, and the
governor of New Hampshire wrote to express his regret that absence
hindered his paying the last tribute of respect to a priest he so highly
revered. Business was suspended and all the factories closed, that the
whole city might follow his remains to the tomb. On Sunday, August 30,
the non-Catholic pulpits of the thrifty city resounded with the praises
of this humble priest, whose chief characteristics were stainless
integrity, an entire absence of human respect, burning zeal for God's
glory, and life-long efforts to promote it. He feared no man and sought
the favor of none, and his noble independence of character won him the
admiration of all who had the privilege of knowing him. His death was
universally deplored as the greatest calamity that ever befell
Manchester. Among the Protestant ministers who eulogized him in their
sermons, August 30, was Rev. Dr. Spalding, who thanked God for raising
up a man whose life was remarkable "for its large consecration to Church
and people, for its high earnestness, its sacrifices and unselfishness,
its purity and truthfulness. God grant unto us all," he continued, "a
desire to imitate this life in its devotion to others, and its trust in
Him."

As a preacher, Father MacDonald was rather solid than brilliant. In
manner, he was somewhat blunt. He conversed pleasantly and sensibly; but
people given to gossip or foolish talk soon learned to steer clear of
him. Hospitality was with him a Christian duty. If he heard that some
ecclesiastic was at the hotel--and he heard everything--he would at once
go for him, and place his own neat, comfortable house at his disposal.
"Many a time," he would say, "has a young priest acquired a taste for
card-playing by spending but one night in a hotel." So fearful was he of
the least thing that might disedify the weaklings of his flock, that,
when the writer knew him, he was accustomed to send to Boston for altar
wine. "If I buy it here," he said, "some poor fellows will think I don't
practise what I preach. They will want stimulants as well as I. Even the
people who sell will never think of altar wine." Father MacDonald had a
great love for the South. Its material advancement gave him pleasure,
but his chief interest lay in its spiritual progress. Six years ago, the
writer met him after an interval of sixteen years. After the usual
greetings, he began to question: "Now, tell me, how is religion in New
Orleans? Are the priests zealous? Have you a live bishop? Are the public
institutions well attended by priests and religious? But, above and
before all else, are your Catholic children all in Catholic schools? And
have you superior schools, so that children will have no excuse for
going to the godless schools? How are the Masses attended? Are the
people well instructed? Do many lead lives of piety?" He was then in his
sixty-seventh year, rather broken from incessant labors, but as active
as ever. His hair had changed from black to white since last we met.
When I gave some edifying details, he would say: "God be praised. I am
so glad of what you tell me. Thanks be to God." And he called the
attention of a young priest at the other end of the room: "Listen! Hear
what they are doing in the South for the school-children, and the waifs
and street arabs. And all that is done for the sick and the prisoners.
Oh, blessed be God! How happy all this makes me."

I felt as though I were listening to St. Alfonso, so irresistably did
this remind me of him. I was no longer among the crisp snows of New
Hampshire, that had crackled beneath my feet that morning. Fancy had
transported me to the genial clime of Naples. I stood by the bed-ridden
Bishop of St. Agatha, in the old Redemptorist's Convent at Pagani, and
listened to the touching dialogue between Mauro, the royal architect,
and the saint: "And the churches in the city of Naples, are they much
frequented?"--"Oh, yes, Monsignor, and you cannot imagine the good that
results from this. All classes, especially the working people, crowd
them, and we have saints even among the coachmen." At these words the
saint rose from his recumbent position, and cried out in tones of joy
and triumph: "Saintly coachmen at Naples! Gloria Patri." He could not
sleep for joy at this intelligence, but during the night would
frequently call for his attendant: "You heard what Don Mauro said?
Saints among the coachmen at Naples! What do you think of that?"
Associated in our mind with the great St. Alfonso, we keep this holy
priest, whom Bishop Bradley so justly styled, "The pioneer of Catholic
education in New England." His flock universally regarded him as a
saint, and a great saint. And, in all humility, and in perfect
submission to the decrees of Holy Church, the writer is able to say, of
her own knowledge and observation, that this humble, hard-working,
mortified Irish priest, William MacDonald, practised in a high, a very
high, degree, every virtue which we venerate in the saints of God. I
never met a holier soul. I could not imagine him guilty of the smallest,
wilful fault. I feel more inclined to pray to him than for him; it seems
incredible that he should have anything to expiate in purgatory. May his
successors walk in his footsteps, and his children never forget the
lessons he taught them more by example than by word. May our friendship,
a great grace to me, be renewed _in requie æterna et in luce perpetua_.
Amen.

                                      _Dublin Irish Monthly._

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: The Irish Catholic names, Sullivan and Carroll, are stamped
on two of the ten counties of New Hamshire, in memory of Revolutionary
heroes.]


The Avaricious Man can not enjoy riches, but is tormented by anxiety or
sickness. Others are worn out by the jealousy or envy which consume
them. Others, again, wrapped in their pride, are being continually
galled by the supposed indignities offered to them, and there is no
sharper crown of thorns than that worn by the proud man. There is one
sin which seems to be rampant in our day, and that is scepticism, or
doubting God and revelation; and this also brings its own punishment in
the present. On the other hand, to those who are tempted, suffering, or
afflicted, Jesus Christ promised, "Be thou faithful unto death and I
will give thee the crown of life."



Gerald Griffin.


   Leal heart, and brave right hand that never drew
     One false note from thy harp, although the ache
     Of weariness and hope deferred might shake
   Harsh discords from a soul less clear and true
     Than thine amid the gloom that knew no break--
   The London gloom that barred the heaven's blue
     From thy deep Celtic eyes, so wide to take
   The bliss of earth and sky within their view!
     On fleet, white wings thy music made its way
   Back o'er the waves to Ireland's holy shore;
     Close nestled in her bosom, each wild lay
   Mixed with her sighs--'twas from her deep heart's core
     She called thee: "'Gille Machree'[7] come home, I pray--
   In my green lap of shamrocks sleep, asthore!"

                          ROSE KAVANAGH, in _Irish Monthly_.



Mary E. Blake.


Two years ago we concluded a slight notice of the poems of "Thomasine"
(known in Ireland as Miss Olivia Knight, and in Australia as Mrs. Hope
Connolly), with the following words: "A writer in the _Irish Fireside_
said lately that Eva and Speranza had no successors. We could name, if
we dared, three or four daughters of Erin whom we believe to be singing
now from a truer and deeper inspiration and with a purer utterance."
Happily, since these words were printed, two of these unnamed rivals
whom we set up against the gifted wife of the new M. P. elect for Meath,
and against the more gifted widow of Sir William Wilde, have placed
their names on the title pages of collections of their poems. We allude,
of course, to Katharine Tynan and Rosa Mulholland. Not only these whose
place in literature is already secured, but higher than some to whom the
enthusiasm of a political crisis gave prominence, we should be inclined
to rank such Irish songstresses as the late Attie O'Brien and the living
but too silent "Alice Esmonde." And then of Irishwomen living outside
Ireland we have Fanny Parnell, Fanny Forrester, Eleanor C. Donnelly, and
the lady whom we claim as our own in the title of this paper--Mrs. Mary
E. Blake. Though the wife of a physician at Boston, she was born at
Clonmel, and bore the more exclusively Celtic name of Magrath.[8]

Boston claims, or used to claim, to be the literary metropolis of the
United States. A prose volume by Mrs. Blake and a volume of her poems
lie before us, and for elegance of typography do credit to their Boston
publishers. "On the Wing"--lively sketches of a trip to the Pacific, all
about San Francisco and the Yosemite Valley, and Los Angeles, and
Colorado, but ending with this affectionate description of Boston
aforesaid:

     And now, as the evening sun drops lower, what fair city is this
     that rises in the east, throned like a queen above the silver
     Charles, many-towered and pinnacled, with clustering roof and taper
     spire? How proud she looks, yet modest, as one too sure of her
     innate nobility to need adventitious aid to impress others. Look at
     the æsthetic simplicity of her pose on the single hill, which is
     all the mistaken kindness of her children has left of the three
     mountains which were her birthright. Behold the stately avenues
     that stretch by bridge and road, radiating her lavish favors in
     every direction; look at the spreading suburbs that crowd beyond
     her gates, more beautiful than the parks and pleasure grounds of
     her less favored sisters. See where she sits, small but precious,
     her pretty feet in the blue waters that love to dally about them;
     her pretty head, in its brave gilt cap, as near the clouds as she
     could manage to get it: her arms full of whatever is rarest and
     dearest and best. For doesn't she hold the "Autocrat of the
     Breakfast Table" and Bunker Hill, Faneuil Hall, and Harvard
     College? Do not the fiery eloquence of Phillips, the songs of
     Longfellow, the philosophy of Fisk, the glory of the Great Organ,
     and the native lair of culture, belong to her? Ah! why should we
     not "tell truth and shame the devil"--doesn't she bring us to the
     babies and the family doctor?

But it is not as a writer of prose that Mrs. Blake has secured a niche
in our gallery of literary portraits. Indeed, without knowing it, we
have already introduced her poetry to our readers: for we are pleased to
find in her volume of collected poems an anonymous piece which we had
gathered as one of our "Flowers for a Child's Grave," from a number of
_The Boston Pilot_ as far back as 1870. We should reprint page 171 of
this volume if it were not already found in our eighth volume (1880) at
page 608. The division of Mrs. Blake's poems to which it belongs
contains, we think, her best work. Her muse never sings more sweetly
than in giving expression to the joy and grief of a mother's heart. The
verses just referred to were the utterances of maternal grief: a
mother's joy breaks out into these pleasant and musical stanzas:--


   My little man is merry and wise,
     Gay as a cricket and blithe as a bird;
   Often he laughs and seldom he cries,
     Chatters and coos at my lightest word:
       Peeping and creeping and opening the door,
       Clattering, pattering over the floor,
       In and out, round about, fast as he can,--
       So goes the daytime with my little man.

   My little man is brimful of fun,
     Always in mischief and sometimes in grief;
   Thimble and scissors he hides one by one,
     Till nothing is left but to catch the thief;
       Sunny hair, golden fair over his brow--
       Eyes so deep, lost in sleep, look at him now;
       Baby feet, dimpled sweet, tired as they ran,
       So goes the night-time with my little man.

   My little man, with cherry-ripe face,
     Pouting red lips and dimpled chin,
   Fashioned in babyhood's exquisite grace,
     Beauty without and beauty within,--
       Full of light, golden bright, life as it seems,
       Not a tear, not a fear, known in thy dreams;
       Kisses and blisses now make up its span,
       Could it be always so, my little man?

   My little man the years fly away,
     Chances and changes may come to us all,--
   I'll look for the babe at my side some day,
     And find him above me, six feet tall;
       Flowing beard hiding the dimples I love,
       Grizzled locks shading the clear brow above,
       Youth's promise ripened on Nature's broad plan,
       And nothing more left me of my little man.

   My little man,--when time shall bow,
     With its hoary weight, my head and thine,--
   Will you love me then as you love me now,
     With sweet eyes looking so fond in mine?
       However strangely my lot may be cast,
       My hope in life's future, my joy in life's past,
       Loyal and true as your loving heart can,
       Say, will you always be my little man?

   My little man! perchance the bloom
     Of the hidden years, as they come and pass,
   May leave me alone, with a wee, wee tomb
     Hidden away in the tangled grass.
       Still as on earth, so in heaven above,
       Near to me, dear to me, claiming my love,
       Safe in God's sunshine, and filling his plan,
       Still be _forever_ my own little man.

Perhaps our Irish poetess in exile--Boston does not consider itself a
place of exile--would prefer to be represented by one of her more
serious poems; and probably she had good reasons for placing first in
her volume the following which is called "The Master's Hand."

           The scroll was old and gray;
   The dust of time had gathered white and chill
   Above the touches of the worker's skill,
           And hid their charm away.

           The many passed it by;
   For no sweet curve of dainty face or form,
   No gleam of light, or flash of color warm,
           Held back the careless eye.

           But when the artist came,
   With eye that saw beyond the charm of sense,
   He seemed to catch a sense of power intense
           That filled the dusky frame.

           And when with jealous care
   His hand had cleansed the canvas, line by line,
   Behold! The fire of perfect art divine,
           Had burned its impress there!

           Upon the tablet glowed,
   Made priceless by the arch of time they spanned,
   The touches of the rare Old Master's hand,
           The life his skill bestowed.

          *       *       *       *       *

           O God whom we adore!
   Give us the watchful sight, to see and trace,
   Thy living semblance in each human face
           However clouded o'er.

           Give us the power to find,
   However warped and grimmed by time and sin,
   Thine impress stamped upon the soul within,
           Thy signet on the mind.

           Not ours the reckless speed
   To proudly pass our brother's weakness by,
   And turning from his side with careless eye,
           To take no further heed.

           But, studying line by line,
   Grant to our hearts deep trust and patient skill,
   To trace within his soul and spirit still,
          Thy Master Hand divine!

Mrs. Blake in one point does not resemble the two Irish woman-poets--for
they are more than poetesses--whom we named together at the beginning of
this little paper. Ireland and the Blessed Virgin have not in this
Boston book the prominence which Miss Mulholland gives them in the
volume which is just issuing from Paternoster Square. The Irish-American
lady made her selection with a view to the tastes of the general public;
but the general public are sure to be won by earnest and truthful
feeling, and an Irish and Catholic heart cannot be truthful and earnest
without betraying its devotion to the Madonna and Erin.

        _Irish Monthly_, edited by REV. MATHEW RUSSELL, S.J.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: _Gille Machree_, "brightener of my heart;" the name of one
of Gerald Griffin's sweetest songs.]

[Footnote 8: Amongst American women we cannot claim Nora Perry, in spite
of her Christian name; but the father of Miss Louise Guiney was an
Irishman. Both of these show a fresh and bright talent, which lifts them
far above feminine verse-writers.]



George Washington.

HIS CELEBRATED WHITE MULE, AND THE RACE IT MADE AWAY FROM A DEER RIFLE.


Washington has generally been credited with the introduction in America
of mules as a valuable adjunct to plantation appurtenances; but very few
people know that one of his favorite riding animals was a white mule,
which was kept carefully stabled and groomed along with his blooded
horses at Mount Vernon. In the year 1797, there was published at
Alexandria for a brief period, a weekly paper called _Hopkin's Gazette_.
A few numbers of this sheet are still extant. In one of them there is an
account of an exciting adventure, in which Washington, the white mule,
and one Jared Dixon figured. It is evident that the editor of this paper
did not have an exalted opinion of the great patriot, as he speaks of
him as "a man who has the conceit of believing that there would not be
any such country as America if there had not been a George Washington to
prevent its annihilation." From this account it appears that Jared Dixon
was a Welshman, who lived on a hundred-acre tract of land adjoining the
Mount Vernon plantation. Washington always claimed that the tract
belonged to him, and made several efforts to dispossess Dixon, but
without success. According to the _Gazette_, Washington's overseer had,
on one occasion, torn down the Dixon fence and let the cattle into the
field, and various similar annoyances were resorted to in order to force
Dixon to move away. But Dixon would neither surrender nor compromise,
and kept on cultivating his little farm in defiance of the man who had
been first in war and was now first in peace.

"It was last Thursday about the hour of noon," says the _Gazette_, "when
General Washington rode up to Mr. Dixon's gate. He was mounted on his
white mule, which had come down the broad road on his famous fox-trot of
eight miles an hour. There was fire in the General's eye and his under
lip protruded far, betokening war. His riding-boots shone in the sun, as
did his gold spurs. His hair was tied with a gorgeous black ribbon, and
his face was pale with resolution. Mr. Dixon and his family were
adjusting themselves for dinner, when they heard the call at the gate.
There was a most animated conversation between these two neighbors, in
which the General informed the humble settler that he must receive a
certain sum for his disputed title or submit to be dispossessed.
Whereupon Mr. Dixon, who was also a Revolutionary soldier, and felt that
he has some rights in this country, informed the lordly neighbor that
the land was his own, that he had paid for it and built houses thereon,
the children were born to him on it, and that he would defend it with
his life. Continuing, he charged the general with inciting his employés
to depredate on the fences and fields. It was natural that this should
arouse the mettle of the modern Mars. He flew into a towering rage, and
applied many epithets to Mr. Dixon that are not warranted by the Ten
Commandments. He even went so far as to raise his riding-whip and to
threaten personal violence. Mr. Dixon is a man of few words, but a high
temper, and, not caring to have his home and family thus offended, he
gave the general one minute to move away while he rushed into his house
for his deer rifle. There are none who doubt the valor of the general;
but there may be a few who do not credit him with that discretion which
is so valuable a part of valor. Suffice it for the ends of this
chronicle to say that it required only a few moments for him to turn the
gray mule's head towards Mount Vernon, and, in less time than it takes
to here relate, the noble animal was distancing the Dixon homestead with
gallant speed. It was no fox-trot, nor yet so fast as the Derby record,
but most excellent for a mule. At any rate, it was a noble race, which
saved a settler's shot and a patriot's bacon, and averted a possible
catastrophe that might have cast a gloom on American history."

If this narrative is strictly accurate, Washington might have replied to
his refractory neighbor, on being warned away, in the language of the
Nevada desperado who was put on a mule by a committee of vigilants and
given ten minutes to get out of town; "Gentlemen," said the desperado,
"if this mule don't balk, I don't want but five."


Washington's Mother.

Mrs. Washington found little difficulty in bringing up her children.
They were disciplined to obedience, and a simple word was her command.
She was not given to any display of petulance or rage, but was steady,
well-balanced, and unvarying in her mood. That she was dignified, even
to stateliness, is shown us by the statement made by Lawrence
Washington, of Chotauk, a relative and playmate of George in boyhood,
who was often a guest at her house. He says--"I was often there with
George--his playmate, schoolmate, and young man's companion. Of the
mother I was ten times more afraid than I ever was of my own parents.
She awed me in the midst of her kindness, for she was indeed truly kind.
I have often been present with her sons--proper tall fellows, too--and
we were all as mute as mice; and even now, when time has whitened my
locks, and I am the grandparent of a second generation, I could not
behold that remarkable woman without feelings it is impossible to
describe. Whoever has seen that awe-inspiring air and manner, so
characteristic in the father of his country, will remember the matron as
she appeared, when the presiding genius of her well-ordered household,
commanding and being obeyed.



A Child of Mary.


An old general was once asked by a friend how it was that, after so many
years spent in the camp, he had come to be so frequent a communicant,
receiving several times a week. "My friend," answered the old soldier,
"the strangest part of it is, that my change of life was brought about
before I ever listened to the word of a priest, and before I had set my
foot in a church. After my campaigns, God bestowed on me a pious wife,
whose faith I respected, though I did not share it. Before I married her
she was a member of all the pious confraternities of her parish, and she
never failed to add to her signature, _Child of Mary_. She never took it
upon herself to lecture me about God, but I could read her thoughts in
her countenance. When she prayed, every morning and night, her
countenance beamed with faith and charity; when she returned from the
church, where she had received, with a calmness, a sweetness and a
patience, which had in them something of the serenity of heaven, she
seemed an angel. When she dressed my wounds I found her like a Sister of
Charity.

"Suddenly, I myself was taken with the desire to love the God whom my
wife loved so well, and who inspired her with those virtues which formed
the joy of my life. One day I, who hitherto was without faith, who was
such a complete stranger to the practices of religion, so far from the
Sacraments, said to her: 'Take me to your confessor.'

"Through the ministry of this man of God, and by the divine grace, I
have become what I am, and what I rejoice to be."



Dead Man's Island.

THE STORY OF AN IRISH COUNTRY TOWN.

T. P. O'CONNOR, M. P.



CHAPTER XIX.

MAT BECOMES A FENIAN.


Shortly before this, the Widow Cunningham had received the news that her
poor boy had been killed in a colliery accident in Pennsylvania. This
stopped the allowance which he used to send her out of his own scant
wages.

The destruction of her daughter now came as the last blow that broke her
long-enduring spirit. There had been a time when she would have died
rather than have gone into the workhouse, but she had nothing left to
live for now, and she became a pauper. The Irish workhouse soon kills
what little spirit successive misfortunes have left in its occupants
before their entrance, and in a few years there was nothing left of the
once proud, high-spirited and splendid woman, whom we knew in the early
days of this history.

Meantime, the fate of the girl had been the final influence in deciding
the fate of another person. Mat Blake had fluctuated for a long time
before he could make up his mind to join the revolutionary party; but on
the very evening of the day on which he had seen Betty in the streets of
Ballybay he made no further resistance, and that night was sworn in as a
member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

It is not my purpose in this story to enter at length into his
adventures in his new and perilous enterprise. He had not been long in
the ranks when he was recognized by Mr. James Stephens as one of the
most promising members of the conspiracy, and he was chosen to do
important and serious work. The funds of the organization were nearly
always at the lowest ebb, and during this period of his life Mat had to
pass through privations that could only be endured by a man of
passionate purpose and unselfish aims. Many and many a time he had not
the money wherewith to buy a railway ticket. His clothes were often
ragged, and he frequently had to walk twenty miles in a day in shoes
that were almost soleless. The arrangement usually was for the members
of one circle to supply him with the money that would take him to the
next town; and though he saw many instances of abject cowardice and
hideous selfishness at this period--especially when the suspension of
the _Habeas Corpus_ Act left the liberty, and to some extent, the life
of every man at the disposal of the police. He also witnessed many
proofs of heroic courage and noble devotion.

At length the time came when everybody expected the blow to be struck at
British tyranny, and the star of Irish liberty to arise. Mat, owing to
his fiery and impatient temperament, naturally belonged to that section
of the Fenian Brotherhood which demanded prompt action, and still in the
age of illusions and of blinding rage, he would admit no difficulties,
and feared no obstacles. Mat had sworn in hundreds of members. He had
passed through the town of Ballybay on the memorable night when an Irish
regiment, as it was leaving for other quarters, cheered through the town
for the Irish Republic, and some of the men on whom he relied most
strongly were in high authority in the police force. He knew nothing of
the almost total want of arms, taking it for granted that all the wild
boasts of the supplies from America and other sources were founded on
facts. He was one of the deputation that finally waited upon the leaders
in Dublin to hurry on the struggle.

He went down to Ballybay on the night of the 17th of March, 18--, which
had been fixed for the rising. The head centre of the province had
arranged to meet the men there that night with arms. The Ballybay
Barracks were to be surrendered to them through one of the sergeants who
belonged to the Brotherhood; and it was hoped that by the evening of the
next day, the green flag would float over the castle which for three
centuries had been garrisoned by the soldiers of the enemy.

Two hundred men met at the trysting place, close to the "Big Meadows."
They were kept waiting for some time; impatience began to set in, and
demoralization is the child of impatience. At last the head centre
appeared; he had five guns for the whole party. Then the men saw that
their hopes were betrayed. Most of them quietly dispersed towards their
homes. That night Mat was seized in his bed, and within a few minutes
afterwards was in goal. He felt that the game was up, that all his
bright hopes, like those of many another noble Irish heart before him,
had ended in farcical nothingness. Disaster followed upon disaster. When
he made his appearance in court he saw upon the witness table one of his
most trusted friends, who was about to give the evidence that would
ensure his conviction.

A final outrage was in store for him. The Government had resolved, when
once it had entered upon the campaign against the conspiracy, to pursue
it with vigor, and judges were selected who might be relied upon to show
the accused no justice during the trial, and no mercy after the
conviction. Crowe, who had been made a judge shortly after his last
election for Ballybay, was naturally chosen as the chief and most useful
actor in this drama. During all the years that had elapsed since his
treason he had distinguished himself, even above all the other judges of
the country, in the unscrupulous violence of his hostility to all
popular movements. Trial before him came to be regarded as certainty of
conviction. The fearlessness of the man made him inaccessible to the
threats that were everywhere hurled against him, and his rage became the
fiercer and his violence the more relentless on the day after he found a
threatening letter under a plate on his own table. He brought to his
task all the ferocity of the apostate. Under all his apparent
independence, his quick vanity and his hot temper made him sensitive to
attack, and the Fenian Press had made him the chief target of its most
vehement and most constant invective.

Mat Blake was known as one of the bitterest writers and speakers of the
movement, and some of the writings in which he had attacked Crowe
displayed a familiarity with the incidents of Ballybay elections which
could only have come from the pen of one who had been intimately
associated with those struggles.

The two men now stood face to face--the one on the bench and the other
in the dock. Crowe did not allow himself to betray any sign of previous
acquaintance with the prisoner before him. The jury was selected; every
man who might be supposed to have the least sympathy with National
movements was rigorously excluded from the box, and Mat was tried by
twelve men, of whom nine were Orangemen and the other three belonged to
that Catholic-Whig _bourgeoisie_ against which he had always waged
unsparing war. Anthony Cosgrave was the foreman. Mat was convicted, and
sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.

