Chapter VI: Carlin’s Nest (7)

“Each face looked one way like a moon new-lit,
Each face looked one way towards its Sun of Love;
Drank love and bathed in love and mirrored it
And knew no end thereof.”

We might go on quoting with pleasure and admiration most of these devotional pieces, but enough has been given to show how different a writer is Miss Rossetti in her religious and in her worldly mood. The beauty, grace, pathos, sublimity often, of the one weary us of the other. In the one she warbles or sings, with often a flat and discordant note in her tones that now please and now jar; in the other she is an inspired prophetess or priestess chanting a sublime chant or giving voice to a world’s sorrow and lament. In the latter all affectation of word, or phrase, or rhythm disappears. The subjects sung are too great for such pettiness, and the song soars with them. The same thing is true of her brother, the poet. Religion has inspired his loftiest conceptions, and a religion that is certainly very unlike any but the truth. We trust that the reverence and devotion to the truth which must lie deep in the hearts of this gifted brother and sister may bear their legitimate fruit, and end not in words only, but blossom into deeds which will indeed lead them “From House to Home.”

[33] Poems by Christina G. Rossetti. Boston: Roberts
Brothers. 1876.

ECHO TO MARY.

Who gently dries grief’s falling tear?
Maria.
Of fairy flowers which fairest blows?
The Rose.
What seekest thou, poor plaining dove?
My Love.
Rejoice, thou morning Dove!
Earth’s peerless Rose, without a thorn,
Unfolds its bloom this natal morn――
Maria, Rose of Love!

What craves the heart of storms the sport?
A Port.
And what the fevered patient’s quest?
Calm Rest.
What ray to cheer when shadows slope?
Hope.
O Mary, Mother blest!
Through nights of gloom, through days of fear,
Thy love the ray by which to steer,
Bright Hope! to Port of Rest.

Desponding heart what gift will please?
Heart of Ease.
What scent reminds of a hidden saint?
Jess’mine Faint.
What caught its hue from the azure sky?
Violet’s Eye.
O Mary, peerless dower!
A balm to soothe, love’s odor sweet,
A glimpse of heaven in thee we greet――
Heartsease, Jess’mine, Violet flower!

Of Mary’s love who most secure?
The Pure.
What lamp diffuses light afar?
A Star.
When is light-wingéd zephyr born?
At Morn.
My eyes, with watching worn,
Will vigil keep till day returns;
To see thy light my spirit yearns,
Mary Pure, Star of Morn!

What name most sweet to dying ear?
Maria.
On heavenly hosts who smiles serene?
Their Queen.
What joy is perfected above?
Love.
Welcome, thou spotless Dove!
Awake, my soul, celestial mirth!
This day brings purest joy to earth!
Maria, Queen of Love.

NATIVITY B. V. MARY, September 8.[34]

[34] The above is a free translation from a beautiful short
Spanish poem which lately appeared in the _Revista Catolica_
of Las Vegas, New Mexico.

THE HIGHLAND EXILE.

A recent number of the London _Tablet_ contains some very interesting facts concerning the return of the Benedictine Order to Scotland. This event is expected soon to take place, after a banishment of the Order for nearly three hundred years from those regions of beauty where for many previous centuries it had been the source and dispenser of countless spiritual and temporal blessings to the people.

It is among the most marvellous of the wonderful compensations of divine Providence in these days of mysterious trial for the church as to her temporalities, and of her most glorious triumphs in the spiritual order, that the place for this re-establishment should have been fixed at Fort Augustus, in Inverness-shire――the very spot which the “dark and bloody” Duke of Cumberland made his headquarters while pursuing with merciless and exterminating slaughter the hapless Catholics of the Highlands after the fatal field of Culloden in 1746. No less significant is the fact that a descendant of the Lord Lovat who was beheaded for his participation in that conflict, and the inheritor of his title, should have purchased Fort Augustus from the British government with a view to this happy result, though he was not permitted to live long enough to witness the accomplishment of his pious purpose.

A more beautiful or appropriate abode for the devoted sons of St. Benedict could not have been found than this secluded spot, where, far removed from all the turmoil and distractions of the world, they will be free to exercise the spirit of their holy rule, and draw down abundant benedictions upon the surrounding country. The buildings are situated near the extremity of Loch Ness, commanding toward the east a view of that picturesque lake, and to the west of the wild range of Glengarry Mountains.

It is consoling to reflect that the place which, notwithstanding the fascinations of its extraordinary beauty, has so long been held in detestation by the faithful Catholic Highlanders, on account of the fearful atrocities once committed under protection of its strong towers, is destined thus to become the very treasure-house of Heaven’s choicest blessings for them in the restoration of their former benefactors and spiritual directors.