The sufferings he underwent during this period I will not attempt to
describe. After a very short stay in Ireland he was transferred to
Portland, and there the English warders exhausted upon him all the
insolence and cruelty of ignorant and triumphant enemies. One suffering,
however, was in his case somewhat mitigated. He had not a large
appetite, and the prison food, though coarse, was sufficient for his
wants. With the generosity which characterized him, he was even ready to
divide his food with those whose appetites were more exacting. Among his
companions were two men, tall, robust, red-haired, who belonged to a
stock of Southern farmers, and who were possessed of the gigantic
strength, the huge frame, and the sound digestion of Cork ploughmen.
Every day these hapless creatures complained of hunger and of cold, and
Mat and Charles Reilly, another member of the _Irish People_ staff,
sometimes found a sombre pleasure in finding and gathering snails for
them. Whenever either of them brought a snail to Meehan or to Sheil the
famished men would swallow it eagerly, without even stopping to take off
the shell. Meehan is now a prominent member of the Dynamite Party in New
York. Sheil became insane shortly after his release, and threw himself
into the Liffey.

One day, after four years' imprisonment, the Governor called Mat into
his room and told him that he was free. He was transferred to Milbank,
then he was supplied with a suit of clothes several times too large for
him, and he went out and by the Thames, and gazed on that noble stream
with the eyes of a free man.

He wandered aimlessly and listlessly along, unable yet to appreciate the
full joy of his restoration to liberty. As he was passing over
Westminster Bridge he was suddenly stopped by a man whom he had known in
the ranks of the organization, and whom the fortune of war had not swept
into gaol with the rest. The stranger looked at Mat for a few moments;
gazed on the hollow eyes, the pale cheeks, and the worn frame, and,
unable to restrain his emotions, burst into tears. This was the first
indication Mat received of the terrible change that imprisonment had
wrought in his appearance. The next day he set out for Ballybay.

Meanwhile, vast changes seemed about to come over Ireland. The Fenian
conspiracy had been the death-knell of the triumphant cynicism and
corruption that had reigned over the country in the years succeeding the
treason of Crowe. The name of Mr. Butt, as the leader of a new movement,
was beginning to be spoken of. An agitation had been started which
demanded a radical settlement of the land question. Demonstrations were
taking place in almost every county, and the people were united,
enthusiastic, and hopeful. Several of the worst of the landlords had
already been brought to their knees, and there had been a considerable
fall in the value of landed property. The serfs were passing from the
extremity of despair and demoralization into the other extreme of
exultant and sometimes cruel triumph.

Even the town of Ballybay was beginning to be stirred, and the farmers
all around joined the new organization in large numbers.

By a curious coincidence a monster demonstration was announced in
Ballybay for the very day of Mat's arrival.

As Mat passed along the too well remembered scene between Ballybay and
Dublin, he could not help thinking of the time when he had gone over
this road on his first visit to Ireland after his departure for England.
He had then thought that desolation had reached its ultimate point; but
in the intervening period the signs of decay had increased. It appeared
as if for every ruin that had stared him in the face on the former
occasion ten now appeared. For miles and miles he caught sight of not
one house, of no human face; he seemed almost to be travelling through a
city of the dead.

As the newspaper containing tidings of the new movement lay before him,
he leaned back in reflection, and once more thought of the days in which
Crowe figured as the saviour, and then as the betrayer of Ireland. It
had been a rigid article of faith with the Fenian organization that no
confidence was to be placed in constitutional agitations and agitators.
Mat retained in their full fervor the doctrines he had held for years
upon this point; and he turned away from the accounts of the new
movement as from another chapter in national folly and prospective
treason. Looking out on the familiar grey and dull sky, he could see no
hope whatever for the future of his country. Irish life appeared to him
one vast mistake; and so far as he had any plans for the future they
were of a life removed from the chaos and fret and toil and moil and
disappointments and humbug of politics. He thought of returning once
more to his profession; but he resolved that it would be neither amid
the incessant decay of Ireland, nor surrounded by hostile faces and
unsympathetic hearts in England. His thoughts were of the mighty country
which had extended its hospitality and generosity to so many of his
race, and had bestowed upon them liberty, prosperity, and eminence. In
all these visions one figure, one sweet face mingled itself. With Mary
Flaherty by his side he felt that no career could be wholly dark, no
part of the world wholly foreign, and as he once more indulged in waking
dreams he hummed to himself the well-known air,--

   "Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
   Still wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me."

At last he was at the railway, and there were his poor old father and
his mother standing before him, their hair bleached to whiteness,
trembling, feeble, with tears rolling down their cheeks. Mat was in his
mother's arms in a moment.

Ballybay, even on this occasion, was true to itself. The arrival of Mat
in Dublin had been announced in the newspapers, and the heart of the
people throughout the country went forth to him, as it always does to
those whose generous rashness has been punished by England's worst
tyranny. He had been accompanied to the railway station at the
Broadstone by a crowd; thousands cheered him, and shook him by the hand,
and wept and laughed. The word had mysteriously gone along the line that
the patriot was returning, and at every one of the stations, however
small, there was a multitude to greet him warmly.

But at Ballybay, still deep down in the slough of its eternal despond, a
few lorn and desolate-looking men stood on the platform. There they were
once more, as if it were but yesterday, with their hands deep down in
their pockets; the wistful, curious glance in their eyes, and the
melancholy slouch in their shoulders. They tried to raise a cheer, but
the attempt died in its own sickliness.

And then Mat left the train, walked over the station as one in a dream,
and was placed upon the sidecar almost without knowing what he was
doing.

There was a terrible dread at his heart; he asked his mother a question;
she answered him; and then, and for the first time since he had left
prison, his heart burst, his spirit broke, and he entered his father's
house pallid, trembling, his eyes suffused with bitter tears.



CHAPTER XX.

THE DEMONSTRATION.


And thus it came to pass that the chief characters of this story found
themselves in Ballybay again on its closing day, on exactly the same
spot as they were on the day when it opened.

The Land League demonstration was not prepared with any particular care
or organization, the Irish people being still, even in the matter of
political demonstration, in a state of childish immaturity. It turned
out to be better so, for the spontaneous inventiveness of the moment
suggested a programme far more dramatic and picturesque than could have
occurred to the mind of the most ingenious political stage-manager. The
platform had been erected on the spot where the cabin had stood which
the son of the Gombeen man had overthrown so many years ago. The field
now was laid in grass, which, before the demonstration waved long and
green; but as the hours went on and the thousands of feet passed over
it, the grass was all crushed and torn. There were half a dozen
bands--two of them dressed in the showy uniform which descends from the
pictures of Robert Emmet in the dock--and they played continuously and
for the most part discordantly. There were also many banners, there was
a long procession of men on horseback, and the heads of the horses were
covered with green boughs. Green, indeed, was everywhere; there were
green banners, green scarves, green neck-ties, and the greater part of
the men displayed the green ticket of the Tenant League in their hats.
The air of the crowd was in no way serious, the whole affair was rather
like a _fête_ than a grave political demonstration. The multitudes, too,
had the absence of self-control which characterizes popular
demonstrations; their feelings seemed to express themselves without
thought or premeditation, speech overflowed rather than fell from their
lips. The result was that the cheering was continuous; now it was the
arrival of a band; then the erect walk of a sturdy contingent from a
distant point; sometimes it was simply the exchange of a look, that,
though mute, spoke volumes, between the people in the procession and
those on the sidepaths, that brought forth a wild cheer, in short the
temper of the crowd was bright and electrical--the mood for unusual
ideas and passionate scenes.

The good humor was hearty rather than inventive or articulate, but one
man had had the genius to invent a comic device. This was a very wild
creature, half beggar, half laborer, the last of a rapidly dying class
in Ireland. He had got hold of a wretched nag of whom the knacker had
been defrauded for many years and seated on this in fantastic dress he
cudgelled it unmercifully, amid screams of laughter, for around its neck
was a placard with the words, "Dead Landlordism."

About two o'clock, there was seen making a desperate attempt to
penetrate through this teeming, densely-packed, and noisy multitude, a
stout figure, with a face ugly, irregular, good-humored. He was dressed
in a long and dull-colored and almost shabby ulster. His hat was as
rough as if it had been brushed the wrong way, and he wore a suit of
tweed that was now very old, but that even in its earliest days would
have been scorned by the poorest shopman of the town with any
pretensions to respectability, and the trousers were short and painfully
bagged at the knees. But the divine light of genius shone from the brown
eyes and the ample forehead. The enthusiasm of the multitude now knew no
bounds. There was first a strange stillness, then, when the word seemed
to have passed with a strange and lightning-like rapidity from mouth to
mouth, there burst forth a great cheer, and it was known that Isaac Butt
had come.

But even the Irish leader was destined to play a subordinate part in the
proceedings of this strange day. It was a local speaker that stirred the
hearts of the people to the uttermost, for he told the story of the
eviction of the Widow Cunningham, of the death of her husband, the exile
of her son, the shame of her daughter.

While he was speaking some one cried, "She'll have her own agin," and
then a few of the young fellows disappeared from the platform. In the
course of half-an-hour they returned. They ascended the platform, and
after a while, and another pause, a strange and audible thrill passed
through the multitude; and then there were passed in almost a hoarse
whisper the words, "The Widow Cunningham." And she it was; acting on the
hint of the speaker, she had been taken from the workhouse; and she was
brought back to her old farm again and to the site of her shattered
homestead and broken life. The multitude cheered themselves hoarse;
hundreds rushed to the platform to seize her by the hand; a few women
threw their arms around her neck, and wept and laughed. Finally, the
enthusiasm could not be controlled, and, in spite of the entreaties of
the political leaders and of the priests, a knot of young men caught the
poor old creature up, and carried her around the field in triumph; the
crowd everywhere swaying backwards and forwards, divided between the
effort to make a way for the strange procession and the desire to catch
sight of the old woman. Probably few of the people there could
understand the strange effect which this sight had upon them; but their
instincts guided them aright in the enthusiasm with which they hailed
this visible token of a bad and terrible and irrevocable past.

And how was it with the chief actor in the scene? Five years of life in
a workhouse had left no trace of the handsome, long-haired, and
passionate woman who had cursed the destroyer of her house and her
children with wild vehemence, and had resisted the assault of the
Crowbar Brigade with murderous energy. She was now simply a feeble old
woman, with scanty grey hair; the light had died out of her eyes; and
there was nothing left in them now but weariness and pain; her cheeks
were sunk and were dreadfully discolored; in short, she was a poor,
feeble, old woman, with broken spirits and dulled brain. The revenge for
which she had longed and prayed had come at last; but it had come too
late.

She went through the whole scene with curious and unconscious gaze, as
of one passing through a waking dream, and the only sign she gave of
understanding anything that was going on was that she gave a weak and
weary little smile when the people cried out to her enthusiastically,
"Bravo, Widow Cunningham!"--a smile as spectral as the state of things
of which she was the relic. She was very wearied and almost fainting
when she was brought back to the platform; and then she said, in a voice
that was a little louder than a whisper, and with a strange wistfulness
in her eyes, "I'd like a cup of tay."

But there was no tea to be had, and the thoughtless good-nature of the
day helped to precipitate the tragedy which the equally thoughtless
enthusiasm had begun. A dozen flasks were produced; a tumbler was taken
from the table, and a large quantity of whiskey was poured down her
throat. She became feeble, and the rays of intelligence almost
disappeared from her face.

At last, as the evening fell, the crowd dispersed; the old pauper was
left by the men who had brought her to the platform, and there were but
a couple of women more watchful than the rest to take care of her. They
tried to bring her home, but she showed a strange kind of obstinacy, and
refused for a long time to move. When she was got to make a stir she
seemed most unwilling to go in the direction of the workhouse, she would
give no reason--for indeed she seemed either unable or unwilling to
speak at all, but with the silent obstinacy of an animal she tried to go
in an opposite direction. At last the two women thought it wisest to
humor her, and let her go where she wished. By this time night had
completely fallen, and in going down a dark boreen she managed to escape
from her companions altogether. They searched everywhere around, and at
last frightened, they went home for their husbands. A party of five
people--the husbands, the son of one of them, and the two women came
along the boreen, guided by the dim light of the farthing dip which is
the only light the Irish farmer has yet been able to use. After a long
search they came to a spot well known to all of them, and then the truth
burst suddenly upon them. One of the women had been at the funeral of
the Widow Cunningham's husband when she was a little girl, and
remembered the spot where he was buried. They all followed her there in
a strange anxiety, and their anticipations proved right. On the grave of
her husband they found the Widow Cunningham, and she was a corpse.



CHAPTER XXI.

DEAD MAN'S ISLAND.


There was one person in Ballybay at least who envied the woman that lay
forever free from life's fitful fever. The day's demonstration in the
town had brought no joy to Mat's heart. He had not yet learned to make
any distinction between the agitators who had broken his own life and
murdered the hopes of his country, and the very different class of men
who had brought new life and hope to the Irish nation. The whole
business of the meeting to him, therefore, appeared nothing but gabble,
treason, and folly. He spent his hours, after a scornful look or two at
the preparations for the speeches of the day, in wandering through the
fields and streets which he had known in boyhood, and appeared to have
left so very, very long ago. Every sight deepened his depression. He
thought of the first day he had spent in the town long ago, when he
visited Ballybay for the first time after years of absence. Then he
thought that he had exhausted the possibilities of grief over the waste
of a nation's life; but he now found that there were deeper depths and
larger possibilities of suffering in the Irish tragedy. Famine, plague,
a whirlwind, or an earthquake could not, as he thought, have worked
mischief more deadly, more appalling, more complete. He saw, with a
curious sinking of the heart and an overwhelming sadness, that nearly
every well-remembered spot of his boyhood was marked by the ruins of a
desolated home. Here was the corner where he used to turn from the one
to the two mile round--as two of the walks around Ballybay were
called--but where was the house with its crowd of noisy children, which
he saw every morning with the same confident familiarity as a
well-remembered piece of furniture in his own house? Yes: there was the
little road where he remembered to have stood one day so many years ago.
It was a bright, beautiful day in summer, the sky was blue, and the
roses bloomed; but everything was dark to him, for Betty, his first
nurse, the strongest affection of his childhood, had retired to her
mother's home the day before. And as he recalled how all the world
seemed to be over for him on that day, he felt the full brotherhood of
sorrow, and in one moment understood all the tragic significance of the
separation which emigration had caused in more than a million Irish
homes. The road had changed as though the country had been turned from
a civilized to a savage land. The grass was growing thick and rank, the
roses had gone, thick weeds choked festering pools, and of the little
cottage in which Betty had dwelt there was not even a vestige.

And so, alas, in the town. At its entrance a whole street had
disappeared, black and charred the walls stood--silent and deserted.
This constant recurrence of the symbols of separation, desertion,
silence, death, produced a strange numbness in his mind, and he walked
along in a dream that became deeper and deeper. But he saw everything
with the obscurity, and still with the strange, piercing look, of the
dreamer. Turning from the houses to the people, he saw as it were in a
flash the true meaning of that weary look which he had first observed as
the prevalent expression of most faces; he loathed and at the same time
he understood the prematurely bloated and blotched faces of so many of
the young men whom he met everywhere, and read the story of the hopeless
struggle against daily deepening gloom which had sought desperate relief
in whiskey. He understood the procession of sad, and, as in his exalted
mood he thought, spectral, men and women, that flowed in a noiseless
stream to the chapel. It was May, "the month of Mary," as it is so
touchingly called in Ireland, and in that month there are devotions
every night in honor of the Mother of God. It was with difficulty he
restrained his tears as there rose from the voices of the congregation
the well-known and well-remembered hymn to the Blessed Virgin--the
fitting wail of a people who dwell in a land of sorrows.

"Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy. Our Life, Our Sweetness, and Our
Hope, to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to thee do we
send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears." How
well he recalled the evening long ago, when the hymn first struck him as
the wail from the helpless agony of a dying nation.

Then Mat went home, and, as he entered the house, he noticed with the
new-born light in his eyes many things that had escaped his attention
when he first entered there in the morning. His father, as he answered
the door, seemed to him to have aged ten years since he had looked at
him in the morning, and he saw with a pang that seemed to squeeze his
heart as in a vice that his clothes were shabby, and that even his boots
were patched and broken. Then he went upstairs, and, entering the parlor
noiselessly, caught sight of his mother. She turned sharply around, and
to his horror and surprise he saw a fierce, violent blush overspread her
pale cheek. He could not help looking at the table, and there he saw the
same dread sight that had met him at so many painful crises in his life,
for his mother was examining bank bills and pawn tickets. Then he rushed
back in memory to the days of his own childhood, when he had wondered
why it was that his mother occasionally wept as she turned over these
mysterious slips of blue paper and small pieces of stiff card. The
abject failure of his life never appeared to him so clearly as it did at
that moment, and the sense of complete disaster was aggravated by the
awful feeling that he had made others suffer even more bitterly than
himself. And for a moment it seemed, too, as if his mother were resolved
that he should taste the full bitterness of the moral, for she looked at
him fixedly as the blush died from her cheeks; but her heart was too
touched by his look of pain, and in a moment she had kissed him on the
cheek, after the frigid and self-restrained fashion of Ballybay.

Mat had a battle with himself as to whether he should visit Mary on this
day; but after a while he felt that it would be a sort of savage triumph
if he could fill the whole day with all the pain that could be packed
within its hours. He had no idea as yet what he was going to do with the
morrow, but it would certainly bring some new departure; this day he
was, for this reason, the more resolutely ready to abandon to the luxury
of woe.

Mary was alone when he visited the house; her husband had left town, for
he did not dare, with all his courage, to aggravate the popular hatred
by being visible on the day of the demonstration. She came into the room
and shook hands with him, to his surprise, without any appearance of
embarrassment. He looked at her without a word for a few moments, while
she asked a few questions in a perfectly natural tone of voice about the
meeting, his imprisonment, etc. As he looked he thought he saw a strange
and mournful change in her face. The features seemed to have grown not
merely hard, but coarse. He remembered the time when her upper lip had
appeared to his eyes short, expressive, elegant; now it seemed to have
grown long and vulgar. Her dark eyes were cold and impenetrable.

For a while they talked about indifferent things, but though he had
sworn to himself a thousand times that he would never utter a word about
her broken troth, his nerves were still too shaken and unsteady, after
his sufferings in prison and the wearing experiences through which he
had passed, to allow him to maintain complete self-control.

"And so you married Cosgrave," he said, as a beginning.

She looked at him sharply, and then answered, in the same cold and
perfectly collected voice, "Yes, I married Cosgrave."

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"You never cared for me?" he said with bitterness; and then the venom,
which had been choking him from the hour when he heard that his
betrothed was gone, overflowed. He went on, in a voice that grew hoarse
in its vehemence: "Look! I have been four years in prison; in the
company of burglars, pickpockets, murderers; I have been kept in silence
and solitude and restraint; and yet in all these four years I never
suffered a pang so horrible as when I heard that you had proved untrue."

"No," she answered, with a stillness that sounded strangely after the
high-pitched and passionate tones of his voice; "I was not untrue, for I
was faithful to my highest duty." Then she paused, and when next she
spoke her voice was also passionate; but it was passion that was
expressed in low and biting, and not in a loud tone. "You have known the
life of a prison: but you have not passed through the hell of Irish
poverty."... Then, after a pause, in which she seemed buried in an
agonizing retrospect, she said--"I would marry a cripple to help my
family."

She had scarcely said these words when her father entered. The father
was as much changed in Mat's eyes as the daughter; he could scarcely
walk; his feet seemed just able to bear him; and his hand was palsied.
He did not at first recognize Mat; and when at last he knew who it was,
said in the old voice, the familiar words which Mat so loathed, "Ah! the
crachure! Ah! the crachure!"

Mat now had the key to the hideous tragedy which had separated him from
the woman he loved, and who loved him. He looked quickly at her; but the
light of momentary excitement had died out of the face, and the
expression was now perfectly serene. Several reflections passed rapidly
through Mat's mind. He saw clearly that the girl had not a particle of
self-reproach; not a doubt of the rectitude or even the nobility of her
conduct; she had immolated herself with the same inflexible resolve and
unquestioning faith as the sublime murderer of Marat. Then passing
rapidly in mental review the history of so many self-murdered hearts, he
asked which was the more cruel--the Irish or the Indian suttee. Perhaps
in that moment Mat gained more knowledge than is given to other men in
years of that strangest of all, even feminine, problems--an Irish girl's
heart.

For a moment the two were left alone, for the first and only time in all
their lives.

"What?" said Mat, in an audible soliloquy, "is Irish life?" And then he
answered the question himself as she remained silent. "A tragedy, a
squalid tragedy!" But she looked at him cold, irresponsive, defiant, and
he rushed away before the old man came back with the whiskey.

The wreck of this girl's nature; her acceptance in full faith of the
sordid and terrible gospel of loveless marriage; the omnipotence of even
a little money in a land of abject and hopeless and helpless poverty,
brought the realities of Irish life with a clearness to his mind more
terrible than even uprooted houses and echoless streets.

He accepted the invitation of a friend to take a row up the river,
beautiful with its eternal and changeless beauty amid all this wreck of
hopes and blasting of lives.

They passed a small island.

"What is that called," asked Mat of the boatman.

"Dead Man's Island."

"What did you say?"

"Dead Man's Island."

"A----h,----Dead--Man's--Island!"

   THE END.


GOING ON FOOT TO ROME.--In these days, when pilgrims go to Rome and
Jerusalem by railway and steamer, it is refreshing to hear that the
old-fashioned pilgrim may still be found. The last of these appears to
be Ignacio Martinez, a native of Valladolid, who has nearly completed
his pilgrimage to the Holy Place begun two years ago.



The Boys in Green.


After reading the Reminiscences of the Ninth Massachusetts, Volunteers,
published in late numbers of DONAHOE'S, it occurred to the writer that a
few incidents which came under my own personal observation, in which
that regiment figured, occurring over twenty-three years ago, may be of
interest to the survivors of the gallant Ninth, or their descendants. It
may also interest the general public, and your Irish-American readers in
particular, for my experience will speak more particularly of the corps
with which my fortunes were cast--Gen. Thomas Francis Meagher's Irish
Brigade. It was originally composed of three regiments, viz.,
Sixty-Third New York, Eighty-Eighth New York, and Sixty-Ninth New York,
all organized in New York City, but some of its companies hailing from
Albany, Boston, etc. The writer of this was connected with the Albany
Company K, Sixty-Third Regiment, in the capacity of "high private" when
the regiment was organized. This paper is merely intended to give an
account of a few incidents in which the brigade participated, not by any
means as a history of that organization.

It is well known to those familiar with events at the beginning of the
war, that the Washington authorities decided to change McClellan's base
of operations in the movement against the rebel capital (Richmond, Va.),
to the Peninsula. Accordingly, in the spring of 1862, over one hundred
thousand men and material of the Army of the Potomac, at that time, and
subsequently, the largest and best disciplined body of troops in the
service of the Republic, were sent by water to Fortress Monroe, Ship
Point, and adjacent places for disembarkation. Very few people in civil
life have any conception of the labor attending an operation of this
kind. Not alone was this immense body of men carried by water, but all
the material as well: heavy and field artillery; animals for the same;
horses for the cavalry; and baggage, ammunition and supply trains.
Thanks to the superiority of our navy at the time, the movement was
entirely successful. It is true a few sailing crafts, and some armed
rebel vessels showed themselves; but they took refuge up the York,
Pamunkey, Elizabeth and James Rivers, to be afterwards destroyed as the
Union Army advanced.

The writer was at the time on detached service (recruiting) in New York
City; but at the period the advanced vessels of the Flotilla reached the
Peninsula he received orders to rejoin his regiment. Accordingly I left
Albany (depot for recruits) April 11, 1862, in charge of twenty-two men,
eleven for Sixty-Third and eleven for Eighty-Eighth Regiments, reaching
Fort Monroe April 14, by steamer from Washington. I shall never forget
the impression made on my civilian mind as we steamed under the frowning
guns of the weather-beaten Fort, in the gray of the morning. It
impressed me with awe, as the black muzzles of the "War Dogs" bade
defiance in their silent grandeur to rebels in arms and European
enemies, who, at the time, entertained anything but friendly feelings
towards the Republic.

The achievement of the famous _Monitor_ was, at the time, in everybody's
mouth. Your older readers will remember how the "Yankee Cheese-Box," the
gallant Worden in command, put in appearance in Hampton Roads, a day or
two after the finest wooden war ships in the government service were
sent to the bottom, by the guns and ram of the rebel _Merrimac_. When
the saucy, insignificant-looking craft boldly steamed for the victorious
rebel iron-clad, the officers on board could not believe their senses,
never having seen anything like the mysterious stranger before; but when
fire and smoke belched forth from the _Monitor's_ revolving turret, they
were reminded that they had better look to their guns. Not being able to
damage the stranger with their British cannon, the rebel tried the
effect of its powerful ram; but the "cheese-box" divining its
intentions, nimbly got out of harm's way. Its powerful eleven-inch guns
in the turret continued to pound the iron sides of the _Merrimac_, until
the latter thought "discretion the better part of valor," and sought
safety in flight by ascending the Elizabeth River to Norfolk, not before
being badly damaged in the encounter. Notwithstanding the rebel had
numerous guns of the most approved pattern, their shot glanced
harmlessly from the _Monitor's_ revolving turret, the only object
visible above water. You may think we looked upon the champion with no
little pleasure as she peacefully lay in the channel, with steam up,
waiting for the appearance of its powerful adversary, which never came.
(The _Merrimac_ was so badly damaged in the encounter, its commander,
Jones, blew her up sooner than see her in the enemy's hands.) The masts
of the ill-fated _Cumberland_ and her consorts were plainly visible in
the distance, where they sank with their brave tars standing nobly by
their guns.

I am afraid the editor of the MAGAZINE will get impatient with my
description before coming to the Ninth. The writer goes into these
particulars because another generation has come on the scene since they
happened, and it may interest them.

After landing with my detachment of twenty-two men, we turned our faces
landward to find the army then moving towards Richmond. On the way we
passed through the village of Hampton, and subsequently were much
interested in looking over the battlefield of Big Bethel, where Magruder
made his first fight on the Peninsula, not long previous, and where the
Union troops were roughly handled. Gen. Joseph B. Carr, of Troy, N. Y.,
in command of the Second New York Volunteers, one of the most successful
Irish-American soldiers of the late war, took a prominent part in this
battle. It is thought he would have retrieved the blunders of some of
the Union officers, if he had not been ordered to retire by Gen. B. F.
Butler, who was in command. Gen. Carr is now serving out his third
successive term as Secretary of State of New York. He recently ran for
Lieutenant Governor on the Republican ticket; and although he failed to
get elected, he ran nearly nine thousand votes ahead of his ticket. The
rebel field works were just as they left them. The neighboring forests
told the story of the desperate conflict by the manner in which they
were torn from the effects of the artillery.

It was a long and tedious journey before we struck the army of "Little
Mac;" and when the shades of night began to envelope us, the little
squad was footsore, tired and hungry, having covered twenty-four miles
since leaving the steamer. To add to our inconvenience, we had eaten
nothing since leaving the vessel, and then a limited supply of "hard
tack," washed down with coffee. The location of Meagher's Brigade was
among the uncertainties. All our inquiries of troops in the vicinity
were fruitless.

Learning from the men of a battery, encamped on the edge of a clearing,
that an Irish Regiment was not far distant, inquired the name (State and
number).

"I think, sergeant," said the officer addressed, "that it is an Irish
Regiment from Massachusetts, but I do not know the number; they have an
Irish flag anyhow." Thanking the captain for the information, we sought
the locality of the Irish boys and their green flag.

"Halt! who comes there?" demanded a sentinel, pacing his beat, a few
yards from the road, as the squad approached in the twilight.

"Friends!" was the response.

"Advance, friends, and give the countersign!"

We had no "countersign," and could not give it. I did the next best
thing, and addressed the sentinel thus:

"We are Union soldiers, trying to find our regiment, having landed this
morning at Fortress Monroe. We are tired and without anything to eat,
since early this morning. Be good enough to tell us the name of that
regiment yonder."

"That is the Ninth Massachusetts, Col. Tom Cass," was his response.

"Call the corporal of the guard; I would like to see the colonel."

"Corporal of the guard, Post Five!" he lustily called out, at the top of
his voice.

"Corporal of the guard, Post Five!" was repeated in succession by the
respective posts; bringing that officer on the run, in a few minutes to
the post designated.

I repeated the request to the "corporal of the guard," a bright little
man, about twenty-four years old. He requested us to remain where we
were until the "officer of the guard" was consulted, "for ye know we are
in the enemy's counthry, and we must be cautious." We assented, of
course. Presently a lieutenant made his appearance, and after hearing
our story, told us to follow him. We passed the guard and made our way
to the colonel's quarters, before which a soldier was leisurely pacing.
The lieutenant entered, but returned in a moment and desired me to
follow him. I did so, and found myself in a group of officers. I saluted
and came to "attention."

"Well, sergeant, what can we do for you?" kindly asked an officer with
the eagles of a colonel on his shoulders.

"We are benighted, sir; my men and I landed at the Fort this morning,
and are on the way to find our regiments. We have had nothing to eat in
twelve hours. We're hungry and tired, and claim your hospitality for the
night."

"May I ask what command you belong to, sir?"

"My regiment is the Sixty-Third New York, colonel, and the detachment is
for that regiment and the Eighty-Eighth New York."

"What! Gen. Meagher, the Irish Brigade! Consider yourself at home,
sergeant. The best in our camp is at your service. You can have all you
can eat and drink, and a place to rest. Orderly," addressing a soldier
in front of the tent, "send Sergeant ---- to me."

"I see by your chevrons you are a non-commissioned
officer. May I ask your name?" addressing me.

"Sergeant J---- D----, Company K, colonel," was my response.

The sergeant made his appearance, and Col. Cass (for we learned,
subsequently, it was he) gave him directions to take Sergeant D----and
his men, and give them everything they wanted for the night, and their
breakfast before leaving in the morning. As we were about retiring the
colonel remarked:--

"The night is chilly, sergeant; fog is heavy, malaria abroad, and you
are tired. Wouldn't you like something in the way of liquid
refreshments?"

"Thanks, colonel," I replied; "but the Sixty-Third is a temperance
regiment.[9] We took the pledge from Father Dillon, last January, on
David's Island, New York Harbor, for the war."

"Is it possible? I am glad to hear it! God bless you. I trust you will
keep your pledge, not only for the war, but for all future time." I
thanked him, gave him a salute and retired.

We certainly found ourselves in "the hands of our friends." Sergeant
----(unfortunately my diary is silent as to his name) took us to his
quarters, and that being inadequate, lodged out some of the strangers.
Coffee was made for us at the company's kitchen, and in less than half
an hour there was enough of that delicious beverage steaming hot before
us, with a mountain of "hard tack," to feed a company, instead of
twenty-three men. The wants of the inner man being attended to (and we
did the spread full justice) brier wood and tobacco were called into
requisition. We found ourselves the centre of an interested crowd, for
it got noised abroad that a squad of Gen. Meagher's men was in Sergeant
----'s quarters. "Taps" were sounded at the usual hour, but, by
permission of the "officer of the day" the lights in the sergeant's
tent, and others adjoining, were not extinguished, out of respect to the
New Yorkers. During the evening song and story were in order, and at
this late day it will not be giving away a secret to say that the
"liquid refreshments," so kindly offered by the colonel were not ignored
by many present, for the Ninth had a sutler with it, whose supply of
"commissary" was yet abundant to be taken as an antidote against the
malaria.

At day-break the regiment was roused from slumber by the soul-stirring
sounds of the "reveille" which reverberated through the dark pine woods
of the "sacred soil." The strangers were prevailed on to take a hasty
cup of coffee, and as the men were forming for company drill, we bade
them "good-by," and sought our own regiments, which we found in camp in
a clearing, at Ship Point, nine miles from Yorktown, then held by the
enemy.

The writer did not see the Ninth again until the 27th of June following
(1862), and the occasion was a sad one. When McClellan's right wing was
crushed like an egg shell under Gen. Fitz John Porter, on the north bank
of the Chickahominy, two brigades of Sumner's Second Corps (Meagher and
French's) were ordered from the centre of our lines at Fair Oaks to
check the victorious march of the overwhelming masses of the enemy.
After fighting like Spartans for two days, the twenty-seven thousand men
under Porter were outflanked by the enemy who were sixty-five thousand
strong. Porter's troops were compelled to retire, and by sundown they
were in full retreat towards the temporary bridges constructed by our
troops, over the Chickahominy. At this juncture the two brigades
mentioned were ordered from our centre to check the advance of the now
victorious enemy.

The force engaged at Gaines' Mill was: Union, 50 Regiments, 20
batteries, 27,000 men. Confederate: 129 Regiments, 19 batteries, 65,000
men. Losses: Union, killed, 894; wounded, 3,107; missing, 2,836; total,
6,837. Confederate: Somewhat larger, especially in killed and wounded.
Perhaps in the whole history of the war there was no battle fought with
more desperation on both sides than that of Mechanicville (June 26), and
Gaines' Mill (June 27). Fitz John Porter handled his army with such
ability that his inferior force repelled repeated attacks of the flower
of the rebel army under Lee and Jackson; and if it were not for the
blundering of the cavalry, under Gen. Cook, through whose
instrumentality Porter's lines were broken, he would have repelled all
efforts to drive him to the river. As an evidence of the desperate
nature of the conflict, it may be mentioned that one Rebel regiment
(Forty-Fourth Georgia) lost three hundred and thirty-five men.

We got there, about eight miles, at eight o'clock, having pushed on by
forced marches all the way, but too late to change the fortunes of the
day. We did check the advancing and exalting Rebels, who supposed a
large part of the Union army had come to the rescue. Forming our lines
on top of the hill (Gain's) with an Irish cheer we went down the
northern side of the hill pell-mell for the enemy. The pursuers were now
the pursued. The Rebels broke and fled before Irish steel. To advance in
the darkness would be madness. The regiments were brought to a halt. So
as to deceive the Confederates as to the number of reinforcements, the
position of each regiment was constantly changed. In one of these
movements, the right of the Sixty-Third struck a rebel battalion, halted
in the darkness, and for a time there was temporary confusion. The grey
coats were brushed aside instantly, getting a volley from the right wing
of the Sixty-Third as a reminder that we meant business.

Fitz John Porter pays this tribute to the brigade as to the part it
took on this occasion: "French and Meagher's brigades of Sumner's corps,
all that the corps commanders deemed they could part with, were sent
forward by the commanding general.... All soon rallied in rear of the
Adams House behind Sykes and the brigades of French and Meagher sent to
our aid, and who now with hearty cheers greeted our battalions as they
retired and reformed."

While resting on our arms the dead and wounded were thick all
around--friend and foe. Alas! not a few were our brothers of the Ninth
Massachusetts. They told us in whispers how they repelled the enemy all
day, and not until they were flanked by the Rebels did they give way
before their repeated charges. The remnant of the regiment I
subsequently saw next morning, in the rear, few in numbers, but with its
spirit unbroken.

Having held the enemy in check to permit our broken battalions and the
wounded to recross the Chickahominy, the two brigades silently left the
field before dawn the next morning, blowing up the bridge behind us,
thus stopping the pursuit. The two brigades occupied their old places
behind the breastwork, at four the next morning, completely exhausted,
but gratified that we were instrumental in checking the enemy, and
saving from capture a large part of the army.

Four days later, July 1st, the bloody conflict of Malvern Hill was
fought--the last of the Seven Days' Battles. Meagher's brigade, at that
time consisting of the Sixty-Third, Eighty-Eighth, and Sixty-Ninth New
York and one regiment from Massachusetts (Twenty-Ninth), had arms
stacked in a beautiful valley, in the rear of the struggling hosts. All
day long the storm of battle raged, and the men of the brigade were
congratulating themselves that for once, at least, we would not be
called upon to participate. Each regiment was ordered to kill several
sheep and beeves, found the same day on the lands of a rich Virginian.
While the companies were being served, a staff officer was seen riding
at full speed to Gen. Meagher's head-quarters, his horse wet with foam.
The men knew what that meant. We had seen it before. In a few minutes
the "long roll" sounded in every regiment, and in less time than it
takes to write these lines, the brigade was on the march. We knew from
the sound of the guns that we were not going from but nearing the
combat. Turning a ridge in the south-east, a fearful sight met our view.
Thousands of wounded streamed to the rear, in the direction of Harrison
Landing, on the James. Men with shattered arms and legs, some limping,
all bloody and powder-stained. Many defiant, but the badly wounded
moaning with agony. The head of the column, with Gen. Meagher and staff
in front, turned sharply to the right, with difficulty forcing our way
through the wounded crowds. We learned, subsequently, that after
repelling the enemy with fearful slaughter all day, towards nightfall
they pressed our left and attempted to seize the roads on our line of
retreat to the James. Not till then were Meagher's men called on, and
promptly they responded. While hurrying to the front, the Sixty-Third
being the third regiment was halted. At this moment a volley from the
left between us and the river, swept through our ranks. Seventeen men of
the regiment fell, among them being Col. John Burke, who received a ball
in the knee. He fell from his horse, but the mishap was for the moment
kept from the men. Lieut.-Col. Fowler assumed command, and before the
Rebel regiment had time to reload, four hundred smooth bores sent a
withering volley crashing through their ranks. This put a quietus upon
them.

"What regiment is this?" demanded an officer on horseback, surrounded by
his staff, who came galloping up as the men reloaded.

"This is the Sixty-Third New York, general," responded Lieut.-Col.
Fowler of that regiment.

"I am Gen. Porter, in command of this part of the field. I order you to
remain here to support a battery now on its way to this spot. Do you
understand, sir?"

"Yes, general; the Sixty-Third always obeys orders," was the lieutenant
colonel's prompt response, and Gen. Porter disappeared to the front.

While halted here for the appearance of the battery, a crowd of men
coming from the front, in the now gathering darkness, attracted my
attention. I should say there were not more than fifty men all
told--perhaps not more than thirty. They were grouped around their
colors, which I discovered to be a United States flag and a green
standard. The men were the most enthusiastic I ever saw. They were
cheering, and their voices could be plainly heard over the roar of
battle. Some were without caps, many were wounded, and all grimy
from powder, and every few moments some one of them called for
"three cheers for the stars and stripes."

"Let us give three for the green flag, boys."

"Give the Rebels h---- boys!" To one officer in front cheering, who had
his cap on the point of his sword, I inquired:

"What regiment is this, captain?"

"Why, don't you know?

"This is all that is left of the old Ninth Massachusetts--all that is
left of us boys!

"Our dead and wounded are in the woods over there!

"Oh! we lost our colonel, boys; the gallant Cass, one of the best
fighters and bravest man in the army!

"We saved our colors, though, and we had to fight to do it!

"Go in, Irish Brigade! Do as well as the Ninth did!

"Three cheers for the stars and stripes!

"Give three for the old Bay State!

"Hurrah!"

And the remnant of the splendid regiment filed to the rear in the
darkness; but still their cheers could be heard for quite a distance
over the rattle of musketry and the sound of the guns.

"The battery! The battery! Here comes the battery!" was heard from a
hundred throats, as it wildly thundered and swept from the rear,
regardless of the dead and dying, who fairly littered the field. God
help the dying, for the dead cared not! The iron wheels of the
carriages, and feet of the horses, discriminate not between friend and
foe. It will never be known how many were ground to pulp that July
evening as Capt. J. R. Smead's Battery K, Fifth United States Artillery
came in response to the command of the gallant Porter, who saw the
danger of having his left turned. Three batteries were ordered up by
Gen. Porter, viz: Capt. J. R. Smead; Capt. Stephen H. Weed, Battery I,
Fifth United States Artillery; and Capt. J. Howard Carlisle, Battery E,
Second United States Artillery.

"Forward, Sixty-Third! Double quick! march!" shouted Capt. O'Neil, the
senior line officer, who was now in command.

"Forward! Double quick!" was repeated by each company commander, and the
Sixty-Third followed the lead of the battery into the very jaws of
death, many of them to meet their brothers of the Ninth, who just passed
over the silent river, on the crimson tide of war![10]

Had the repeated and desperate efforts of the enemy succeeded in turning
the Union left, as was feared towards nightfall, a dire disaster awaited
the splendid army of McClellan. How near we came to it may be judged
from the fact that all the reserves were brought into action, including
the artillery under Gen. Henry J. Hunt. The instructions to Smead,
Carlisle and Mead, when hurried up to defend the narrow gorge, with
their artillery, through which the Confederates must force their way on
to the plateau, were to fire on friend and foe, if the emergency
demanded it. This is confirmed by a letter to the writer from Fitz John
Porter. "These batteries were ordered up," he says, "to the narrow part
of the hill, to be used in saving the rest of the army, if those in
front were broken, driven in and pursued, by firing, if necessary, on
friend as well as foe, so that the latter should not pass them. I went
forward with you to share your fate if fortune deserted us, but I did
not expect disaster, and, thank God, it did not come!"

These are the words of as brave and loyal an American as ever drew his
sword for the Republic. Few men, perhaps none, in the army at that time,
with our limited experience in war, could have handled his troops as
Gen. Porter did at Gaine's Mill and Malvern. He desperately contested
every inch of ground on the north bank of the Chickahominy, although
his force was only twenty-seven thousand against sixty-five thousand of
the enemy. Again at Malvern, the Rebels, maddened with successive
defeats, were determined to annihilate the grand army of the Potomac
with a last superhuman effort. They probably would have succeeded had a
less able soldier been placed in command at that critical point. But, as
will be seen from the above extract, the General never for a moment lost
hope of being able to successfully repulse the enemy, for no man knew
the material he had to do it with better than he.

What a pity that the services of such an able soldier should have been
lost to the army and the country, a few weeks later, through the petty
jealousies of small men, who wanted a scape-goat to cover up their own
shortcomings. For over twenty years this grand American soldier, the
soul of honor, who would at any moment sacrifice his life sooner than be
guilty of an act inconsistent with his noble profession, has been
permitted to live under the unjust stigma cast upon him. The day will
surely come, and it is not far distant, when the American people will
blush for the great wrong done Fitz John Porter. They will agree with
the late general of our armies, a man whose memory will be forever held
in grateful remembrance by his country (U. S. Grant), who, after careful
and mature investigation of his conduct at the Second Battle of Bull
Run, said deliberately, that Fitz John Porter should not be censured for
the mismanagement of that ill-fated battle. In military affairs Gen.
Grant was always a safe guide to follow.

After a careful review of Gen. Porter's case, Gen Grant wrote President
Arthur, under date of December 22, 1881, as follows:

     "At the request of Gen. Fitz John Porter, I have recently reviewed
     his trial, and the testimony held before the Schofield court of
     inquiry held in 1879.... The reading of the whole record has
     thoroughly convinced me that for these nineteen years I have been
     doing a gallant and efficient soldier a very great injustice in
     thought and sometimes in speech. I feel it incumbent upon me now to
     do whatever lies in my power to remove from him and from his family
     the stain upon his good name.... I am now convinced that he
     rendered faithful, efficient and intelligent service.... I would
     ask that the whole matter be laid before the attorney-general for
     his examination and opinion, hoping that you will be able to do
     this much for an officer who has suffered for nineteen years a
     punishment that never should be inflicted upon any but the most
     guilty."

It was many months before I again saw the Ninth Massachusetts; but what
a contrast to its appearance on that glorious April morning, in 1862,
when I was the recipient of its warm hospitality among the pines on the
threshold of the advance on the rebel capital.

                                                 JOHN DWYER.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 9: While the Sixty-Third was in Camp of Instruction on David's
Island, in the East River, opposite New Rochelle, N. Y., it was under
the spiritual care of Father Dillon, an enthusiastic young priest. He
was an ardent advocate of temperance. Like all green troops, the
Sixty-Third had some reckless members, who frequently took a "dhrop" too
much. Before leaving for the seat of war, at the conclusion of a
powerful temperance discourse, he proposed to the assembled regiment
that every man and officer take the temperance pledge, "for the war."
One thousand uplifted hands responded, and while he slowly read the
words of the pledge the men repeated them; and this was how the
Sixty-Third became "a temperance regiment."]

[Footnote 10: Here is Gen. Porter's tribute to the part taken by the
brigade in the terrific struggle at Malvern Hill: "I sent an urgent
request for two brigades. Sumner read my note aloud, and fearing he
could not stand another draft on his forces, was hesitating to respond,
when Heintzleman, ever prompt and generous, sprang to his feet and
exclaimed: 'By Jove! if Porter asks for help, I know he needs it.' The
immediate result was the sending of Meagher by Sumner, and Sickles by
Heintzleman. This was the second time that Sumner had selected and sent
me Meagher's gallant Irish Brigade, and each time it rendered invaluable
service.... It was at this time, in answer to my call for aid that
Sumner sent me Meagher, and Heintzleman sent Sickles, both of whom
reached me in the height of battle, when, if ever, fresh troops would
renew our confidence and insure success. While riding rapidly forward to
meet Meagher, who was approaching at a double quick step, my horse fell,
throwing me over his head, much to my discomfort, both of body and
mind.... Advancing with Meagher's brigade, accompanied by my staff, I
soon found that my forces had successfully driven back their assailants.
Determined, if possible, satisfactorily to finish the contest,
regardless of the risk of being fired upon by our artillery in case of
defeat, I pushed on beyond our lines into the woods held by the enemy.
About fifty yards in front of us, a large force of the enemy suddenly
arose and opened with fearful volleys upon our advancing line. I turned
to the brigade, which thus far had kept pace with my horse, and found it
standing like a stone wall, and returning a fire more destructive than
it received, and from which the enemy fled. _The brigade was planted._
My service was no longer needed, and I sought Gen. Sickles, whom I found
giving aid to Couch. I had the satisfaction of learning that night that
a Confederate detachment, undertaking to turn Meagher's left, was met by
a portion of the Sixty-Ninth New York Regiment, which advancing,
repelled the attack and captured many prisoners."]


Leo XIII. has sent to the Emperor of Germany and to Prince Bismarck
copies, specially printed and bound, of the Encyclical. His Holiness
adds to the present to the Chancellor a copy of the _Novissima Leonis
XIII. Pont. Max. Carmina_. A note of very emphatic and reverent praise
of the poems has been communicated to the official German press.



A Christmas Carol.


   Ah, weep not, friends, that I am far from ye,
     And no warm breathéd words may reach my ears;
   One way is shorter, nearer than by sea,
     Prayers weigh with God and graces wait on tears;
   As rise the mists from summer seas unseen,
     To fall in freshening showers on hill and plain,
   So prayer sent forth from fervent hearts makes green
     The parched bowers of one whose life was vain.

   Pray for me day and night these Christmas hours,
     This the one gift I value all beyond;
   Aid me with supplication 'fore those powers
     Who have regard for prayer, th' angelic bond--
   All ye who love me knock at Jesus' gate,
     As for one standing outside deep in snow,
   Tell him a sorrowing soul doth trembling wait,
     And none but He can ease its load of woe.

   Ah, friends! of whom I once asked other things,
     Refuse me not this one thing asked again;
   Shield me, a naked soul, with sheltering wings,
     From rush of angry storms and bitter rain--
   I cannot stand the gaze of mine own eyes;
     That I escape myself implore our Lord--
   Ah, me! I learn he only's rightly wise
     Who seeks in all th' exceeding great reward.

   From self that I be freed, O Father will!
     Lord Jesus from the world protect me still,
   Spirit paraclete, over the flesh give victory,
     And o'er the devil a lasting crown to me!

   JAMES KEEGAN.



The _Catholic Review_: Irish-America contributes to the new Parliament
one of the strongest members of the Nationalist party, Mr. T. P. Gill,
for some years past assistant editor of the _Catholic World_, and
previously a prominent journalist in Ireland, where, during the
imprisonment of Mr. William O'Brien, he took the editorial chair of
_United Ireland_ until Mr. Buckshot Forster made it too hot for him. In
the cooler climate of New York he still did good service to his party,
in disabusing numbers of many ill-grounded misapprehensions and
misconceptions, and in strengthening the sympathies, by increasing the
information, of all well-wishers of Ireland. His work will be felt in
England.



The Late Father Tom Burke.


Kegan Paul, Trench & Co., of London, have published, in two volumes, the
"Life of the Very Rev. Thomas N. Burke, O.P.," by William J.
Fitzpatrick, F.S.A. We give a few extracts:

"Some one complained to Father Burke one day that his sermons were too
'flowery;' but it was not just criticism if the term was intended to
imply that they were florid. His answer was characteristic. 'And what
should they be but floury--seeing my father was a baker?' It was also in
allusion to his father's calling that he was wont to boast, when
questioned as to his family, that they were 'the best-bread-Burkes' of
Galway.

"'When I hear him preach,' said Bishop Moriarty, 'I rejoice that the
Church has gained a prize; when I hear him tell a story, I am tempted to
regret that the stage has lost him.'

"A Protestant lady listening to his lecture on divorce said: 'I am bound
to become a Catholic out of self-respect and self-defence.'

"During the visit of the Prince of Wales to Rome His Royal Highness went
to the Irish Dominicans and to the Irish College. Father Burke was asked
to guide the prince through the crypt of St. Sebastian, his Royal
Highness being, it was understood, particularly anxious to see the
paintings with which the early Christians decorated the places where
rested their dead. Some English ladies, mostly converts, in Rome at the
time, were divided in their devotion to the Prince and to the catacomb
pictures--the most memorable religious pictures of the world. That
evening they begged Father Burke to tell them exactly what His Royal
Highness said of the frescoes. The question was parried for some time;
but when the fluttered expectation of the fair questioners had risen to
a climax, Father Burke showed hesitating signs of his readiness to
repeat the soul-betraying exclamations of the Prince. 'Well, what _did_
he say?' they cried, in suspense. 'He said--well, he said--'Aw!'"

"In 1865, Father Burke succeeded the present Cardinal Archbishop of
Westminster in the pulpit of Sta Maria del Popolo in Rome; and it is a
little coincidence that the famous Dominican, a year or two earlier,
when Prior of Tallaght, succeeded also the Cardinal's relative in the
pulpit of the Catholic University. 'Father Andedon,' says Mr.
Fitzpatrick, 'had been for some years a very popular preacher in the
church of the Catholic University. On the retirement of Father Andedon
to England, to which he was naturally attached by birth and
belongings--for Dr. Manning was his uncle--Father Burke took his place
in the pulpit.' It was here, by the way, that the 'Prince of Preachers'
introduced the class of sermons known as 'Conferences,' and associated
with Lacordaire and the pulpit of Notre Dame. Father Burke had never
seen Lacordaire; but the Dean of the Catholic University, who had been
listening to Lacordaire for years, was greatly struck by Father Burke's
resemblance, as a preacher, to his great brother Dominican in France.
The likenesses between preachers, as between faces, are sometimes subtle
things! Bishop Moriarty, returning from Rome, paused in Paris, where he
heard yet another Dominican orator, Père Monsabré, preaching at Notre
Dame. When next he saw Father Tom, he said to him--'Do you know Monsabré
reminded me very much of you?' 'Now,' said Father Tom--telling the story
to his friend, Father Greene--'this was very gratifying to me. Père
Monsabré was a great man, and I thought it an honor to be compared to
him, and I told the Bishop so, adding, 'Might I ask you, my lord, what
was the special feature of resemblance?' Now 'David' (the Bishop's
Christian name) had a slow and deliberate and judicious way of speaking
that kept me very attentive and expectant. 'Well,' he said, 'I'll tell
you what struck me most. When he went up into the pulpit, he looked
around him deliberately and raised up his hand and--scratched his
head.'"

"In the maddest sallies of Father Tom there was generally to be found a
method. His exuberances when he was Prior of San Clemente, for instance,
were attributed to his desire that his tonsure might not be made to bear
the weight of a mitre: 'It got whispered among the cardinals' (writes
Canon Brownlow), 'that their eminences were at times the objects of his
jokes, and that he even presumed to mimic those exalted personages. Some
of them spoke seriously about it, and asked the Dominican Cardinal Guidi
to admonish him to behave with greater gravity. Cardinal Guidi repaired
to San Clemente, and proceeded to deliver his message, and Father Burke
received it with becoming submission. But no sooner had the cardinal
finished than Father Burke imitated his manner, accent and language,
with such ludicrous exactness that the cardinal burst into a fit of
laughter, and could not tell him to stop.'

"The venerable Father Mullooly was equally foiled by another phase of
the young friar's freakishness, when, on being remonstrated with for
what seemed to be an undue indulgence in cigars, Father Tom represented
it as rather dictated by a filial duty, for the Pope, he said, had sent
him a share of a chest of Havanas, worth a dollar each, which a Mexican
son had forwarded to the Vatican.

"But the other side of the man came out in his sermons when he succeeded
Dr. Manning--hurriedly called to England to attend the death-bed of
Cardinal Wiseman--as occupant of the pulpit of Santa Maria del Popolo,
and on many subsequent occasions: 'When I lift up my eyes here (he said
in speaking of the 'Groupings of Calvary'), it seems as if I stood
bodily in the society of these men. I see in the face of John the
expression of the highest manly sympathy that comforted and consoled the
dying eyes of the Saviour. It seems to me that I behold the Blessed
Virgin, whose maternal heart consented in that hour of agony to be
broken for the sins of men. I see the Magdalen as she clings to the
cross, and receives upon that hair, with which she wiped His Feet, the
drops of His Blood. I behold that heart, humbled in penance and inflamed
with love--the heart of the woman who had loved much, and for whom he
had prayed. It seems to me that I travel step by step to Calvary, and
learn, as they unite in Him, every lesson of suffering, of peace, of
hope, of joy, of love."



Our Neighbors.

The Irish in Canada.


_Montreal Gazette:_ The matter of Mr. Curran's speech on the occasion of
the opening of St. Ann's Hall is worthy of more than passing notice. He
chose for his theme the progress of the Irish race in Canada, and
although the groundwork of his address was placed in Montreal, the
deductions to be drawn from the statistics presented may, with equal
propriety, be applied to any section of Canada in which the Irish colony
is located. The Irish people are, for what reason it is unnecessary to
inquire, essentially colonists, much more so as respects the mass than
those of Scotland and England, and in no country or clime have they
found a more hospitable welcome or a more prosperous resting-place than
in Canada. In Nova Scotia, in New Brunswick, in Prince Edward Island, in
Quebec, in Ontario, Irishmen and the sons of Irishmen are found in the
front rank of the professions, of agriculture, of industrial enterprise,
while in the affairs of State they exert a large and legitimate
influence. Any one acquainted with the commercial life of Halifax, or
Montreal, and the agricultural districts of Ontario, will bear witness
that no more loyal and law-abiding, no more intelligent and progressive,
no more industrious and thrifty people than the descendants of Irishmen
are to be found. As to the progress of the race in Montreal, Mr. Curran
was able to present many interesting facts. From a community so small
that, in the expressive words of the late Dr. Benjamin Workman, a
good-sized parlor carpet would cover all the worshippers in the church,
they have grown, by continuous and healthy progression, into a
population of thousands, possessed of wealth, of influence, of activity,
of loyal citizenship, with its established schools, its district
congregations, its charitable institutions, its temperance societies,
which have administered the pledge to more than twenty-five thousand
people. In the two facts that since 1867 the assessed value of real
estate possessed by the Irish people in Montreal has increased from
$3,500,000 to more than $12,000,000, and that on the books of the City
and District Savings Bank there are eleven thousand Irish names, mostly
of the working classes, whose deposits exceed $2,000,000, the highest
testimony of the industry and opportunity of the race is found. The
prosperity of the Irish is not singular in this free country, but,
brought out as Mr. Curran has done, it serves to exemplify the splendid
field for honest toil Canada affords.


The French in Canada.

An Ottawa correspondent writes:--The race prejudices between the French
and Anglo-Saxon elements of the country seem to be acquiring violent
vitality. Such a consummation as a fusion of the two races is out of all
calculation. The French Canadians will continue, as they have always
been, isolated from their fellow Canadians; nor would this matter very
much if good feeling and mutual tolerance prevailed between the two
races. An incident has just fanned this race animosity into a flame. A
Toronto newspaper recently libelled a French Canadian regiment which was
sent on service to the North-West. This regiment, for obvious reasons,
was not sent where there was any chance of its being employed against
Riel's Half-breeds. The editor was brought from Toronto to Montreal to
answer for his writing before the Law Courts, and has just been
condemned to pay a fine of two hundred dollars. As the editor left the
court, a French Canadian officer attacked him with a whip, and in the
street he was surrounded by a furious mob, incited by the inflammatory
articles which the French papers of Montreal had been daily publishing
during the course of the trial. To crown all, whilst endeavoring to
defend himself from this violence, the hapless editor was arrested by
the police and dragged before the police magistrate, who very properly
discharged him. But the editor is a Toronto man, and now Toronto has
indignantly taken up his cause, raising subscriptions to indemnify him
for the cost of the trial--the "persecution," as it is called--and
organizing an anti-French movement. All this is very regrettable seeing
that the future of the Dominion depends so much upon a state of harmony
between the rival races. There are indications clear and unmistakable
that French Canada is yielding to a tendency towards old France, which
can have none other than a sinister effect upon the prospects of this
country if permitted to develop.


Quebec Province.

_Toronto Mail:_ To-day there are in Quebec three universities, namely,
Laval, McGill, and Lennoxville, three hundred secondary colleges and
academies, three Normal schools, twenty-five special schools, and about
six thousand primary schools, each grade of school being conducted on
the principle that it is better to teach a pupil little and teach it
well, than to turn him loose upon the world crammed with a smattering of
everything and a knowledge of nothing. The expenditure on education is a
large and constantly increasing item in the Provincial accounts; but the
people cheerfully pay it, for they are well aware that intelligence is
the first condition of success in modern life. [Intelligence and
education are not synonyms.]

Whatever may be the result, in the future, of the experiment of erecting
a French nationality in Canada, it is only right to say that the
builders are building well, and setting an example of energy, courage
and unity which we, in this richer province, might do worse than follow.


Dominion Misrule.

_Toronto Tribune:_ The Rev. Père Andre, superior of the Oblate Fathers
in the Northwest Territories, says the "rebellion" is chargeable to the
abnormal system of government to which the country had been subjected.
He affirms that if there had been a responsible government with
authority and power to remedy the grievances of the half-breeds, there
would have been no "rebellion." He maintains that the _rôle_ played by
Riel in the "rebellion" was forced upon him. Listen to Father Andre's
own words: "It can, in all truth, be stated, and the affirmations of the
government to the contrary will not destroy the fact, that it was the
guilty negligence of the government at Ottawa that brought Riel into the
country. The half-breeds, exasperated at seeing themselves despised, and
at being unable to obtain the slightest justice, thought the only means
left to them to secure the rights which they demanded was to send for
Riel. He, in their opinion, was the only man capable of bringing the
authorities at Ottawa to reason. Riel came, and we know the ruin which
he gathered about him, but the government may well say _mea culpa_ for
their delay in taking measures which would have preserved the peace of
the country."



The Old Year's Army of Martyrs.


The year just past will long be known in the missions of the East as the
year of martyrs. In presence of its events, it seems almost wrong to
call only the early age of Christianity the Age of Martyrs. Brief
accounts have already been given in the public prints; but our readers
will be glad to have copious extracts from the letters of the survivors
among the missionaries, who have seen their flocks, with their brethren,
slaughtered by thousands. We give these the more willingly, as there has
so far been no full review of Catholic Mission work in the English
language. This tale of steadfastness in faith is also a new incentive to
love of the Sacred Heart of our Lord.

Mgr. Colombert, vicar-apostolic of Eastern Cochin China, writes under
date of August 29, 1885: "This mission, tranquil and flourishing two
months ago, is now blotted out. There is no longer any doubt that
twenty-four thousand Christians have been horribly massacred.... The
mission of Eastern Cochin China is utterly ruined. It has no longer a
single one of its numerous establishments! Two hundred and sixty
churches, priests' houses, schools, orphan asylums, everything is
reduced to ashes. The work done during two hundred and fifty years must
be begun anew. There is not a single Christian house left standing....
The Christians have seen the massacre of their brethren and the
conflagration of their houses. They have experienced the pangs of
hunger, and have felt the heat of the sun on the burning sands. They
must now undergo the hardships of exile, far from their native land and
the graves of their forefathers."

During this time of terror and destruction, several priests had lost
their lives, some under circumstances of horrible barbarity. New
telegrams continued to announce to the Christians of the West that their
brethren were daily called on to lay down their lives. Thus, on the 17th
of October, a dispatch to the venerable superior of the seminary of
Foreign Missions at Paris, announced that, besides one more missionary
and ten native priests, seven thousand Christians had just been
massacred. Letters, which arrived later, contained painful particulars
of what had before been known only in its general outline of horror.

Five of the refugee missionaries wrote on the 15th of August: "We dare
not enter into new details on this catastrophe. We will only say that to
find in history a disaster to be compared to ours, it would be necessary
to go back beyond the Sicilian Vespers, to the acts of vandalism of the
savage hordes which swept over, one by one, the vast provinces of the
Roman empire. A fact which adds to the horror is that this series of
slaughters and butcheries of our Christians has been done in a country
without means of communication or defence. In this way conflagration and
carnage have spread as widely as our Catholic parishes were numerous.
They were scattered here and there over a great extent of territory,
from the north to the south. On this account the murderers and
incendiaries have been able to accomplish their infamous designs with
impunity. We believe that never have there been seen so many massacres
and conflagrations, following one on the other for two or three weeks
continuously, on so vast a scale and at so many points at the same time,
with such ferocity and rage on the part of unnatural fellow-countrymen
who were exterminating their unarmed brothers.

"Alas! our souls are sad unto death at the sight of the extent of our
misfortunes. New dispatches will soon inform you how many survivors are
left of twenty-nine missionaries and seventeen native priests, of more
than forty male teachers of religion, of one hundred and twenty students
of Latin and theology, of four hundred and fifty native religious
sisters, and of forty-one thousand Christians.

"In order that these almost incredible misfortunes may not be thought
exaggerated, even by those who are ill-disposed, God has permitted that
laymen in great number--officers and soldiers of the French post,
officers and sailors of the war-ship moored in the harbor of Qui-nhon,
the crew and passengers of the steamer which came to port August
5th--should witness the horrible sight of ten or twelve different
centres of conflagration. There were as many fires as there were
Christian settlements. These lighted up the horizon all along the shore
for several miles. The officers, soldiers, and travellers were for the
most part strangers, and in some cases indifferent to everything that
concerns the missions. They have seen with their own eyes and with
lively emotion the greatness of the disasters which have befallen us....
Missionaries and Christians, we have literally been deprived of
everything: clothing, houses, rice, vestments for the celebration of the
holy Mass and the administration of the sacraments, books; we are in
need of everything. Scarcely one of us was able to save any part of his
possessions. But that which has the most saddened us missionaries, is to
have been forced to be present, down-hearted and powerless, during the
ruin and extermination of our Christians. How many times have we
repeated the words of Scripture: _I saw the oppressions that are done
under the sun, and the tears of the innocent, and they had no comforter:
and they were not able to resist their violence, being destitute of help
from any. And I praised the dead rather than the living._ (Eccl. iv.
1-2.) Yes, happy are those among us who died before witnessing all
these calamities, in comparison of which a typhoon, an inundation, even
a pestilence, would seem only ordinary misfortunes."

                         _The Messenger of the Sacred Heart._



Parnell's Strength.

Mr. Parnell will have eighty-six followers in the new Parliament. From
biographical sketches of them the following facts have been
gleaned:--Twenty-three have had some collegiate education; twenty-five
have sat in previous Parliaments; nine of them are lawyers, six editors,
four magistrates, four merchants, three physicians, two educational
workers, two drapers, three tavern-keepers, four farmers, two grocers,
one carpenter, one blacksmith, one florist, one watchmaker, one tailor,
one dancing-saloon owner, and one manager of a dancing-school. There are
also a brewer, an ex-Lord Mayor of Dublin, a Secretary to the Lord Mayor
of Dublin, a Baronet, and a Knight. It appears that the members are
mostly men of the middle classes, who labor in some profession or trade
for a living. Only two men with titles are on the list. The plebeian
calling and humble origin of so many of the new Irish members has thrown
the English aristocrats into a frightful state of mind, and the landed
gentry who are to be rubbed against by these mudsills in St. Stephen's
have lashed themselves into a fury upon the subject. To add to the
enormity of the offence, these men do not do business by wholesale, or
on a large scale, but are mere humble tradesmen, publicans, and
artisans. The grocers, for instance, are common green grocers, who wait
on patrons with aprons tied about their waists, and the carpenter,
blacksmith, tailor, and others, actually work with their hands! The
Tories feel that evil days have fallen upon the land. They deplore the
fact that the system of non-payment of members, which has so long kept
poor men out of Parliament, has been broken down. They point out that if
the Irish are allowed to pay their own members, and even to send to
America for money for that purpose, the pernicious system will soon
spread to England, and the House of Commons will be utterly debased.
Some irritation against America is also expressed. Of course, the Tories
say, they could expect nothing better from the Irish in America; but of
those Americans who promoted or patronized the fund, they speak in terms
of both sorrow and anger. The _St. James's Gazette_, after pointing out
the plebeian character of the Parnellite members, says: "Are these
capable to reproduce the ancient glories of Parliament? Shall they
dominate the inheritors of the great names which have made Parliament
illustrious?" The Radicals rather enjoy the situation. Many of them are
taking up the cudgels in Ireland's behalf, in the hope that the Irish
new-comers will unite with the British workingmen, who have been elected
by the Radicals. There are about a dozen of such members elect. They
include a mason, a glass-blower, a tailor, a boot-maker, and a laborer.
The Radical papers urge the workingmen and self-made men, from both
sides of the Irish Channel, to combine and beard the aristocrats in
their hereditary den--the House of Commons.

                                        _Irish-American._



A Silly Threat.


The statement that English "Liberal" employers are about to discharge
Irish workingmen throughout Great Britain, because they voted with
Parnell, is ridiculous on its face, and is worthy only of the malignant
genius of the persons who supply cable news to a portion of the American
press. The same canard was started on the world's rounds immediately
after the London explosions of a year ago. All this kind of nonsense is
originated in the press rooms of London for the purpose of diminishing
the Irish-American activity in the Irish cause. The originators are
silly enough to believe that the Irish in the United States might stop
aiding Mr. Parnell if they thought their kindred in England would be
made to suffer by the agitation.

Great causes cannot consider the sufferings of individuals, or
aggregations of individuals, in working out their objects. Whether a few
suffer or whether millions suffer cuts no figure in a fight for
principle, or for the greatest good of the greatest number. If mankind
were constructed on that chicken-hearted basis, no great movement for
the benefit of the human race could ever have succeeded. It was not
pleasant for the American Revolutionists, most of whom were husbands and
fathers, to be compelled to leave their families unprotected, and, in
many cases exposed to the attacks of England's savage allies, for the
purpose of joining the patriot ranks under the leadership of Washington.

When the soldiers of the French Republic rushed to arms, and defended
France successfully against all Europe, during the last decade of the
eighteenth century, they did not think of the privations of the bivouac,
of the horrors of the battlefield, of the sorrow of their families, they
thought only of France and of liberty.

In the War of the Rebellion millions of Union men sacrificed home, wife,
children, all that could make life dear, for what they believed to be a
cause superior to all domestic considerations. They died by hundreds of
thousands, and, in too many cases, left their families destitute; but
they saved the Union and thus preserved freedom, prosperity and
happiness to the countless millions of America's future.

So is it with the cause of Ireland. Even should some English employers
discharge thousands of their Irish workmen, which is highly improbable,
that is no reason why the Irish people should abandon the path of duty.
If Ireland should attain her freedom, it will not be long necessary for
Irish working people to be dependent on Englishmen, or other foreigners,
for a livelihood. They will find enough to do at home, in developing the
resources and winning back the lost industries of their country.
Americans were not afraid to give up one million men to the sword that
the republic might be saved. Irishmen in America or elsewhere cannot be
terrified into neutrality by a threat that a few thousands of their
kindred in Great Britain may be thrown out of employment because of
Parnell's agitation.

                                     _The Citizen_, Chicago.



The Pope on Christian Education.

LETTER OF LEO XIII. TO THE PRELATES OF ENGLAND ON THE ABSOLUTE NECESSITY
OF RELIGION IN THE SCHOOLS.

     TO OUR VENERABLE BRETHREN, HENRY EDWARD, CARDINAL PRIEST OF THE
     HOLY ROMAN CHURCH, OF THE TITLE OF STS. ANDREW AND GREGORY ON THE
     COELIAN HILL, ARCHBISHOP OF WESTMINSTER, AND THE OTHER BISHOPS OF
     ENGLAND, POPE LEO XIII.


_Venerable Brethren_, _Health and Apostolic Benediction_--Your proved
fidelity and singular devotion to this Apostolic See are admirably shown
in the letter which we have lately received from you. Our pleasure in
receiving it is indeed increased by the further knowledge which it gives
us of your great vigilance and anxiety in a matter where no care can be
too great; we mean the Christian education of your children, upon which
you have lately taken counsel together, and have reported to us the
decisions to which you came.

In this work of so great moment, venerable brethren, we rejoice much to
see that you do not work alone; for we know how much is due to the whole
body of your clergy. With the greatest charity, and with unconquered
efforts, they have provided schools for their children; and with
wonderful diligence and assiduity, they endeavor by their teaching to
form them to a Christian life, and to instruct them in the elements of
knowledge. Wherefore, with all the encouragement and praise that our
voice can give, we bid your clergy to go on in their meritorious work,
and to be assured of our special commendation and good-will, looking
forward to a far greater reward from our Lord God, for whose sake they
are laboring.

Not less worthy of commendation is the generosity of Catholics in this
matter. We know how readily they supply what is needed for the
maintenance of schools; not only those who are wealthy, but those, also,
who are of slender means and poor; and it is beautiful to see how, often
from the earnings of their poverty, they willingly contribute to the
education of children.

In these days, and in the present condition of the world, when the
tender age of childhood is threatened on every side by so many and such
various dangers, hardly anything can be imagined more fitting than the
union with literary instruction of sound teaching in faith and morals.
For this reason, we have more than once said that we strongly approve of
the voluntary schools, which, by the work and liberality of private
individuals, have been established in France, in Belgium, in America,
and in the Colonies of the British Empire. We desire their increase, as
much as possible, and that they may flourish in the number of their
scholars. We ourselves also, seeing the condition of things in this
city, continue, with the greatest effort and at great cost to provide an
abundance of such schools for the children of Rome. For it is in, and
by, these schools that the Catholic faith, our greatest and best
inheritance, is preserved whole and entire. In these schools the liberty
of parents is respected; and, what is most needed, especially in the
prevailing license of opinion and of action, it is by these schools that
good citizens are brought up for the State; for there is no better
citizen than the man who has believed and practiced the Christian faith
from his childhood. The beginning, and, as it were, the seed of that
human perfection which Jesus Christ gave to mankind, are to be found in
the Christian education of the young: for the future condition of the
State depends upon the early training of its children. The wisdom of our
forefathers, and the very foundations of the State, are ruined by the
destructive error of those who would have children brought up without
religious education. You see, therefore, venerable brethren, with what
earnest forethought parents must beware of intrusting their children to
schools in which they cannot receive religious teaching.

In your country of Great Britain, we know that, besides yourselves, very
many of your nation are not a little anxious about religious education.
They do not in all things agree with us; nevertheless they see how
important, for the sake both of society and of men individually, is the
preservation of that Christian wisdom which your forefathers received,
through St. Augustine, from our predecessor, Gregory the Great; which
wisdom the violent tempests that came afterwards have not entirely
scattered. There are, as we know, at this day, many of an excellent
disposition of mind who are diligently striving to retain what they can
of the ancient faith, and who bring forth many and great fruits of
charity. As often as we think of this, so often are we deeply moved; for
we love with a paternal charity that island which was not undeservedly
called the Mother of Saints; and we see, in the disposition of mind of
which we have spoken, the greatest hope, and, as it were, a pledge of
the welfare and prosperity of the British people.

Go on, therefore, venerable brethren, in making the young your chief
care; press onward in every way your episcopal work, and cultivate with
alacrity and hopefulness whatever good seeds you find; for God, who is
rich in mercy, will give the increase.

As a pledge of gifts from above, and in witness of our good-will, we
lovingly grant in the Lord to you, and to the clergy and people
committed to each one of you, the Apostolic Benediction.

Given at Rome, at St. Peter's, on the 27th day of November, in the year
1885, in the eighth year of our Pontificate.

   LEO PP. XIII.


BISHOP SPALDING ON STIMULANTS.--I hate drink, because it destroys the
good in life. I find in my own experience that I am more myself, while
under total abstinence, than when I was a moderate drinker. Life is
sweeter, fonder, freer to me as a total abstainer than as a moderate
drinker. So I say, if you want to get the most out of your life, if you
want to sympathize with your fellow-man, to feel the true force of your
beginning, abstain from alcoholic stimulants.



Te Deum.

The course of the general election has surpassed the most sanguine
expectations of the Irish leader. Our success has been such as might
well take our breath away with joy. The Irish race at home and in the
stranger's land have risen to the height of the great crisis with a
unity and soldier-like discipline absolutely unparalleled in the world's
history, and their magnificent enthusiasm has swept all before it. Three
grand results may already be chalked up, and they involve triumphs that
a few years ago would have been deemed the ideal of crazy dreamers. The
Nominal Home Rulers are effaced to a man. The once proud Irish Whig
party, who for a quarter of a century held undisputed sway over the
Irish representation, is literally annihilated. If Mr. Dickson should be
a solitary survivor, he will survive not as a living force in Irish
politics, but as the one bleak and woe-begone specimen now extant of a
race of politicians who once swarmed over four-fifths of the
constituencies of this island. The third great achievement of the
election campaign, and the mightiest of all, is that the Irish vote in
England has been proved to demonstration to be able to trim and balance
English parties to its liking, and consequently to make the Irish vote
in Ireland the supreme power in the English legislature. It is
impossible to over-estimate the magnitude of these results. The causes
of joy are absolutely bewildering in number. A few years ago, the
National voice in Ireland was heard only as a faint, distant murmur at
Westminster. It could only rumble under ground in Ireland, and every
outward symptom of Irish disaffection could be suppressed with the iron
hand without causing one quiver of uneasiness at Westminster, much less
shaking Ministries and revolutionizing parties. Even at home Nationalism
was a shunned creed. It was not respectable. The few exponents it
occasionally sent to Parliament were regarded as oddities. The mass of
the Irish representation were as thoroughly English party-men as if they
were returned from Yorkshire. To-day what an enchanted transformation
scene!

A month since Mr. Parnell's party was but a fraction of the Irish
representation. The Irish Whigs and Nominal Home Rulers combined
outnumbered them, without counting the solid phalanx of Ulster Tories.
Where are the three opposing factions to-day? The Nominal Home Rulers
have died off without a groan. The Northern Whigs have committed suicide
by one of the most infatuated strokes of folly ever recorded in
political annals. The Tories have shrunk within the borders of one out
of thirty-two counties in Ireland, with precarious outposts in three
others; and they are beside themselves with exultation because they have
managed to save Derry and Belfast themselves by a neck from the jaws of
all-devouring Nationalism. Nor is the seizing possession of
seven-eighths of the Irish representation the only or even the greatest
fact of the day. The Nationalists have not only won, but over
four-fifths of the country they have reduced their opponents to a
laughing-stock in the tiny minorities in which the Loyal and Patriotic
Union have obligingly exhibited them. The overwhelming character of the
Nationalist victory would not have been a tithe so impressive had not
our malignant enemies insisted upon coming out in the daylight in review
order, and displaying their pigmy insignificance to a wondering world. A
string of uncontested elections would have passed off monotonously
unimaginatively. It would have been said the country was simply dumb and
tame and terrorized. But the Irish Loyal and Patriotic Union have
guarded us against any mistake of that sort. They valiantly spent their
fifty thousand pounds in challenging the verdict of the country, and the
country is answering in thunder-tones that will reverberate to the most
distant times. Uncontested elections in Dublin City, for example, would
have attracted but little notice. It was known that the Nationalists
were in overwhelming strength on the register; but the croakers of the
_Scotch Times and Express_ might still have exercised their imagination
in bragging what wonders the loyalists might have performed, if they
thought it worth while. But the Loyal and Patriotic Union heroically
determined that national spirit in Dublin should not be allowed merely
to smoulder for want of fuel. They determined to brand their faction
with impotence in eternal black and white. They delivered their
challenge with the insolence and malignity of their progenitors of the
Penal Days, and the result was such a tornado of national feeling as
never shook the Irish capital before; a tornado before which the pigmies
who raised it are shivering in affright. Magnificent as are the results
in Ireland, however, our countrymen in England have achieved the real
marvels of the campaign. They have brought the towering Liberal majority
tumbling like a house of cards. They have in fifty-five constituencies
set up or knocked down English candidates like ninepins. With the one
unhappy exception of Glasgow, where tenderness for a Scotch radical gave
a seat to Mr. Mitchel-Henry, the superb discipline of the Irish
electorate has extorted the homage as well as the consternation of
English party managers. They have made Mr. Parnell as supreme between
rival English parties as the Irish constituencies have effaced the Whig
and Nominal factions who disputed his supremacy. Ten thousand times,
well done, ye brave and faithful Irish exiles. On the day of Ireland's
liberation you will deserve to rank high in the glorious roll of her
deliverers.

                                   _United Ireland_, Dublin.


EIGHTY-SIX TO EIGHTEEN.--This is the way the Irish representation now
stands, eighty-six men in favor of making Ireland a nation, eighteen
wanting to keep her a province, and a province on which they can
selfishly batten. The elections in every way have borne out the forecast
of the Irish leaders, who calculated eighty-five as the minimum strength
of the National party. Mr. Gladstone will now be gratified to learn that
in response to his late Midlothian addresses, this nation has spoken out
in a manner which cannot be falsified or gainsaid, demanding the
restoration of its stolen Parliament. The loyalists, with all the power
of England at their back, and money galore at their command, can point
to only one whole county out of the thirty-two which has remained solid
for the Union. Antrim alone sends up a solid Tory representation, and
with it the only vestige that is left of the "Imperial Province" is
some fragments of Down, Derry and Armagh--in all of which the
Nationalists also have won a seat. On the other hand, in four Northern
counties--Monaghan, Cavan, Fermanagh and Donegal, the loyalists have not
carried a single division, and won only one out of four in Tyrone. How
much more "unity" do the English want? The excuse hitherto has been that
Home Rule could not be granted because Ireland was itself divided on the
subject; but even that wretched pretence is now forever at an end, for
almost since the dawn of history no such practical unanimity was ever
shown by any nation.



Rapidity of Time's Flight.


Swiftly glide the years of our lives. They follow each other like the
waves of the ocean. Memory calls up the persons we once knew--the scenes
in which we were once actors. They appear before the mind like the
phantoms of a night vision. Behold the boy rejoicing in the gayety of
his soul. The wheels of Time cannot move too rapidly for him. The light
of hope dances in his eyes; the smile of expectation plays with his
lips. He looks forward to long years of joy to come; his spirit burns
within him when he hears of great men and mighty deeds; he longs to
mount the hill of ambition, to tread the path of honor, to hear the
shouts of applause. Look at him again. He is now in the meridian of
life; care has stamped its wrinkles upon his brow; disappointment has
dimmed the lustre of his eye; sorrow has thrown its gloom upon his
countenance. He looks backward upon the waking dreams of his youth, and
sighs for their futility. Each revolving year seems to diminish
something from his little stock of happiness, and discovers that the
season of youth, when the pulse of anticipation beats high, is the only
season of enjoyment. Who is he of aged locks? His form is bent and
totters, his footsteps move but rapidly toward the tomb. He looks back
upon the past; his days appear to have been few; the magnificence of the
great is to him vanity; the hilarity of youth, folly; he considers how
soon the gloom of death must overshadow the one and disappoint the
other. The world presents little to attract and nothing to delight him.
A few more years of infirmity, inanity and pain must consign him to
idiocy or the grave. Yet this was the gay, the generous, the high-souled
boy who beheld the ascending path of life strewn with flowers without a
thorn. Such is human life; but such cannot be the ultimate destinies of
man.


The best education in the world is that got by struggling for a
living.--_Wendell Phillips._



Juvenile Department.

CHOOSING OCCUPATIONS.


   Five little girls sat down to talk one day beside the brook.
   Miss Lizzie said when she grew up she meant to write a book;
   And then the others had to laugh, till tears were in their eyes,
   To think of Lizzie's writing books, and see her look so wise.
   Miss Lucy said she always thought she'd like to teach a school,
   And make the horrid, ugly boys obey her strictest rule.
   Miss Minnie said she'd keep a shop where all the rest must buy,
   And they agreed to patronize, if "prices weren't too high."
   Miss Ada said she'd marry rich, and wear a diamond ring,
   And give a party every night, "and never do a thing!"
   But Nellie, youngest of them all, shook out each tumbled curl,
   And said she'd always stay at home, and be her mother's girl.


A CHILD AND A WASP.

Among the passengers on a train going West, was a very much over-dressed
woman, accompanied by a bright-looking Irish nurse girl, who had charge
of a self-willed, tyrannical two-year-old boy, of whom the over-dressed
woman was plainly the mother. The mother occupied a seat by herself. The
nurse and child were in a seat immediately in front of her. The child
gave frequent exhibitions of temper, and kept the car filled with such
vicious yells and shrieks, that there was a general feeling of savage
indignation among the passengers. Although he time and again spat in his
nurse's face, scratched her hands until the blood came, and tore at her
hair and bonnet, she bore with him patiently. The indignation of the
passengers was made the greater because the child's mother made no
effort to correct or quiet him, but, on the contrary, sharply chided the
nurse whenever she manifested any firmness. Whatever the boy yelped for,
the mother's cry was, uniformly: "Let him have it, Mary." The feelings
of the passengers had been wrought up to the boiling point. The remark
was made: audibly here and there that "it would be worth paying for to
have the young one chucked out of the window." The hopeful's mother was
not moved by the very evident annoyance the passengers felt, and at last
fixed herself down in her seat for a comfortable nap. The child had just
slapped the nurse in her face for the hundredth time, and was preparing
for a fresh attack, when a wasp came from somewhere in the car and flew
against the window of the nurse's seat. The boy at once made a dive for
the wasp as it struggled upward on the glass. The nurse quickly caught
his hand, and said to him coaxingly: "Harry, mustn't touch! Bug will
bite Harry!" Harry gave a savage yell, and began to kick and slap the
nurse. The mother awoke from her nap. She heard her son's screams, and,
without lifting her head or opening her eyes, she cried out sharply to
the nurse: "Why will you tease that child so, Mary? Let him have it at
once!" Mary let go of Harry. She settled back in her seat with an air of
resignation; but there was a sparkle in her eye. The boy clutched at the
wasp, and finally caught it. The yell that followed caused joy to the
entire car, for every eye was on the boy. The mother woke again. "Mary,"
she cried, "let him have it!" Mary turned calmly in her seat, and with a
wicked twinkle in her eye said: "Sure, he's got it, ma'am!" This brought
the car down. Every one in it roared. The child's mother rose up in her
seat with a jerk. When she learned what the matter was, she pulled her
boy over the back of the seat, and awoke some sympathy for him by laying
him across her knee and warming him nicely. In ten minutes he was as
quiet and meek as a lamb, and he never opened his head again until the
train reached its destination.


THE PREHENSILE TAILED COENDOU.

The Havre aquarium has just put on exhibition one of the most curious,
and especially one of the rarest, of animals--the prehensile tailed
coendou (_Synetheres prehensilis_). It was brought from Venezuela by Mr.
Equidazu, the commissary of the steamer _Colombie_.

Brehm says that never but two have been seen--one of them at the Hamburg
zoological garden, and the other at London. The one under consideration,
then, would be the third specimen that has been brought alive to Europe.

This animal, which is allied to the porcupines, is about three and a
half feet long. The tail alone, is one and a half feet in length. The
entire body, save the belly and paws, is covered with quills, which
absolutely hide the fur. Upon the back, where these quills are longest
(about four inches), they are strong, cylindrical, shining,
sharp-pointed, white at the tip and base, and blackish-brown in the
middle. The animal, in addition, has long and strong mustaches. The
paws, anterior and posterior, have four fingers armed with strong nails,
which are curved, and nearly cylindrical at the base.

Very little is known about the habits of the animal. All that we do know
is, that it passes the day in slumber at the top of a tree, and that it
prowls about at night, its food consisting chiefly of leaves of all
kinds. When it wishes to descend from one branch to another, it suspends
itself by the tail, and lets go of the first only when it has a firm
hold of the other.

One peculiarity is that the extremity of the dorsal part of the tail is
prehensile. This portion is deprived of quills for a length of about six
inches.

[Illustration]

The coendou does not like to be disturbed. When it is, it advances
toward the intruder, and endeavors to frighten him by raising its quills
all over its body. The natives of Central America eat its flesh and
employ its quills for various domestic purposes.

The animal is quite extensively distributed throughout South America. It
is found in Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, Guiana, and in some of the
Lesser Antilles, such as Trinidad, Barbados, Saint Lucia, etc.


LITTLE QUEEN PET AND HER KINGDOM.

With these words the stranger vanished, and Pet trotted on her way
again, with the clock and key in her pocket.

She had not gone far till she began to notice a great many little cabins
and cottages about the country, which looked very bare and
uncomfortable. "Surely these must belong to the poor!" she thought; "and
I daresay that is a very poor man who is following the plough over in
that field."

She walked across the meadows until she reached the ploughman, and
having noticed that his clothing was very bad indeed, and that he looked
worn and sad, she formed her wish, and the next moment she was following
the plough as if she had been at it all her life. She had passed
completely into the man; there was not a vestige of her left outside of
him; she felt her hands quite hard and horny; she took great long steps
over the rough ground; she cried "Gee-up!" to the horses; and she knew
very well if she could only look into a glass she should see, not Pet
any more, but the sunburnt man toiling after his plough. She was quite
bewildered by the change at first, but presently she began to interest
herself greatly in all the new thoughts that poured into her mind. After
a time she quite lost sight of her old self, and felt _that she was the
man_. She put her horny hand in her pocket, and found that the clock and
key were there safely, and this consoled her with the thought that she
was not hopelessly buried in the ploughman. When the sun went down she
stopped ploughing and went home to a little cottage which was hidden
among some bushes in a field.

Half a dozen little hungry children, with poor, scanty clothing came
running to meet her.

"Oh, father!" they cried, "mother has been so ill to-day, and neighbor
Nancy says she will never get well without some wine to make her
strong!"

The ploughman groaned at hearing this. "Ah," thought he, "where can I
get money for wine? I can scarcely earn food enough for so many; and who
will give me wine?"

Pet was greatly distressed at finding these painful thoughts throbbing
through and through her. "At home in my palace," she said, "everybody
drinks a bottle of wine a day, and they are not sick, and are all
strong. I must see about this afterwards." Then she went into the
cottage, and the first thing she did was to take the clock out of her
pocket and wind it up with the little key, and hang it on a nail on the
wall.

"What is that you have got?" said the poor woman from her straw bed.

"Oh, it is a clock that a gentleman made me a present of," said the
ploughman.

The eldest girl now poured out some porridge on a plate and set it down
before her father. Pet was very hungry, and was glad of anything she
could get; but she did not like the porridge, and thought that it was
very different indeed from the food she got at home. But while she was
eating, the poor man's thoughts quite overwhelmed her.

"What is to become of them all?" he thought. "I have ten children, and
my wages are so small, and food and clothing are so dear. When the poor
wife was well, she used to look after the cow and poultry, and turn a
little penny, but now she is not able, and I fear----"

"Oh, father! father! the cow is dead!" cried four boys, rushing into the
cottage.

And the poor man bowed his head on the table and groaned.

"Why, this is dreadful!" thought Pet. "Is this really the sort of thing
that poor people suffer. How I wish the month was up that I might do
something for them!" And she tried to glance at the clock, but could
not, because the man kept his eyes bent on the ground.

Pet was kept awake all that night by the ploughman's sad thoughts, and
very early in the morning she was hard at work again, carrying a heavy
heart with her all about the fields. Day after day this went on, and she
was often very hungry, and very sad at hearing the complaints of the
hungry children, and seeing the pale face of the sick woman. Every day
things became worse. The ploughman got into debt through trying to
procure a little wine to save his wife's life, and when rent-day came
round he had not enough money to pay. Just as things arrived at this
state, the clock ran down, and Pet, who had taken care to put it in her
pocket that morning along with the key, suddenly found her own self
standing alone in the field, watching the poor ploughman following his
plough, exactly as she had at first beheld him. She at once began
running away as fast as she could, when she was stopped by her friend
Time, who stood in her path.

"Where are you running to now?" asked he.

"I am hurrying home to my palace to get money, and wine, and everything
for these poor people!" cried Pet.

"Gently!" said Time, "I cannot allow it so soon. You must continue your
experiences and trust the poor ploughman and his family to me; I will
take care of them till you are able to do something for them. Were you
to go back to your palace now, you would be kept there, and I should no
longer be able to stand your friend; on the contrary, I might, perhaps,
against my will, be forced to prove your enemy. Go on now, and remember
my instructions."

And he vanished again.

Pet travelled a long way after this, and as she had to beg on the road
for a little food and a night's lodging, she had very good opportunities
for seeing the kindness with which the poor behave to each other.
Mothers, who had hardly enough for their own children to eat, would give
her a piece of bread without grumbling. At last, one evening, she
arrived at a splendid large city, and felt quite bewildered with the
crowds in the streets and the magnificence of the buildings. At first
she could not see any people who looked very poor; but at last, when
lingering in front of a very handsome shop window, she noticed a
shabbily-dressed young girl go in at a side door, and something about
her sad face made Pet think that this girl was in great distress. She
formed her wish, and presently found that _she_, _Pet_, _was the girl_.
Up a great many flights of stairs she went, passed gay show-rooms where
fine ladies were trying on new dresses, and at last she arrived at a
workroom where many white-faced girls were sewing busily with their
heads bent down. The little seamstress, who was now one with Pet, had
been out matching silks for the forewoman of the work, and now she sat
down with a bright heap of satin on her knees. "Oh, dear!" thought Pet,
as she threaded her needle, "how very heavy her heart is! I can hardly
hold it up; and how weak she is? I feel as if she was going to faint!"
And then Pet became quite occupied with the seamstress's thoughts as she
had been once with the ploughman's. She went home to the girl's lodging,
a wretched garret at the top of a wretched house, and there she found a
poor old woman, the young girl's grandmother, and a little boy asleep on
some straw. The poor old woman could not sleep with cold, though her
good grand-daughter covered her over with her own clothes. Pet took care
to hang up her clock, newly wound, as soon as she went in; and the poor
old woman was so blind she did not take any notice of it. And, oh, what
painful dreams Pet had that night in the girl's brain! This poor child's
heart was torn to pieces by just the same kind of grief and terror which
had distracted the mind of the ploughman: grief at seeing those she
loved suffering want in spite of all her exertions for them, terror lest
they should die of that suffering for need of something that she could
not procure them. The little boy used to cry with hunger; the young
seamstress often went to work without having had any breakfast, and with
only a crust of bread in her pocket. It was a sad time for Pet, and she
thought it would never pass over. At last, one day the poor girl fell
ill, and Pet found herself lying on some straw in the corner of the
garret, burning with fever, and no one near to help her. The poor old
woman could only weep and mourn; and the boy, who was too young to get
work to do, sat beside her in despair. Pet heard him say to himself at
last, "I will go and beg; she told me not, but I must do something for
her." And away he went but came back sobbing. Nobody would give him
anything; everybody told him he ought to be at school. "And so I should
be if she were well," he cried; "but I can't go and leave her here to
die!" The sufferings of the poor girl were greatly increased by her
brother's misery; and what was her horror when she heard him mutter
suddenly: "I will go and steal something. The shops are full of
everything. I _won't_ let her die!" Then before she had time to stop him
he had darted out of the room.

Just at this moment Pet's clock ran down, and she flew off, forgetting
Time's commands, and only bent on reaching her palace. But her strange
friend appeared in her path as before.

"Oh, _don't_ stop me!" cried Pet. "The girl will die, and the boy will
turn out a thief!"

"Leave them to me! leave them to me!" said Time, "and go on obediently
doing as I bid you."

Pet went away in tears this time, still fancying she could feel the poor
sick girl's woful heart beating in her own breast. But by-and-by she
cheered herself, remembering Time's promise, and hurried on as fast as
she could. She met with a great many sad people after this, and lived a
great many different lives, so that she became quite familiar with all
the sorrows and difficulties of the poor. She reflected that it was a
very sad thing that there should be so much distress in her rich
kingdom, and felt much puzzled to know how she could remedy the matter.
One day, having just left an extremely wretched family, she travelled a
long way without stopping, and she had not seen a very poor-looking
dwelling for many miles. All the people she met seemed happy and merry,
and they sang over their work as if they had very little care. When she
peeped into the little roadside houses she found that they were neatly
furnished and comfortable. Even in the towns she could not find any
starving people, except a few wicked ones who would not take the trouble
to be industrious. At last she asked a man what was the reason that she
could not meet with any miserable people?

"Oh," he said, "it is because of our good king; his laws are so wise
that nobody is allowed to want."

"Where does he live? and what country is this?" asked Pet.

"This is Silver-country," said the man, "and our king lives over yonder
in a castle built of blocks of silver ornamented with rubies and
pearls."

Pet then remembered that she had heard her nurses talk about
Silver-country, which was the neighboring country to her own. She
immediately longed to see this wise king and learn his laws, so that she
might know how to behave when she came to sit on her throne, and she
trotted on towards the Silver Castle, which now began to rise out of a
wreath of clouds in the distance. Arrived at the place, she crept up to
the windows of the great dining-hall and peeped in, and there was the
good king sitting at his table in a mantle of cloth of silver, and a
glorious crown, wrought most exquisitely out of the good wishes of his
people, encircling his head. Opposite to him sat his beautiful queen,
and beside him a noble-looking lad who was his only son. Pet, seeing
this happy sight, immediately formed her wish, and in another moment
found herself the king of Silver-country sitting at the head of his
board.

"Oh, what a good, great, warm, happy heart it is," thought Pet, and she
felt more joy than she had ever known in her life before. "A month will
be quite too short a time to live in this noble being. But I must make
the best of my time and learn everything I can."

Pet now found her mind filled with the most wonderfully good, wise
thoughts, and she took great pains to learn them off by heart, so that
she might keep them in her memory forever. Besides all the education she
received in this way, she also enjoyed a great happiness, of which she
had as yet known nothing, the happiness of living in a loving family,
where there was no terrible sorrow or fear to embitter tender hearts.
She felt how fondly the king loved his only son, and how sweet it was to
the king to know that his boy loved him. When the young prince leaned
against his father's knees and told him all about his sports, Pet would
remember that she also had had a father, and that he would have loved
her like this if he had lived. She could have lived here in the Silver
Castle forever, but that could not be. One day the little gold clock ran
down and Pet was obliged to hasten away out of Silver-country.

She made great efforts to remember all the king's wise thoughts, and
kept repeating his good laws over and over again to herself as she went
along. She was now back again in her own country, and the first person
she met was a very miserable-looking old woman who lived in a little mud
hovel in a forest, and supported herself wretchedly by gathering a few
sticks for sale. She was so weak, and so often ill that she could not
earn much, and she was dreadfully lonely, as all her children were dead
but one; and that one, a brave son whom she loved dearly, had gone away
across the world in hope of making money for her. He had never come
back, and she feared that he too was dead. Pet did not know these
things, of course, until she had formed her wish and was living in the
old woman.

This was the saddest existence that Pet had experienced yet, and she
felt very anxious for the month to pass away. After the happiness she
had enjoyed in Silver-country, the excessive hardship and loneliness of
the old woman's life seemed very hard to bear. All day long she wandered
about the woods, picking up sticks and tying them in little bundles,
and, perhaps, in the end she would only receive a penny for the work of
her day. Some days she could not leave her hut, and would lie there
alone without anything to eat.

"Oh, my son, my dear son!" she would cry, "where are you now, and will
you ever come back to me?"

Pet watched her clock very eagerly, longing for the month to come to an
end; but the clock still kept going and going, as if it never meant to
stop. For a good while Pet thought that it was only because of her
unhappiness and impatience that the time seemed so long, but at last she
discovered to her horror that her key was lost!

All her searches for it proved vain. It was quite evident that the key
must have dropped through a hole in the old woman's tattered pocket, and
fallen somewhere among the heaps of dried leaves, or into the wilderness
of the brushwood of the forest.

"Tick, tick! tick, tick!" went that unmerciful clock from its perch on
the wall, all through the long days and nights, and poor Pet was in
despair at the thought of living locked up in the old woman all her
life. Now, indeed, she could groan most heartily when the old woman
groaned, and shed bitter tears which rolled plentifully down the old
woman's wrinkled cheeks and over her nose.

"Oh, Time, Time, my friend!" she thought, "will you not come to my
assistance?"

But though Time fully intended to stand her friend all through her
troubles, still he did not choose to help her at that particular moment.
And so days, weeks and months went past; and then the years began to go
over, and Pet was still locked up in the miserable old woman.

Seven years had passed away and Pet had become in some degree reconciled
to her sorrowful existence. She wandered about the forest picking up her
sticks, and trying to cheer herself up a little by gathering bouquets of
the pretty forest flowers. People passing by often saw the sad figure,
all in gray hair and tatters, sitting on a trunk of a fallen tree,
wailing and moaning, and, of course, they thought it was altogether the
poor old woman lamenting for her son. They never thought of its being
also Pet, bewailing her dreary imprisonment.

One fine spring morning she went out as usual to pick her sticks, and
looking up from her work, she saw suddenly a beautiful, noble-looking
young figure on horseback spring up in a distant glade of violets, and
come riding towards her as if out of a dream. As the youth came near she
recognized his bright blue eyes and his silver mantle, and she said to
herself:

"Oh! I declare, it is the young Prince of Silver-country; only he has
grown so tall! He has been growing all these years, and is quite a young
man. And I ought to have been growing too; but I am left behind, only a
child still: if, indeed, I ever come to stop being an old woman!"

"Will you tell me, my good woman," said the young prince, "if you have
heard of any person who has lost a little gold key in this forest. I
have found--"

Pet screamed with delight at these words.

"Oh, give it to me, give it to me!" she implored. "It is mine! It is
mine!"

The prince gave it to her, and no sooner did it touch her hand than the
clock ran down, and Pet was released from her imprisonment in the old
woman. Instantly the young prince saw before him a lovely young maiden
of his own age, for Pet had really been growing all the time though she
had not known it. The old woman also stared in amazement, not knowing
where the lady could have come from, and the prince begged Pet to tell
him who she was, and how she had come there so suddenly. Then all three,
the prince, Pet, and the old woman, sat upon the trunk of a tree while
Pet related the story of her life and its adventures.

The old woman was so frightened at the thought that another person had
been living in her for seven years that she got quite ill; however, the
prince made her a present of a bright gold coin, and this helped to
restore her peace of mind.

"And so you lived a whole month among us and we never knew you?" cried
the prince, in astonishment and delight. "Oh, I hope we shall never part
again, now that we have met!"

"I hope we shan't!" said Pet; "and won't you come home with me now and
settle with my Government? for I am dreadfully afraid of it."

So he lifted Pet up on his horse, and she sat behind him; then they bade
good-by to the old woman, promising not to forget her, and rode off
through the forests and over the fields to the palace of the kings and
queens of Goldenlands.

Oh, dear, how delighted the people were to see their little queen coming
home again. The Government had been behaving dreadfully all this long
time, and had been most unkind to the kingdom. Everybody knew it was
really Pet, because she had grown so like her mother, whom they had all
loved; and besides they quite expected to see her coming, as messengers
had been sent into all the corners of the world searching for her. As
these messengers had been gone about eight or nine years, the people
thought it was high time for Queen Pet to appear. The cruel Government,
however, was in a great fright, as it had counted on being allowed to go
on reigning for many years longer, and it ran away in a hurry out of the
back door of the palace, and escaped to the other side of the world;
where, as nobody knew anything of its bad ways, it was able to begin
life over again under a new name.

Just at the same moment a fresh excitement broke out among the joyful
people when it was known that thirty-five of the queen's royal names,
lost on the day of her christening, had been found at last. And where do
you think they were found? One had dropped into a far corner of the
waistcoat pocket of the old clerk, who had been so busy saying "Amen,"
that he had not noticed the accident. Only yesterday, while making a
strict search for a small morsel of tobacco to replenish his pipe, had
he discovered the precious name. Twenty-five more of the names had
rolled into a mouse-hole, where they had lain snugly hidden among
generations of young mice ever since; six had been carried off by a most
audacious sparrow who had built his nest in the rafters of the
church-roof; and none of these thirty-one names would ever have seen the
light again only that repairs and decorations were getting made in the
old building for the coronation of the queen. Last of all, four names
were brought to the palace by young girls of the village, whose mothers
had stolen them through vanity on the day of the christening, thinking
they would be pretty for their own little babes. The girls being now
grown up had sense enough to know that such finery was not becoming to
their station; and, besides, they did not see the fun of having names
which they were obliged to keep secret. So Nancy, Polly, Betsy, and Jane
(the names they had now chosen instead) brought back their stolen goods
and restored them to the queen's own hand. The fate of the remaining
names still remains a mystery.

Now, I daresay, you are wondering what these curious names could have
been; all I can tell you about them is, that they were very long and
grand, and hard to pronounce; for, if I were to write them down here for
you, they would cover a great many pages, and interrupt the story quite
too much. At all events, they did very well for a queen to be crowned
by; but I can assure you that nobody who loved the little royal lady
ever called her anything but Pet.

Well, after this, Pet and the Prince of Silver-country put their heads
together, and made such beautiful laws that poverty and sorrow vanished
immediately out of Goldenlands. All the people in whom Pet had lived
were brought to dwell near the palace, and were made joyous and
comfortable for the rest of their lives. A special honor was conferred
on the families of the spiders and the butterfly, who had so
good-naturedly come to the assistance of the little queen. The old gowns
were taken out of the wardrobe and given to those who needed them; and
very much delighted they were to see the light again, though some of the
poor things had suffered sadly from the moths since the day when they
had made their complaint to Pet. Full occupation was given to the money
and the bread-basket; and, in fact, there was not a speck of discontent
to be found in the whole kingdom.

This being so, there was now leisure for the great festival of the
marriage and coronation of Queen Pet and the Prince. Such a magnificent
festival never was heard of before. All the crowned heads of the world
were present, and among them appeared Pet's old friend Time, dressed up
so that she scarcely knew him, with a splendid embroidered mantle
covering his poor bare bones.

"Ah," he said to Pet, "you were near destroying all our plans by your
carelessness in losing the key! However, I managed to get you out of the
scrape. See now that you prove a good, obedient wife, and a loving
mother to all your people, and, if you do, be sure I shall always remain
your friend, and get you safely out of all your troubles."

"Oh, thank you!" said Pet; "you have, indeed, been a good friend to me.
But--I never found that jewel that you bid me look for. I quite forgot
about it!"

"I am having it set in your Majesty's crown," said Time, with a low bow.

Then the rejoicings began; and between ringing of bells, cheering,
singing, and clapping of hands, there was such an uproarious din of
delight in Goldenlands that I had to put my fingers in my ears and run
away! I am very glad, however, that I stayed long enough to pick up this
story for you; and I hope that my young friends will

   "Never forget
   Little Queen Pet,
   Who was kind to all
   The poor people she met!"

                                            ROSA MULHOLLAND.


IN THE SNOW.

   Brave little robins,
     Cheerily singing,
   Fear not the snow-storms
     Winter is bringing.

   Each to the other
     Music is making,
   Courage and comfort
     Giving and taking.

   "What," cries Cock Robin,
     "Matters the weather,
   Since we can always
     Bear it together?"

   "Sweet," his mate answers,
     Ever brave-hearted,
   "None need be pitied
     Till they are parted."


On the other side of the Atlantic, the little boys used not to celebrate
Christmas by blowing unmelodious horns. They would assemble in gangs
before their elder friends, and sing such Christmas Carols as the
following, which seldom failed to bring the coveted Christmas gift:

   "God save you, merry gentlemen,
     Let nothing you dismay,
   For Christ Our Lord and Saviour
     Was born on Christmas Day."


A LITTLE BOY'S GREETING.

   Behold a very little boy
     Who wishes to you here,
   In simple words of heartfelt joy
     A happy, bright New Year.

   May heaven grant your days increase
     With joys ne'er known before;
   In simple words of heartfelt joy
     To-day and ever more.



BOYS READ THIS.


Many people seem to forget that character grows; that it is not
something to put on ready made with womanhood or manhood; day by day,
here a little and there a little, grows with the growth, and strengthens
with the strength, until, good or bad, it becomes almost a coat of mail.
Look at a man of business--prompt, reliable, conscientious, yet
clear-headed and energetic. When do you suppose he developed all those
admirable qualities? When he was a boy. Let us see how a boy of ten
years gets up in the morning, works, plays, studies, and we will tell
you just what kind of a man he will make. The boy that is late at
breakfast, late at school, stands a poor chance of being a prompt man.
The boy who neglects his duties, be they ever so small, and then excuses
himself by saying, "I forgot; I didn't think!" will never be a reliable
man; and the boy who finds a pleasure in the suffering of weaker things
will never become a noble, generous, kind man--a gentleman.

HOUSE KNOWLEDGE FOR BOYS.

The Governor of Massachusetts, in an address before the Worcester
Technical School, June 25th, said some words that are worthy of noting.
He said: "I thank my mother that she taught me both to sew and to knit.
Although my domestic life has always been felicitous, I have, at times,
found this knowledge very convenient. A man who knows how to do these
things, at all times honorable and sometimes absolutely necessary to
preserve one's integrity, is ten times more patient when calamity
befalls than one who has not these accomplishments."

A commendation of "girls' work" from such an authority emboldens the
writer to add a word in favor of teaching boys how to do work that may
be a relief to a nervous, sick, worried, and overworked mother or wife,
and be of important and instant use in emergencies. A hungry man who
cannot prepare his food, a dirty man who cannot clean his clothes, a
dilapidated man who is compelled to use a shingle nail for a sewed-on
button, is a helpless and pitiable object. There are occasions in almost
every man's life when to know how to cook, to sew, to "keep the house,"
to wash, starch, and iron, would be valuable knowledge. Such knowledge
is no more unmasculine and effeminate than that of the professional
baker.

"During the great Civil War, the forethought of my mother in teaching me
the mysteries of household work was a 'sweet boon,' as the late Artemus
Ward would say. The scant products of foraging when on the march could
be turned to appetizing food by means of the knowledge acquired in
boyhood, and a handy use of needle and thread was a valuable
accomplishment."

Circumstances of peculiar privation compelled the writer, as head of a
helpless family, to undertake the entire work. The instruction of
boyhood enabled him to cook, wash, starch, iron, wait on the sick, and
do the necessary menial labor of the house in a measurably cleanly and
quiet manner. This knowledge is in no way derogatory to the assumptive
superiority of the male portion of humanity; a boy who knows how to
sweep, to "tidy up," to make a bed, to wash dishes, to set a table, to
cook, to sew, to knit, to mend, to wait on the sick, to do chamber work,
is none the less a boy; and he may be a more considerate husband, and
will certainly be a more independent bachelor, than without this
practical knowledge. Let the boys be taught housework; it is better than
playing "seven up" in a saloon.


THE BEAN KING.

In the year 1830, the feast of the Epiphany was celebrated at the court
of Charles X., according to the old Catholic custom. For the last time
under the reign of this monarch one of these ceremonies was that a cake
should be offered to the assembled guests, in which a bean had been
concealed, and whoever found that he had taken the piece containing the
bean was called the bean-king, and had to choose a queen. Besides the
king, there were several members of both lines of the house of Bourbon
at the table. The Duke of Aumale distributed the cake. All at once the
Duke de Chartres called out:

"The Duke of Bordeaux (Chambord) is king."

"Why did you not say so, Henry?" the Duchess de Berry asked her son.

"Because I was sorry to be more fortunate than the others," replied the
prince.

The little king chose his aunt, the Duchess of Orleans, for his queen of
the day.

The accession of the little king was made known to the people without,
and shouts of joy filled the streets of Paris. Charles X. was well
pleased, and asked many questions of the little Duke de Bordeaux, the
answers from a boy of ten years old already showing his noble character.

"As you are now a king, Henry, which of your predecessors do you propose
to imitate?"

"I will be good like you, grandpapa, firm like Henry IV., and mighty
like Louis XIV.," replied Henry, after some consideration.

"And whom would you name as your prime-minister?" asked the king again.

"The one who flattered me least."

"And for your private adviser?"

"The one who always tells me the truth--the Baron von Damas."

"Very good, Henry," interposed his mother, "but what would you ask of
God in order that you might be able to reign well?"

"Mamma, for firmness and justice."

Providence has not willed that the Duke de Chambord should realize the
ideas of the Bean king; but for the whole of his life he remained true
to the promise of his youth.


GO TO WORK, YOUNG MAN!

The present age seems to be very prolific in the production of numbers
of young men who have somehow or other, educated themselves up to the
belief that they were created to make their living by doing nothing.
Every city, town, and village in the land is filled to overflowing with
young men who are idle--hunting clerkships, or some place where they
hope to obtain a living without work. Numbers are hanging around, living
from hand to mouth, living upon some friend, waiting for a vacancy in
some overcrowded store; and, when a vacancy occurs, offering to work for
a salary that would cause a shrewd business man to suspect their
honesty; and when remonstrated with by friends, and advised to go to
work, they invariably answer, "I don't know what to do."

We would say to these who want to know what to do, go to work. There is
work enough to do by which you can earn an honest living and gain the
respect of all those whose respect is worth seeking. Quit loafing about,
waiting and looking for a clerkship in a store with a wheelbarrow-load
of goods. Get out into the country on a farm, and go to work. What to
do? Why, in the Mississippi bottoms there are thousands of acres of
virgin growth awaiting the stroke of the hardy axe-man, and thousands of
acres of tillable-land that need only the work of the sturdy plowman to
yield its treasures, richer far than the mines of the Black Hills; and
yet you say you don't know what to do?

Go to work--go to the woods--go to the fields--and make an honest
living; for we have in our mind's eye numbers of men whose talents are
better suited to picking cotton, than measuring calico; to cutting cord
wood than weighing sugar; to keeping up fencing, than books, and to
hauling rails, than dashing out whiskey by the drink; and we can assure
you that the occupations you are better adapted for are much more
honorable in the eyes of persons whose respect is worth having.

       *       *       *       *       *

A little girl asked her father one day to taste a most delicious apple.
What remained was ruefully inspected a moment, when she asked: "Do you
know, papa, how I can tell you are big without looking at you?"--"I
cannot say," was the reply. "I can tell by the bite you took out of my
apple," was the crushing reply.


       *       *       *       *       *


DONAHOE'S MAGAZINE.

BOSTON, FEBRUARY, 1886.


NOTES ON CURRENT TOPICS.


The Poles.

We have been taught from our boyhood days to regard the Polish people as
second to none in obedience to their church; except the Irish, they have
suffered more for the Faith than any other peoples in Europe. We are,
therefore, grieved to see in some of our Western cities a spirit of
rebellion unworthy of the sons of De Kalb and Kosciusko. There is
something radically wrong. In the following article, from our esteemed
contemporary, the _Lake Shore Visitor_, published at Erie, Pa., the
editor hints at the causes of the troubles, which, we trust, may be
corrected by the ordinaries of the dioceses where the troubles have
occurred. The _Visitor_ says: The Poles, who seek a living in this
country, are men determined to make times lively in their old country
fashion. In Buffalo, Detroit, and other cities, they have turned out in
fighting trim, and expressed a loud determination to have things
ecclesiastically their own way or perish. These church riots are a
scandal, and, if the truth were known, they have their origin in nine
cases out of ten in the encouragement and conduct of the men who are
placed over these people as pastors. A bad priest can make mischief,
and, generally speaking, a bad priest can not make his condition any
worse by making all the trouble he possibly can. If he knew anything at
all he should know that he can hope to gain nothing by inciting a set of
ignorant people to riot. In Buffalo the fuss had its origin from a
clerical source, and in Detroit a man with an outlandish name, whom the
herd seem to admire, is acting anything but prudently. Perhaps only
one-half of what is sent over the wires can be regarded as true, but
even that would be bad enough. The Poles by their conduct are not making
for themselves an enviable name; and they will soon be regarded, even by
the civil authorities, as a rebellious people. Surely, in this free
country, they can have nothing to complain of. They have all the rights
and privileges that other men have, and if they were sufficiently
sensible to mind their own affairs and take care of themselves, they
would get along quietly, and soon make their influence felt. They cannot
expect a free church, nor can they expect that any priest who is not
what he should be will be allowed to lead them astray. When a bishop
sees fit to make a change, these people should regard the action of the
bishop as a move made in their interests, and should not only be willing
to submit, but even pleased to see that such an interest is taken in
them. When people such as they are, or any other for that matter,
undertake to pronounce on the fitness of a pastor they, as Catholics,
know they are going too far. In their youth they were taught the
Catechism, and that little book certainly tells them whence the approval
must come. The riot in Detroit will not, in all probability, amount to
anything; but the few who were killed or hurt, will rest upon some one's
shoulders as a responsibility, and that load cannot be very suddenly
laid down. Unfortunately, for the poor people, they are not blessed,
generally speaking, with the guidance of the good priests they knew in
their own country, and having too much confidence in every man who
claims to be a priest, they are easily led by the designer. The danger
will pass over in a few years, when the Polish churches will be supplied
with men as priests every way reliable, and men not forced from any
country to seek a livelihood amongst strangers.


The Catholic Mirror.

The _Catholic Mirror_ of Baltimore, Md., is now the leading Catholic
journal of the United States. Its recent achievement in being the first
paper to publish the Pope's Encyclical _Immortale Dei_ was something
remarkable. Its Roman correspondent is a gentleman in the inner circles
of the spiritual authorities of the church, while its Irish
correspondent enjoys the confidence of the National party leaders. Among
its special contributors is numbered Dr. John Gilmary Shea. In all
respects it is a model Catholic newspaper, and it promises further
improvements for this year.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shortly after we commenced the publication of our MAGAZINE, we received
a similar letter to the following from Mr. P. S. Gilmore. After more
than a quarter of a century's acquaintance, the friendship of our old
friend is as fresh as ever. His congratulations, we assure him, are
cordially reciprocated:

                                    NEW YORK, DEC. 19, 1885.

MY DEAR MR. DONAHOE:--Enclosed please find check for $10.00 which place
to credit for MAGAZINE, and may I have the pleasure of renewing it many,
many times, to which, I am sure, you will say, "Amen," which is equal to
saying, "Long life to both of us." Wishing you a merry Christmas and
many a happy New Year, I remain, dear Mr. Donahoe, always and ever,

                               Sincerely yours,
                                      P. S. GILMORE.

       *       *       *       *       *

RT. REV. JAMES A. HEALY, Bishop of Portland, Me., sailed for Europe in
the Allan Steamer Parisian, from Portland, (accompanied by his brother,
Rev. Patrick Healy), on the 31st of December. The brothers will spend
most of the winter in Naples, and will proceed to Rome.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATE FATHER MACDONALD.--We give an extremely interesting article in
our MAGAZINE this month on the life and labors of good Father MacDonald,
lately deceased at Manchester, N. H. The authoress, we learn, is in a
Convent of Mercy in New Orleans.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fault has been found with the translation of the late Encyclical letter
of the Pope. Why could not arrangements be made in Rome for an
authentic translation of all such documents for the English-speaking
Catholics throughout the world? We are sure the Vatican would furnish
such a translation if requested by the heads of the Church in America,
Australia, etc. Will the _Catholic Mirror_, who has a correspondent in
the Vatican, see that, in the future, we shall have an authorized
translation for the English-speaking Catholics throughout the world?

       *       *       *       *       *

ST. JOSEPH'S ADVOCATE.--The fourth year commences with the January
number, which, we think, is the best issued. The _Advocate_ is devoted
to a record of mission labor among the colored race. The price is only
25 cents a year. Just send 25 cents to Editor _St. Joseph's Advocate_,
51 Courtland St., Baltimore, Md. Here is a notice from the last issue,
which should encourage every Catholic in the country to subscribe not
only for the _Advocate_, but send donations for the conversion of our
colored brethren. "What thoughtfulness and charity, all things
considered, for the Most Rev. Archbishop of Boston to send ten dollars
to this publication! The gift was, indeed, a surprise, total strangers
as we are personally to his Grace and without any application or
reminder, directly or indirectly, beyond the public appeal in our last,
suggested by similar kindness on the part of two esteemed members of the
Hierarchy! Will not others follow suit? What if our every opinion is not
endorsed, so long as faith and morals are safe in our hands, and
promoted in quarters _never reached before_ by the Catholic press. Let
it be remembered that the sphere in which we move is traversed in every
direction by a non-Catholic press, white and colored, the latter alone
claiming from one hundred to one hundred and thirty periodicals edited
and published by colored men who have naturally a monopoly of their own
market. Is the first Catholic voice ever heard in that chorus to be
hushed when those very men welcome us, quote us, thank us, actually
watch the point of the pen lest it wound Catholic feelings, employ the
most emphatic terms to attest our sincerity as true friends of their
people, and pointing to our episcopal and clerical support, assure their
readers that 'the great Catholic Church' has ever been the friend of the
poor and the oppressed? For all this, thanks to the Catholic spirit in
the _course we have pursued_!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A CHINESE INDUSTRY.--_New York Tablet:_ It is not alone the Irish and
Americans who are combatting against England's monopoly of the world's
trade. She has met with an enemy in an unexpected quarter. Ah Sin has
struck at one of her staple commodities, and promises to become an
energetic competitor for one of her most flourishing branches of
business. For many years Birmingham was the great depot for the
manufacture of idols for the heathen nations, and thousands of
Englishmen lived on the profits of this trade. Now, we are told, a
Chinaman at Sacramento, California, has established a factory for
manufacturing idols and devils for use in Chinese processions and
temples. If this be true, thousands of workmen will be thrown out of
employment in Christian England.

       *       *       *       *       *

_The Catholic Columbian:_ If no Catholic has ever yet been elected
President of the United States, the widow of one President, Mrs. Polk,
is a convert, and three cabinet officers were Catholics: James Campbell,
Postmaster General from 1853 to 1857; Roger B. Taney, Attorney General
and Secretary of the Treasury, from 1831 to 1834: and James M.
Schofield, Secretary of War, from 1868 to 1869.

       *       *       *       *       *

This year, Easter Sunday falls upon St. Mark's Day, April 25th,--which
is its latest possible date. The last time this occurred was in 1736
(old style), and it will not fall again on the same day of April until
1943.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Parnell considers William O'Brien's victory in South Tyrone, and T.
M. Healy's conquest of South Londonderry, the two greatest personal
triumphs of the Irish parliamentary campaign.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Chicago Citizen:_ It is officially announced by Mr. Alexander Sullivan
that the Hon. Richard J. Oglesby, governor of Illinois, has accepted the
invitation to preside at the monster meeting to be held in the
Exposition Building on the occasion of Mr. Parnell's visit to this city.
The date is set for January 21. By a unanimous vote of the committee of
arrangements it was decided that no resident of the city of Chicago
would speak at that meeting. All the honors will be given, as they ought
to be, to the governor of the State, the Irish leader and his
lieutenants, and to distinguished Irish-Americans from outside cities as
may desire to address the people of Chicago.

       *       *       *       *       *

PRIESTS IN POLITICS.--_Montreal True Witness:_ There are those who
object, with all generosity, to the clergy taking part in political
movements. There could be no more illogical cry. It has been the too
great severance of religion from the affairs of the public that has
enabled so many unfit persons to obtain parliamentary election and
tended to degrade politics. These people go to make laws affecting
morality, education, and the conditions of social existence too often
without the slightest fitness for that great duty and task. The clergy
are the spiritual guides of the people, the custodians of the most
important influences which affect humanity. To say that they should
abstain from endeavoring to affect administration in a beneficial
manner, is to say not only that they should de-citizenize themselves,
but that they should violate their pledges and abandon their sworn duty.
Those who think the clergy are not doing honor to their office by
participating in politics take a very narrow view of the case. Without,
perhaps, intending to do so, they play into the hands and promote the
ends of those conspirators who are endeavoring to destroy Christianity
and the moral system based upon it.

       *       *       *       *       *

In reply to a letter, calling Cardinal Newman's attention to the recent
revival of the vigorous old lie which attributes to him the statement
that he regarded the Established Church as the great bulwark against
atheism in England, his Eminence has written as follows: My dear ----.
Thank you for your letter. I know by experience how difficult it is,
when once a statement gets into the papers, to get it out of them. What
more can I do than deny it? And this I have done. I always refer
inquirers to what I have said in my "Apologia." The Anglican bishops say
that Disestablishment would be a "national crime," but Catholics will
say that the national crime was committed three hundred years ago. Yours
most truly,--

                                      J. H. CARDINAL NEWMAN.

       *       *       *       *       *

DROP THE OATHS.--_Milwaukee Catholic Citizen:_ Labor organizations ought
not to be lightly condemned. Our American trade unions are among the
most salutary associations that we have. In Chicago, recently, they
incurred the displeasure of the Socialists, because they would not allow
socialism to flaunt itself at one of their demonstrations.

They all tend to promote providence, social union and independence. They
"keep the wolf away from the door" of hundreds.

The case of the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers is one in point.
During the twenty years of its existence the Brotherhood has paid out
nearly $2,000,000 in insurance to the families of engineers who have
been killed or permanently disabled. The motto of the brotherhood is:
"Sobriety, Truth, Justice and Morality."

The more stress that is laid upon sobriety in all labor organizations
the better.

It is to be regretted that some trade unions take the form of secret
societies, and thus tempt Catholic workingmen (of whom there are
thousands), to violate dictates of conscience. Labor leaders ought to
reason that this is not right. These organizations need Catholic
artisans, and Catholic workingmen need these organizations, provided
they are honestly, soberly, and candidly conducted.

       *       *       *       *       *

The number of members of the new House of Commons never before elected
to Parliament is 332. This has had no parallel since the first
Parliament under the Reform Bill of 1832. The ultimate figures of the
election are: Liberals, 334; Conservatives, 250; Parnellites, 86. The
coalition of the last two has thus a majority of two. This, compared
with the last Parliament, will leave the Liberals weaker by 17 votes,
and the Conservatives stronger by 12 votes. The Liberals have gained 80
votes in the counties and lost 91 in the towns. An immense number of
Liberal members of the last Parliament are beaten. The list is over 80,
including 11 Ministers.

       *       *       *       *       *

AN HEROIC SISTER.--Mgr. Sogara, Bishop of Trapezepolis and
Vicar-Apostolic of Central Africa, telegraphs that a despatch has
reached him from Egypt containing the gratifying intelligence of the
liberation of two sisters who were imprisoned in the Soudan, and whose
freedom has been procured by Abdel Giabbari, Mgr. Sogaro's envoy in the
Soudan. The striking historical spectacle presented by General Gordon's
long and lonely journey on his camel across the desert to Khartoum has
been eclipsed in its sublimity by the feat which has just been performed
by Sister Cipriani, who has just traversed the same weary, arid waste on
foot, accompanied by a single Arab attendant. Gordon's name will live
forever in story, side by side with the great knights, historical and
legendary, of the olden time. The labors of the noble and heroic Sister
Cipriani, though attended with as much personal danger, and performed in
a higher sphere, will, perhaps, meet with little earthly recognition. Be
it so. She wants no fleeting fame. Sufficient for her is the
consciousness that she has done her duty by those whom she was sent to
soothe and comfort by her gentle and devoted ministrations.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Catholic Citizen_, Milwaukee, Wis., has entered upon its sixteenth
year. We are pleased to see it is well sustained, as it deserves to be.
Long life to the _Citizen_.

       *       *       *       *       *

RIGHT REV. DR. SULLIVAN, recently consecrated Bishop of Mobile, declined
to accept a purse of one thousand dollars from his late congregation in
Washington, advising them to present it to his successor for the benefit
of the church. He said he came among them with nothing, and preferred to
take nothing away with him. Such admirable unselfishness shows what a
devoted pastor the parishioners of St. Peter's, Washington, have lost
and the Diocese of Mobile has gained.

       *       *       *       *       *

CATHOLIC "SOCIETY."--Some of our people, especially among those who are
rich in worldly goods and deal in worldly literature, are heard to
complain that there is no "society" among Catholics. Well, every one
knows that most of our people are poor, and have not time or occasion to
study the laws of etiquette or the language of diplomacy. Those good
people who seek society elsewhere, however, would do well to lend their
fellow-Catholics the light of their example and shine by the contrast
they create. Better far than cutting a very poor figure in Protestant
society will they find it to teach their own co-religionists the
amenities of social life. They had better be first with their own than a
poor second with strangers; honored among the faithful than despised by
the dissenter. Ah! this aping after society, besides being pitiful and
ridiculous, soon takes the faith out of our people. Their children
marry outside the household of faith, and, with their children's
children, are lost to the Church. What does it profit to gain the whole
world and lose your soul?

       *       *       *       *       *

MR. JOHN DILLON presided at a meeting of the Nationalists in Dublin, and
spoke warmly in praise of the courage of the Ulster Nationalists, who
had fought their battles throughout with vigor and determination. The
Protestant farmers in Ulster were men whose promises could be relied
upon. He could never forget the sacrifices they had made for him at the
last election, or the fact that five hundred of them had voted for Mr.
Healy. Though he himself had been defeated in North Tyrone, he had been
gratified even in defeat. The men who had voted in those places, where
there was no chance for a Nationalist, deserved the thanks of the Irish
people for the loyalty with which they had obeyed the command of the
leaders, and trampled upon their old prejudices and local feelings.
Whigs had disappeared from Ulster, and would never re-appear, unless in
honorable alliance with the Nationalists.

       *       *       *       *       *

The grand old man, Gladstone, celebrated his seventy-sixth year on the
29th of December. May he live to accomplish the pacification of Ireland.

       *       *       *       *       *

ORANGE BLUSTER.--Mr. John E. Macartney, who was the Tory member for
Tyrone in the last Parliament, but who was ousted in the late elections
by the National candidate, declares that the adoption of any form of
Home Rule would be in direct violation of the Constitution, under the
provisions of which thousands of Englishmen and Scotchmen have invested
money in Ireland. To grant Ireland Home Rule, he says, would be to
destroy the minority in Ireland, and the English people would be held
responsible for the consequences. An Orange demonstration was held in
Armagh, where several prominent "Loyalists" made violent speeches in
opposition to the Home Rule doctrine. Following its leaders, the meeting
adopted a series of resolutions declaring that a resort to Home Rule
principles would be certain, sooner or later, to end in civil war, and
exhorting the "loyalist" party to do its utmost to resist the efforts of
the Home Rule advocates. The resolutions also commended the "loyalists"
in Ireland to "the sympathy of all Protestants throughout the British
Kingdom!" "The Ulster Orangemen are ready to come to the front," said
one of the speakers, amid great applause, "and when their services are
wanted sixty thousand men can readily be put into the field, for active
service, in the defence of the cause of loyalty to the government."

       *       *       *       *       *

VERY REV. JOSEPH D. MEAGHER, for years pastor of St. Louis Bertrand's
Church, in Louisville, Ky., has been elected Provincial of the Order of
St. Dominic in the United States, at St. Rose's, Washington County, Ky.

       *       *       *       *       *

The article in the _Dublin Freeman's Journal_, said to have been
inspired by Mr. Parnell, beseeching Irishmen to remember Mr. Gladstone's
difficulties, and to "be prepared to accept a reasonable compromise on
our extreme rights, if a sacrifice of our principal rights be not
involved," is in the true spirit. If this advice be followed, the
outlook will be hopeful for Home Rule.

       *       *       *       *       *

The most remarkable thing about the Irish elections is the fact that not
one supporter of Mr. Gladstone was elected.

       *       *       *       *       *

The College of the Propaganda announces that up to November 1st, in the
vicariate of Cochin China, 9 missionaries, 7 native priests, 60
catechists, 270 members of religious orders and 24,000 Christians were
massacred; 200 parishes, 17 orphan asylums, and 10 convents were
destroyed and 225 churches were burned.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the occasion of the Pope's Jubilee in 1887, ten cases of
beatification will be decided. Three "Beati" belonging to the Jesuits
will be canonized, viz.: Blessed Bergmans, Claver, and Rodriguez. The
Venerable de la Salle, Clement Hofbauer, C. SS. R., and Ines de
Beningain, a Spanish nun, will be beatified.

       *       *       *       *       *

LORD MAYOR OF DUBLIN.--At a meeting of the Dublin Corporation, Mr. T. D.
Sullivan, M.P., editor of the _Nation_, was elected Lord Mayor of the
city for this year. Mr. Sullivan is known all over the world, wherever
Irishmen congregate, by his fine and stirring humorous and pathetic
ballads for the Irish people. Personally, Mr. Sullivan is a gentle and
gentlemanly man, much beloved by his family and a large circle of
friends. He has always preserved the high-minded and patriotic
traditions of the _Nation_ newspaper, the columns of which were enriched
by many of his brilliant songs and ballads long before he succeeded his
brother, the late Mr. A. M. Sullivan, as its editor. Mr. Sullivan is the
father-in-law of Mr. Healy, M.P., Mr. Parnell's able lieutenant.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATE KING OF SPAIN.--A Madrid correspondent gives an account of the
ceremony at the Escuriél, on the occasion of the funeral of the King of
Spain. "The procession from the station," he writes, "wound slowly up
the hill to the monastery. When the funeral car reached the principal
door it was closed. The Lord Chamberlain knocked for admittance. A voice
inside asked, 'Who wishes to enter?' The answer given was 'Alfonso XII.'
The doors were then thrown open. The prior of the monastery appeared.
The body was carried into the church and placed on a raised bier before
the high altar. The coffin was then covered with the four cloaks of the
noble orders. A thousand tapers were lighted, and the church assumed a
magnificent appearance. Black hangings embossed with the arms of Spain
covered the stone walls. The Mass was said and the _Miserere_ sung. The
coffin was raised once more and carried to the entrance of the stairs
leading down to the vaults. No one descended there," continues the
correspondent, "except the Prior, the Minister of Grace and Justice, and
the Lord Chamberlain. The coffin was placed on a table in a magnificent
black marble vault, in which the kings of Spain lie in huge marble tombs
all around. Now came the most thrilling part of the ceremony. The Lord
Chamberlain unlocked the coffin, which was covered with cloth of gold,
raised the glass covering from the King's face, then, after requesting
perfect silence, knelt down and shouted three times in the dead
monarch's ear, '_Señor_, _Señor_, _Señor!_' Those waiting in the church
upstairs heard the call, which was like a cry of despair, for it came
from the lips of the Duke of Sexto, the King's favorite companion. The
duke then rose, saying, according to the ritual, His majesty does not
answer. Then it is true, the King is dead." He locked the coffin,
handed the keys to the prior, and, taking up his wand of office broke it
in his hand and flung the pieces at the foot of the table. Then every
one left the monastery, as the bells tolled, and the guns announced to
the people that Alfonso XII. had been laid with his ancestors in the
gloomy pile of Philip II.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Catholic committees of the north of France, assembled in Congress at
Lille, have addressed to the Pope a letter of adhesion to the
Encyclical, in which the whole teaching of the Papal document is
recapitulated at considerable length.

       *       *       *       *       *

The question of submitting to arbitration the case, "Ireland _vs._
English Rule in Ireland," is again mooted. One man is named as arbiter.
He is known as Leo XIII., whose master-piece of power and wisdom
appeared in our January MAGAZINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

A letter from South Mayo tells that on the polling day a curious sight
was the descent from the mountains of Partry of one hundred voters,
mounted on hardy ponies, who arrived in a body at the polling station
with National League cards in their hats.

       *       *       *       *       *

News from Gorey tells of a wonderful welcome given to Sir Thomas
Esmonde, on his arrival at home after his election. The horses were
taken from his carriage, and he was drawn by the people amidst a
multitude cheering and waving hats in wild excitement. The town and
surrounding hills were illuminated, and the young baronet was escorted
to his residence, Ballynestragh, by bands of music and a torchlight
procession, including many thousands of people. His tenants came out to
meet him before he reached Ballynestragh, bearing torches, and a great
display of fireworks greeted his entrance into his demesne. Sir Thomas
Esmonde threw open his entire house for the night, and dancing was kept
up by the tenants till morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

President Cleveland, in his recent message to Congress, makes allusion
to the rejection of Mr. Keiley by Austria. He says: A question has
arisen with the Government of Austria-Hungary touching the
representation of the United States at Vienna. Having, under my
constitutional prerogative, appointed an estimable citizen of
unimpeached probity and competence as Minister to that Court, the
Government of Austria-Hungary invited this government to cognizance of
certain exceptions, based upon allegations against the personal
acceptability of Mr. Keiley, the appointed Envoy, asking that, in view
thereof, the appointment should be withdrawn. The reasons advanced were
such as could not be acquiesced in without violation of my oath of
office, and the precepts of the Constitution, since they necessarily
involved a limitation in favor of a foreign government upon the right of
selection by the Executive, and required such an application of a
religious test as a qualification for office under the United States as
would have resulted in the practical disfranchisement of a large class
of our citizens, and the abandonment of a vital principle in our
Government. The Austro-Hungarian Government finally decided not to
receive Mr. Keiley as the Envoy of the United States, and that gentleman
has since resigned his commission, leaving the post vacant. I have made
no new nomination, and the interests of this Government at Vienna are
now in the care of the Secretary of Legation, acting as _charge
d'affaires ad interem_.

       *       *       *       *       *

INAUGURATION.--Monday, January 4, was inauguration day in the principal
cities in Massachusetts. In Boston, the usual ceremonies took place.
Mayor O'Brien delivered one of his best addresses. Rev. Father Welch,
S.J., of the church of the Immaculate Conception, acted as chaplain on
the occasion.

       *       *       *       *       *

Michael Davitt, in a recent interview, said: "If Home Rule is granted to
Ireland, it is difficult for me to see how the Irish members can
continue to sit in the parliament at Westminster, unless the colonies
are similarly represented in that body. The appointment of a prince of
the royal family as viceroy of Ireland would be a mistake, as Ireland
requires a statesman of tact and brains to administer the government,
not a royal show.

       *       *       *       *       *

"ONCE A CITIZEN, ALWAYS A CITIZEN," is what Bismarck says. The great
Chancellor is determined to have no fooling. If a German becomes an
American citizen, or a citizen of any other land, old Bis. thinks he has
no business in Germany, and will not have him there. When a man runs
away from his native land rather than carry arms for her protection, and
flies to another country, becomes naturalized, and then returns home to
make a living, the scheme is so thin that the example is dangerous. An
iron-handed man knows how to deal with such cases, and he winds them up
with a bounce.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Sacred College at present consists of 60 members, of whom 26 were
created by Pius IX., and 34 by Leo XIII., and that there are 10
vacancies. Of the Cardinals 34 are Italian; 11 Austrian, German, or
Polish; 5 French; 4 English or Irish; 4 Spanish, and 2 Portuguese.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _English Catholic Directory_ for 1886 says there are at present in
Great Britain no less than 1,575 churches, chapels, and stations; not
including such private or domestic chapels as are not open to the
Catholics of the neighborhood--an increase of 11 on 1884. These places
of worship are served by 2,576 priests as against 2,522 last year. Since
the beginning of the year 91 priests have been ordained, of whom 56 are
secular and 35 regular.

       *       *       *       *       *

A ROSY OUTLOOK.--_Chicago News:_ The new year dawns upon the United
States as the most favored nation in the world. Business is reviving in
every department. Our storehouses and granaries are full to overflowing.
We are free from all foreign entanglements. The public health is good,
and with reasonable care there is nothing to dread from foreign
pestilence. We can look back upon 1885 with grateful hearts, and forward
to 1886 with hope and confidence.

       *       *       *       *       *

CATHOLICS IN PARLIAMENT.--Catholics have no need to complain of the
result of the elections, so far as it affects their special interest,
observes the _Liverpool Catholic Times_. In the late House of Commons
representatives of the Faith had sixty seats. In the new House they will
have eighty-two. Of these, Catholic Ireland contributes seventy-nine,
England two, and Scotland one. We have already commented upon the return
for the Oban Division of Argyllshire of Mr. D. H. MacFarlane, who enjoys
the distinction of being the first Catholic member of Parliament
returned by Scotland since the so-called Reformation. English Catholics
cannot, however, be congratulated upon the part they took in the
electoral struggle. To the last Parliament they sent but one
representative, Mr. H. E. H. Jerningham; and to that which will commence
its labors in a couple of months they have returned only two--Mr.
Charles Russell, Q.C., for South Hackney, and Mr. T. P. O'Connor, for
the Scotland Division of Liverpool. And more than half the credit of
securing the return of these two gentlemen is due to the Irish electors
in this country.

       *       *       *       *       *

For the first time in the history of Boston a colored man has obtained a
political office--he has actually received a policeman's baton. This is
wonderful news, indeed, for, although Massachusetts has been prominent
in denouncing the South for her treatment of the colored man, whom she
has extensively favored with office, Boston, at least, has now had the
first opportunity of practicing her doctrine; and let us hope that the
man's name--Homer--will be classical enough to counteract her
surprise.--_Baltimore Catholic Mirror._

Massachusetts has done more than that for the colored race. Several of
them have been elected to the general court; one has been on the bench
for some time; and there are several practising lawyers in our courts.
Can Maryland say as much for our colored brethren?

       *       *       *       *       *

THE POPE CONGRATULATED.--Emperor William of Germany and Queen Christiana
of Spain have sent telegrams to Pope Leo, expressing their thanks for
his services, and for his equitable decision as arbitrator in the
Carolines controversy.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR MAGAZINE.--This hearty notice is from Father Phelan's _Western
Watchman:_ DONAHOE'S MAGAZINE, for January, came to us last week as
bright as a new shilling, much enlarged, and, as usual, overflowing with
such original and interesting reading for Irish-Americans as is to be
found in no other paper or magazine published on the planet. We predict
for the publisher many years of prosperity to continue the good work.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW ENGLAND MEN AND WOMEN are dying out, or they are not producers. Even
the fisheries no longer breed American seamen for the naval service.
Three-fourths of the crews that man the fishing fleets are Portuguese,
Spaniards and Italians.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Boston Herald:_--Ireland would be better fixed politically, if its
condition should be made like a State in our Union, rather than like a
province the same as Canada. Canada has no representation in the
imperial Parliament. Great Britain ought to have a Parliament for
imperial purposes, with representatives from her dependencies, and
another for her local affairs. It has long been apparent that the
British Parliament cannot properly consider both general and local
matters.

       *       *       *       *       *

It appears that the reported wholesale boycotting of Irish workingmen in
England stated in a dispatch of the New York _Sun_ to have been resolved
upon at a meeting of a Liberal Club, was entirely without foundation in
fact, not even heard of at the National Liberal Club or at the London
Office of the _Freeman's Journal_, the chief Nationalist organ.

       *       *       *       *       *

PARNELLITE MEETING.--A day or two before the opening of the new
Parliament this month, a general meeting of the Irish parliamentary
party, including as many of the Nationalist members as are then in
London, will be held at the Westminster Palace Hotel, when, it is stated
in London Nationalist circles, a definite course of parliamentary action
will be decided upon, and the Parnellite programme for the session will
be finally adopted, subject only to such deviations as the exigencies of
the political situation may render admissable and desirable. In the
event of a short adjournment of the House, after the election of the
speaker and the swearing in of the members, it is understood that the
January meeting of the Irish parliamentary party referred to will be
adjourned to the day previous to that on which the business of the House
will begin about the usual date in February.

       *       *       *       *       *

HOUSE OF THE GOOD SHEPHERD.--The new house is progressing favorably, and
is nearly under roof. There will be a lecture in aid of the building on
Sunday evening, January 17. Hon. Mr. Keiley, lately appointed Minister
to Italy and Austria, will deliver the lecture. Subject: The Present
Prospects of Irish Freedom. The lecture will take place at the Boston
Theatre. Tickets, 75, 50, and 35 cents. The announcement of so
interesting a subject, and the fame of the lecturer should fill the
house to overflowing. His Honor, Mayor O'Brien, will preside.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR MAGAZINE.--_Notre Dame Scholastic:_ With the January number,
DONAHOE'S MAGAZINE begins its fifteenth volume. It is an interesting and
instructive periodical, and deserves well of the reading public. The
"Memoir of His Eminence John Cardinal McCloskey," by Dr. John Gilmary
Shea, which appears in the present number, is a priceless memento of our
first American prince of the Church, and imparts valuable information
concerning some points of the early history of the Church in our
country. Besides, there is a collection of readable articles, which it
would take too long to name. The editor promises still greater
attractions for the new volume, and we sincerely hope his enterprise
will meet with all the encouragement it so well deserves. The MAGAZINE
is published at Boston, Mass.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Rev. Dr. O'Reilly, of Detroit, Treasurer of the National League in
America, announces that he has sent $80,000 to the League in Ireland
since Oct. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE FUTURE OF FRANCE.--In answer to a question on the eventual solution
of the French political difficulty, the Bishop of Angers says: "When I
spoke of the affairs of French Catholics, and, above all, of those of my
diocese," said his Lordship, "I was within my domain. But of the future
of Catholic France the less conversation and the more prayer the better.
I believe that Providence will bless the Apostolic spirit of our
missionaries, and the obscure zeal of our Sisters of Charity. I believe,
with Monseigneur Dupanloup, that the French Church, with fifty thousand
priests, and more, daily saying Mass, and hundreds of thousands of
innocent children praying in her churches, must emerge triumphant from
this terrible crisis. Ask me nothing of Pretenders or of the Republic.
The work of a Catholic Bishop in France is too absorbing to be
overwhelmed by difficulties of political detail. We must be patriots,
worthy citizens, and faithful Catholics, and leave the rest to God. The
great bulk of the French people is not deceived. A cloud is passing
over the nation; but the bright sun will soon pierce through that cloud,
and a reaction will set in. The sooner the better, say I."

       *       *       *       *       *

CATHEDRAL T. A. & B. SOCIETY.--The Cathedral Total Abstinence and
Benevolent Society is making extensive preparations for its third annual
social, which takes place in Parker Fraternity Hall, Wednesday evening,
February 10th. Tickets are selling very rapidly, and the committee of
arrangements will spare nothing to make the occasion an enjoyable one to
all who attend. The officers of the society are as follows: Spiritual
director, Rev. James F. Talbot, D.D.; President, John F. Marrin;
vice-president, William J. Keenan; recording secretary, James P. Gorman;
financial secretary, Jeremiah Conners; treasurer, Patrick Cooney;
sergeant-at-arms, Dennis Desmond.

       *       *       *       *       *

ABSTEMIOUSNESS AT CHRISTMAS.--The following circular was issued by the
Cardinal Archbishop of Westminister:--A Plenary indulgence may be gained
by all persons who--besides making a good Confession and received
worthily the Holy Communion, and praying for the intention of his
Holiness--shall, on Christmas Eve, on Christmas Day, and on the
following day, abstain from all intoxicating drinks. The faithful are
earnestly exhorted to endeavor to obtain the Plenary Indulgence; and to
offer up this little self-denial as an act of intercession, reparation,
and expiation for those who sin against God by drunkenness and
intemperance especially at this time.

       *       *       *       *       *

We regret to learn from the _Catholic Mirror_ that Mr. William Doherty,
formerly of St. John, New Brunswick, is lying dangerously ill at his
residence, No. 142 Edmondson Avenue. Mr. Doherty came to Baltimore about
eleven years ago, in part on account of the climate. He has been
suffering for years with heart disease. He has received the last
Sacraments from the hands of his son, Rev. William J. Doherty, S.J.,
rector of the Church of Our Lady, at Guelph, Ontario, Canada, who
reached Baltimore the day before. Mr. William Doherty was born in
Ireland, June 8th, 1800, and went to New Brunswick when a young man. He
was for many years one of the most prominent Catholics in St. John, and
was president of St. Vincent de Paul Society in that city. He has two
daughters with him, and two who are nuns. One of the latter is Madame
Letitia Doherty, assistant superioress of the Convent of the Sacred
Heart, Kenwood, Albany, N. Y.; the other is in the Elmhurst Convent of
the Sacred Heart, at Providence, R.I.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are at present two hundred "widowed" parishes in the Diocese of
Posen, Germany. Of these, only forty-five have any auxiliary supply, so
that no less than one hundred and fifty-five parishes, with a population
of 200,000 souls and more are without any priest at all.

       *       *       *       *       *

If the Associated Press may be trusted, Bishop O'Farrell has expressed
the opinion that the two American cardinals will be the Archbishop of
Baltimore and the Archbishop of New York.--_Catholic Mirror._

The Associated Press is not to be credited on Catholic or Irish matters.
It is more than probable that one of the hats will crown the head of the
venerable Archbishop of Boston.

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTRE DAME UNIVERSITY has received ten thousand Rosaries from Belgium.
They are blessed by the regular canons of the Holy Cross Order, and they
have the extraordinary indulgence of five hundred days and the
Bridgetine indulgence of one hundred days, together with the Holy
Father's blessing, attached to the devout recital of every "Our Father"
and "Hail Mary" upon them. Address Rev. A. Granger, C.S.C., Notre Dame,
Ind.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Italian Government has just published the list of deaths from
cholera during the years 1884 and 1885. In the former year, there were
27,000 cases, and 14,000 deaths. In the latter year there have been over
6,000 cases, and 3,000 deaths. Palermo was the great sufferer this year,
as Naples was in 1884. Better nutrition during both epidemics caused a
noted diminution in cases and in deaths.

       *       *       *       *       *

The _Germania_ says that the Holy Father has expressed a wish to know
the state of Catholic Missions in the German Colonies. He feels very
keenly the arbitrary conduct of the Imperial Government, and has
expressed to the Prussian Minister his astonishment at the prejudice
exhibited in Berlin.

       *       *       *       *       *

Referring to the Letter of the Holy Father to Cardinal Manning and the
Bishops of England, which we give elsewhere, the _Moniteur de Rome_ says
that it constitutes "the recompense and the consecration" of the noble
and heroic efforts of his Eminence and the English Episcopate in the
cause of Christian education.

       *       *       *       *       *

The 22nd of February is the anniversary of the birth of George
Washington. We give many incidents of his life in this issue of our
MAGAZINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE IRISH CONVENTION.--Patrick Egan, president of the Irish National
League of America, has received a cablegram from T. M. Harrington, M.P.,
secretary of the National League in Ireland, in which he states that Mr.
Parnell will not be able to attend the League convention intended to be
held in Chicago in January next, and that he is "inclined to think it
best to postpone the convention until after the meeting of parliament in
February." It is, doubtless, the desire of the Irish party to know with
some definiteness the probable outcome of the present situation before
making any authoritative announcement of their plans, or before sending
any message to their American brothers; and it also seems that they
regard Mr. Parnell's constant presence on the scene of negotiations as
indispensable. The convention, in accordance with this suggestion, is,
therefore, postponed to a date to be determined upon hereafter between
the executive of the American League and Mr. Parnell. Mr. Egan will call
the National Committee of the American League together some day in
January, by which time there may be information from Ireland enabling a
definite date to be fixed for the convention.

       *       *       *       *       *

MUNSTER BANK.--In reply to a letter from Mr. T. N. Stack to the
liquidators, inquiring when the sum of £500,000 now in their hands would
be distributed amongst the creditors, the liquidators of the Munster
Bank have written to say that there is £650,000 in hands, that the mere
routine work of arranging for a dividend occupies a considerable time,
but that they expect to pay an instalment in March.


PRIVILEGES FOR MAYNOOTH.--In reply to a petition from the Irish
Episcopate, the Holy Father, through the Sacred Congregation of
Propaganda, has granted to the Superiors of St. Patrick's College,
Maynooth, the privilege of presenting students for ordination to the
Diaconate and Subdiaconate on days which are ordinary doubles. This
important concession, however, can be made use of only once in the year.

       *       *       *       *       *

GRANT'S EVIL GENIUS.--The enemies of the Catholic Church should get up a
big purse of bright new dollars as a testimonial to Parson Newman,
as--only for the influence of his evil genius--it is very likely that
General Grant would have died a Catholic. The _Saint Joseph's Advocate_,
in a brief notice of the death of General Grant, says that Grant was not
a bigot--his Indian Agency policy and Des Moines speech to the apparent
contrary notwithstanding. Parson Newman was, in matters of religion, his
evil genius; and the evil genius had this apology (though no excuse)
that he was pushed at him from _behind_. It is our sincere opinion that
if the Catholic side of this great man's family had possessed a Newman
in zeal, eloquence and polish, Mount McGregor would have witnessed its
most historic _Catholic_ death, July 22, 1885.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CHINESE MUST GO.--_San Francisco Monitor:_ There seems to be a
general determination among the people all over this coast that the
Chinese must go. Already they have been forcibly expelled from several
towns in Washington territory and Oregon, as well as from towns in this
State. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, and the laboring
portion of the white race will not suffer their right of life, liberty
and happiness to be destroyed by the interference of Chinese coolies.

       *       *       *       *       *

FOREIGN MISSIONS.--A large and commodious seminary for the Foreign
Missions is about to be opened in Bavaria. In the latter country a grand
old abbey has for years stood empty and deserted. Father Amhreim, a
Benedictine, under the auspices of the Propaganda, and with the consent
of the Bavarian Government, has restored the abbey, and is now fitting
it up as a seminary. The students who will enter this new Missionary
College will devote themselves to the African missions, as their
brethren in the college of Steil give themselves wholly to the Chinese
mission. German Catholics may be proud of their missionary enterprise.

       *       *       *       *       *

DYNAMITE!--Millionnaire Cyrus W. Field, of New York, raised a monument
to Andre, the English spy, with great pains and expense. Some other
party razed it, a few nights ago--with a dynamite cartridge. Robert
Simons, while trying to kill fish at Little Rock, Ark., with dynamite,
exploded some of the stuff in his pocket, and his right arm was blown
off in a jiffy.

       *       *       *       *       *

ARCHBISHOP CROKE says: "Politics now simply means food and clothes and
decent houses for Irishmen and women at home; they mean the three great
corporal works of mercy; they mean the protection of the weak against
the strong, and the soil of Ireland for the Irish race rather than for a
select gang of strangers and spoliators."

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LANDLORD WAR is raging in Ireland. The Boycotting campaign is being
pushed. This chorus is intoned by "T. D. S." and caught up throughout
the land:

   "Tis vain to think that all our lives
     We'll coin our sweat to gold,
   And let our children and our wives
     Feel want and wet and cold;
   We first must help ourselves, and then,
     If we have cash to spare,
   Let landlord, and such idle men,
     Come asking for a share;
   So landlords, and grandlords,
     We pledge our faith to-day--
   A low rent, or no rent,
     Is all the rent we'll pay."

       *       *       *       *       *


A CHEERFUL PROSPECT.--Sympathetic Friend: I say, Toombs, old man, you're
not looking well. Want cheerful society, that's it! I shall come and
spend the evening with you, and bring my new poem, "Ode to a Graveyard!"

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ENGLISH ELECTIONS.--One of the unexpected effects of the public
excitement consequent upon the general election has been the revelation
of some of the most grotesque vagaries of Protestantism that have ever
come under our notice. One clergyman told his parishioners not to
scruple about telling lies as to the party for which they intended to
vote. Another characterized the Liberals as "a set of devils."
Archdeacon Denison, an octogenarian ecclesiastic, informed his audience
at a public meeting that they "might as well cheer for the devil as for
Mr. Gladstone."

       *       *       *       *       *

Mgr. Seghers, who, imbued with apostolic zeal and self-sacrifice,
resigned the archdiocese of Oregon, to dedicate himself to the
conversion of the Indians, has arrived at Vancouver Island, and has
already begun his holy work assisted by a party of devoted Belgian
missionaries.

       *       *       *       *       *

The decree for the introduction of the cause for the beatification and
canonization of Joan of Arc has been signed at last. The late Mgr.
Dupanloup labored hard in this affair, and doubtless the progress made
is partly owing to his unwearied efforts.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Scotch Colony is about being planted in Florida. A man named Tait is
the organizer of the projected settlement, and is expected to bring
fifty families with him from Glasgow. These are only the pioneers, and
it is expected that in two years one thousand families from Scotland
will be located in Florida. We welcome every industrious emigrant who
comes here to better his fortune, and hope the projected colony will be
a success. But we also hope they will be more patriotic than were the
Scotch in 1775, who raised the English flag at the Cross Roads in North
Carolina, and fought against American Independence.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE LATE VICTOR HUGO.--Very noble, and certainly very true, was the
appeal which Victor Hugo made for religious instruction in 1850: "God
will be found at the end of all. Let us not forget Him, and let us teach
Him to all. There would otherwise be no dignity in living, and it would
be better to die entirely. What soothes suffering, what sanctifies
labor, what makes man good, strong, wise, patient, benevolent, just, at
the same time humble and great, worthy of liberty, is to have before him
the perpetual vision of a better world, throwing its rays through the
darkness of this life. As regards myself, I believe profoundly in this
better world; and I declare it in this place to be a supreme certainty
of my soul. I wish, then, sincerely, or, to speak strongly, I wish
ardently for religious instruction."

       *       *       *       *       *

It is thought that the Parliament which has just been elected will be
short-lived. In a comparatively brief space of time there will be
another appeal to the constituencies.

       *       *       *       *       *

Reminiscences of Irish-American Regiments in the Union Army during the
Rebellion, are spoken of in an article elsewhere. The article is
furnished to us by the editor and proprietor of the _Sandy Hill_ (N. Y.)
_Herald_, John Dwyer, Esq.

       *       *       *       *       *

BANK OF IRELAND SHARES.--Shares of the Bank of Ireland, which a year ago
were quoted at £340, are quoted at £274. This is a government Orange
Bank. It refused to assist the Munster Bank, which was the principal
cause of its failure.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Statue of the late Lord O'Hagan will shortly be placed in the hall of
the Four Courts, Dublin.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Catholic ceases to be a Catholic the moment he becomes a Free Mason.
He may continue to believe all articles of Catholic faith and even go to
church; but he is cut off from the body of the faithful by the fact of
excommunication, and cannot receive the Sacraments while living, nor
sepulchre in consecrated ground when dead. By resigning from the lodge,
and giving up the symbols,he can be restored to the communion of the
Church.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Lady Mayoress of Dublin has been presented with a silver cradle,
commemorative of the birth of a daughter during her official year. The
gift was from the members of both parties in the Corporation and the
citizens.

       *       *       *       *       *

T. P. O'Connor, M.P., says that Ireland will be satisfied with nothing
less than the same amount of independence granted by England to Canada.
Mr. Justin McCarthy, M.P., says that the same amount of independence as
New York or Illinois has in the Federal Union would do. These two
declarations may be regarded as the maximum and minimum of the present
national demand. Mr. Parnell has, very wisely, made no sign. He lies in
wait for future developments.



NOTICES OF RECENT PUBLICATIONS.


_Lynch, Cole & Meehan, New York._

     THE IRISH-AMERICAN ALMANAC FOR 1886. Price, 25 cents.

We refer the reader to the advertisement on another page for the
contents, etc., of this Irish year book. It is indispensable in every
Irish family at home and abroad, like our own MAGAZINE. The publishers
are also the editors and proprietors of the _Irish-American_ newspaper,
which has stood the tug of war for nearly forty years. The price is only
25 cents. It is worth three times 25 cents. Address the publishers or
any bookseller.


_Fr. Pustet & Co., N. Y. and Cincinnati._

     THE POPE: THE VICAR OF CHRIST; THE HEAD OF THE CHURCH. By Rt. Rev.
     Monseigneur Capel, D.D., Domestic Prelate of His Holiness, Pope Leo
     XIII. Price, 25 cents.

The preface explains the scope of the work, which we give:

Is the Pope possessor of supreme and universal authority over the whole
of the Christian Church, is the Pope the Vicar of Christ: are questions
of the greatest moment to all believers in Christianity. If the Pope
holds such power and position, then is there the absolute need of
subjection to him in things spiritual. The subject has been treated by
me from different stand-points during my tour in the States. The
substance of such discourses is now given to the public. To meet the
demands on time made by the active, busy life in America, the matter is
presented as concisely as possible, and in short chapters. The
intelligence and general information displayed by the people in all
parts of the States which I have visited permit me, while presenting a
small book for popular use, to treat the subject for an educated people
anxious for solid knowledge. To those who wish to prosecute the further
study of this question I recommend the following works, to which I have
to express my indebtedness: Archbishop Kenrick's "Primacy of S. Peter,"
Allies' "See of S. Peter," Wilberforce's "Principles of Church
Authority," Allnatt's "Cathedra Petri," and "Faith of Catholics" (Vol.
II.), containing the historical evidence of the first five centuries of
the Christian era to the teaching concerning the Papacy.

                                                T. J. Capel.

                  _Feast of the Immaculate Conception, 1885._


_McGowan & Young, Portland, Maine._

     ECHOES FROM THE PINES. By Margaret E. Jordan.

Maine should be represented among the States which has a large Catholic
population. The first, and the only, Catholic Governor of the New
England States, was Governor Cavanagh in Maine. There were few Catholics
in that State during his administration. To-day, Maine would not give
her suffrages to a Catholic. Why? Because in Governor Cavanagh's days
the Catholics were in a great minority, and the Puritans did not fear
them. As the Catholic body increases, hatred springs up; but Maine is
coming back to the old faith.

She has now a prelate who is alive to the necessities of his people, and
is doing everything in his power to establish the Faith of Kale and the
other martyrs who died for their religion.

Who would have thought in Governor Cavanagh's days (a half a century
ago), that there would be a grand cathedral, convent, schools and a
Catholic publishing house in Portland? But such is the fact. The house
has issued an excellent book but a few months ago, and now we have some
sweet poems from the genial pen of Miss Margaret E. Jordan. The
authoress has not so many "flourish of trumpets" as some others, but her
Muse is pathetic and heartfelt. The critics may not give her the meed of
praise they would confer upon others, but her Catholic heart will endear
her to the love she bears our Blessed Mother, and her devotion to the
poetic visions of the "old land." We believe Miss Jordan hails from the
beautiful vale of Avoca, where the poet Moore imbibed his inspirations.


_Ave Maria Press, Notre Dame, Ind._

     SCHOLASTIC ANNUAL FOR THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1886. By Prof. J. A.
     Lyons, of the University of Notre Dame, Ia.

This is the eleventh year of this publication. Our good friend, Prof.
Lyons, gives his readers an excellent New Year's dish. "Capital and
Strikes," by our friend, Onahan, of Chicago, is timely. We wish it could
be read by the strikers and the Knights of Labor, all over the country.
There are also articles on the late Vice President, by William Hoynes,
A. M. "A Nation's Favorite," by Rev. Thomas E. Walsh, C. S. C., and
other excellent articles both in prose and verse.


_John Murphy & Co., Baltimore, Md._

     NOTED SANCTUARIES OF THE HOLY FACE; or, the Cultus of the Holy
     Face, as practised at St. Peter's of the Vatican and other
     celebrated shrines. By M. L'Abbe Jouvier. Translated from the
     French by P. P. S. With preface by Most Rev. W. H. Elder, D.D.,
     Archbishop of Cincinnati.

The devotion to the Holy Face is spreading throughout the Catholic
world. The Discalced Nuns are foremost in their efforts to spread this
devotion. This little book is published at their urgent solicitations.
We recommend to all devout Catholics the purchase of this book.


_D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New York._

     SADLIER'S CATHOLIC DIRECTORY, ALMANAC, AND ORDO, FOR THE YEAR OF
     OUR LORD 1886; with full official reports of all dioceses,
     vicariates, prefectures, etc., in the United States, Canada,
     British West Indies, Ireland, England and Scotland. Unbound, $1.25.
     Bound, $1.50. An edition comprising only the church in the United
     States, 50 cents.

This is the fifty-fourth annual publication. It composes a great body of
information interesting to every Catholic. All families should have it
in their houses.


All of the above books may be obtained of Messrs. Noonan and Co., as
well as of the publishers.



MISCELLANEOUS.


THEFT OF A VALUABLE BOOK.--A valuable book has been stolen from the
library of the Minerva, Rome. It is one of the very few copies of the
works of Lactantius, which were printed at the Benedictine monastery of
Santa Scholastica, near Subiaco, in the year 1465. So rare are the
copies of this work, that the price of a single copy has reached 15,000
francs, or £600. The most minute inquiries have been made, but the
missing volume has not been traced.

A Selection of the late Lord O'Hagan's speeches, as revised by himself,
will very shortly be published by Messrs. Longmans & Co. The volume
opens with a speech on the Legislative Union delivered at a meeting of
the Repeal Association in 1843, and closes with Lord O'Hagan's speeches
in the House of Lords in 1881-82 on the Irish Land Laws. The work is
edited by Lord O'Hagan's nephew, Mr. George Teeling, and contains
numerous biographical and historical notes.

THE ANGEL GUARDIAN ANNUAL FOR 1886.--Seventh year. Published by the
House of the Angel Guardian; Boston, Mass. Price 10 cents. Besides the
matter contained in Almanacs generally, this little annual has also a
collection of interesting and instructive articles. There are several
excellent engravings, prominent among which are portraits of Cardinal
McCloskey, Archbishop Williams, Daniel O'Connell, Rev. G. F. Haskins,
and Hon. Hugh O'Brien, Mayor of Boston, accompanying biographical
sketches.

MR. T. P. O'CONNOR'S new book, _Gladstone's House of Commons_, will be
issued by Messrs. Ward and Downey early next week. In the preface the
author says:--"It would be too much to ask the reader to believe that
these sketches betray none of the bias natural to one who took a
somewhat active part in many of the scenes described. But an effort was
made at impartiality." The volume is called _Gladstone's House of
Commons_. The justification of the title is the commanding position held
in the last Parliament by the overwhelming personality of Mr. Gladstone.



MUSIC.

_From White, Smith & Co._


_Vocal:_ "Trusting," Duet, by C. A. White.

_Instrumental:_ "Only for Thee," Polka Mazurka, by Fliege. "Chant du
Paysan," by Alfonso Rendando. "Silver Trumpets," by Viviani, viz.: No.
1, "Grand Processional March." No. 2, "Harmony in the Dome," as played
at St. Peter's in Rome. "Gavotte," by Rudolph Niemann. "Potpourri," from
"Mikado," for four hands, arranged by C. D. Blake. "Chimes of Spring,"
by H. Lichner. "Mikado," Galop by Geo. Thorne. "The Banjo Companion,"
viz.: "Nymphs' Dance," by Armstrong. "Rag Baby Jig," by same. "Gavotte
du Pacha," by F. Von Suppe. "Always Gallant Polka," by Fahrbach.
"Carlotta Walzer," by Millocker. "Happy Go Lucky, Schottische," by De
Coen, and "O Restless Sea," by C. A. White, all arranged for Banjo.
"Rosalie Waltz," by Pierre Duvernet. "Morning Prayer," by Strealboy. "La
Gracieuse," by Ch. Wachtmann. "Mikado Waltzes," by Bucalossi.

_Books:_ "The Folio," for January, 1886, brimful of good reading
interspersed with excellent music. "Ferd. Beyers' Preliminary Method for
Pianoforte." Part 2, "Melodies for Violin and Piano," and "Melodies for
Flute and Piano." All these works issued in Messrs. White, Smith & Co's
best style.



Obituary.

   "After life's fitful fever they sleep well."


CARDINAL.

CARDINAL PANEBIANCA has lately died in Rome at the age of seventy-seven.
He was not a society cardinal, as he lived a hard life, slept on the
boards, his board being also simple bread and water, with a morsel of
cheese now and then by way of a luxury. He despised riches, and has died
rich.


BISHOPS.

RT. REV. F. X. KRAUTBAUER, bishop of Green Bay, Wis., for over ten
years, was found dead in his bed at the Episcopal residence, morning of
the 17th of December. He had recently been a sufferer from apoplexy,
which finally took him off. The suddenness of his death has cast a gloom
of sadness over the entire Catholic population. Bishop Krautbauer was
born in the parish of Bruck, near Ratisbon, Bavaria, in 1824, being in
his sixty-first year at the time of his death.

At half-past six o'clock Friday morning, December 4, Rt. Rev. Dominic
Manucy, third bishop of Mobile, Ala., died after a lingering illness. He
was born in St. Augustine, Fla., in the year 1823, and received his
education in Mobile, at the College of St. Joseph, Spring Hill. On the
20th of January, 1884, he received his appointment from Rome to the
bishopric of Mobile, and on March 30th, of the same year, was duly
installed. In the July following his health failed, and he was compelled
to send his resignation to the Pope. The Pope, however, took no action
on the resignation until more than a year had passed. Then Bishop
Jeremiah O'Sullivan was appointed as his successor to the Bishopric of
Mobile, and to him Bishop Manucy delivered up the keys of the cathedral
on the first day of November, 1885. Since the succession Bishop Manucy
has remained at the episcopal residence, where he has been at all times
carefully attended by the priests of the parish and the people of his
congregation. Bishop Manucy was no ordinary person, but, on the
contrary, his whole life and its actions stamped him as a man of more
than usual ability. As a man he showed himself, when in health, to be of
strong and decisive will, possessed of an open-hearted, frank nature,
and charitable to the furtherest degree. He was a man of thorough
education, a profound and able logician, and was reckoned as one of the
best theologians of the Catholic Church. In his various offices as
priest and bishop, he was at all times alive to the interest of his
church and its people. The spiritual needs of his flocks never escaped
his observation, and were never left unsupplied.


PRIESTS.

German literary papers report with regret the death at Kilchrath, in
Holland, of one of the most learned Jesuits of our times, Father
Schneemann, at the age of fifty-six. He was chief editor of the
well-known periodical, "Stimmen von Maria Laach." When the Jesuits had
to quit Germany in 1872 he came to reside in England, but the climate
not agreeing with him, he went to Holland, where he taught divinity in a
diocesan college.

Rev. George Ruland, C. SS. R., who died a few weeks ago in Baltimore,
was provincial of the Redemptorists for many years. He was a fellow
student of Archbishop Heis, of Milwaukee, and a pupil of Doctor
Doellinger. He was a man of marked talent, and his influence will be
greatly missed.

Rev. Philip J. McCabe, rector of the cathedral at Hartford, Conn., died
in that city on the 9th of December, greatly regretted by all who had
the pleasure of his acquaintance.

Rev. Father Jamison, S. J., the well-known and highly esteemed Jesuit
died at Georgetown College, D. C., on night of 8th December, after a
very long illness. He was born in Frederick City, Md., on June 19, 1831;
in 1860 he was ordained to the priesthood in the Eternal City, by
Cardinal Franson. Then returning to the United States, he labored at
different times, as assistant pastor in Georgetown, Md., Washington, D.
C., Philadelphia, Pa., Boston, Mass., Troy, N. Y., and Alexandria, Va.

The Rev. John S. Flynn, pastor of St. Ann's Church, Cranston, R. I.,
died of pneumonia, at the parochial residence, on the 10th December, in
the forty-ninth year of his age, and the eighteenth of his ordination.
He was a native of the County Cavan, Ireland, and came to this country
when eleven years of age. His early education was under the supervision
of his uncle, the late Rev. John Smith, of Danbury, Conn., with whom he
resided. He continued his studies at Mount St. Mary's, Emmittsburg, Md.
After finishing his classical course, he spent some time at St. Sulpice
Seminary, Baltimore, and completed his theological studies at the
Provincial Seminary, Troy, N. Y.

The death, November 8, of Very Rev. Wm. J. Halley, V. G., Cincinnati, is
greatly lamented. In him, for more than twenty years, we have personally
known a noble, pure, devoted and beautiful character. Born at Tramore,
Ireland, he was taken off at forty-eight.

       *       *       *       *       *

PRESERVATION OF A SAINT'S BODY.--The body of the late venerable G. B.
Vianney, Curé d'Ars, was exhumed in the presence of the Bishop of Belley
and Mgr. Casorara, _promotor fidei_, and of all those interested in the
cause of his beatification. The body was found entire, as it was buried,
and was recognizable at the first glance. The flesh and hair still
adhered to the upper part of the head; the hands, shrivelled, preserved
their full form--the sacerdotal vestments had undergone no alteration.
To give an idea of the enthusiasm displayed by the people, we may say
that every object of devotion to be bought in the shops of Ars was sold,
so that the people might bear away with them a relic that had touched
the holy body. Ars seemed to have recovered its former happy days, when
pilgrims flocked thither, and penitents thronged the venerable curé's
confessional.

       *       *       *       *       *

LORD CHARLES THYNNE, second son of the Marquis of Bath, has during the
week received the tonsure and three minor orders at the hands of the
Cardinal Archbishop in the chapel of the archbishop's house,
Westminster. Lord Charles is an ex-clergyman of the Church of England,
and is close on seventy years of age.

       *       *       *       *       *

An interesting ceremony took place in the Church of Piedad, Buenos
Ayres, recently, when an entire Jewish family named Krausse, the parents
and two children, abjured the Jewish religion and were baptized into the
Catholic Church. They had been instructed in the catechism of Christian
doctrine by a Jesuit Father. Senor Gallardo was godfather of the
parents, and Senor Leguizamona and Miss Larosa godfather and godmother
for the children.

       *       *       *       *       *

The ideas of English noblemen upon the subject of national gratitude,
and the causes of it, must be decidedly unique. In a speech, delivered
in Glasgow, on Dec. 3d, Lord Roseberry declared that he thought "Ireland
had shown great ingratitude toward Mr. Gladstone." Considering that, in
addition to a worthless Land Bill, Mr. Gladstone's principal gifts to
Ireland consisted of five years of the most grinding coercion
government, under the operation of which some two thousand of the best
and purest men and women in the country were thrust into jail like
felons, we fail to see the particular claims that grand old fraud has
upon the good-will of Ireland or her people, says the _Irish-American_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bishop Bowman, of St. Louis, in the annual conference of the Methodist
missionary committee, says that it costs $208 to convert an Italian
Catholic to Methodism. Yes; and he would be dear at half the price, says
the _Western Watchman_.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the British Empire there are 14 archiepiscopal and 81 episcopal sees;
35 vicariates and 10 prefectures; in all, 140; and the number of
patriarchs, primates, archbishops and bishops throughout the world is
1,171, the residential sees being 909 in number.

       *       *       *       *       *

GREGORY'S PILE REMEDY.--It is not very often that we say anything in
favor of advertised medicines. We cheerfully make an exception in the
case of Gregory's Pile Remedy. It is so highly endorsed by some of the
best known citizens in Boston and vicinity, who have been permanently
cured by its use, that we recommend it to all sufferers. It is a
distinctly Irish remedy, the formulæ for its preparation having been
left with Mr. Gregory by an esteemed old Irish lady, who died in August
last, and who used it with the greatest success for many years among her
friends and neighbors.





*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 2,  February 1886" ***

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