Very pleasant, also, to every child of the faith the world over, is the thought that these hills and glens, long so “famous in story,” will once again give echo, morning, noon, and night, to the glad tidings of salvation proclaimed by the holy Angelus, and to the ancient chants and songs of praise which resounded through the older centuries from the cloisters of this holy brotherhood; and that in these solitudes the clangor of the “church-going bell” will again summon the faithful to the free and open exercise of the worship so long proscribed under cruel penalties. The tenacity with which the Highlanders of Scotland clung to their faith through the most persistent and appalling persecutions proved that the foundations of the spiritual edifice in that

“Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,”

were laid broad and deep by saints not unworthy to be classed with the glorious St. Patrick of the sister shores.

In the course of our studies of history in early youth, before we were interested in such triumphs of the church, save as curious historical facts not to be accounted for upon Protestant principles, we were deeply impressed by proofs of her supernatural and sustaining power over this noble race which came within our personal notice.

During a winter in the first quarter of this century my father and mother made the journey from Prescott, Upper Canada, to Montreal, in their own conveyance, taking me with them.

We stopped over one night at an inn situated on the confines of a dismal little village, planted in a country as flat and unattractive in all its features as could well be imagined. The village was settled entirely by Highlanders exiled on account of their religion and the troubles which followed the irretrievable disaster of Culloden. Its inhabitants among themselves spoke only the Gaelic language, which I then heard for the first time. My father’s notice was attracted by the aged father of our host, a splendid specimen of the native Highlander, clad in the full and wonderfully picturesque costume of his race. Although from his venerable appearance you might have judged that

“A hundred years had flung their snows
On his thin locks and floating beard,”

yet was his form as erect and his mind as clear as when in youth he trod his native glens.

My father soon drew him into a conversation to which their juvenile companion was an eager and retentive listener. The chief tenor of it was concerning the state of Scotland, and the prevailing sentiment of her people in the north, before the last hapless scion of the Stuarts made the fatal attempt which resulted in utter defeat and ruin to all connected with it. In the course of their chat, and as his intellect was aroused and excited by the subject, a narrative of his own personal knowledge of those matters and share in the conflict fell unconsciously, as it were, from his lips.

He was a young lad at the time his father’s clan gathered to the rallying-cry of the Camerons for the field of Culloden. Young as he was, he fought by his father’s side, and saw him slain with multitudes of his kin on that scene of carnage. He was among the few of his clan who escaped and succeeded by almost superhuman efforts in rescuing their families from the indiscriminate slaughter which followed. Among the rocks and caves of the wild hills and glens with which they were familiar they found hiding-places that were inaccessible to the destroyers who were sent out by the merciless Cumberland, but their sufferings from cold and hunger were beyond description. In the haste of their flight it was impossible to convey the necessary food and clothing, and the whole country was so closely watched by scattered bands of soldiers that there was no chance of procuring supplies. Insufficiently clad and fed, and very imperfectly sheltered from the wild storms of those bleak northern regions, many of the women, the children, and the aged people perished before it was possible to accept offers made by the British government of founding colonies in Nova Scotia and Upper Canada for those who, persistently refusing to renounce the Catholic faith, would consent to emigrate. Large rewards and the most tempting inducements were held out to all who would surrender their faith, embrace Protestantism, and remain among their beloved hills.

So intense is the love of country in the hearts of this brave and generous people that many could not tear themselves away from scenes inwoven with their tenderest affections, but remained, some to enjoy in this world the price of that apostasy which imperilled their eternal interests for the next, while multitudes sought the most remote and unapproachable nooks of the rugged north, and remained true to their religion in extreme poverty and distress, with no hope of alleviation. Our aged narrator joined a band of emigrants from the neighborhood of Loch Ness, and came to the dreary wilderness where the present village has grown up. My father expressed his surprise that they should have chosen a place so entirely different in all its features from their native scenes, in preference to the hilly parts of Canada, where it would seem that they would have been more at home.

“Na, na!” exclaimed the venerable old man, his dark eye kindling with the fire of youth, while he smote the ground with his staff, as if to emphasize his dissent――“na, na; sin’ we could na tread our native hills, it iss better far that we had nane! I think the sicht of hills withoot the heather wad drive me mad! Na, na; it iss far better that we should see nae hills!”

His touching recital of the wrongs sustained by his people at the hands of their ruthless conquerors, and the bitter sufferings they endured for the faith, awakened my deep and enduring sympathy.

My father questioned whether, after all, it would not have been better for them to have submitted in the matter of religion, accepted the liberal terms offered under that condition, and remained contented in their beloved homes, rather than make such cruel sacrifices, for themselves and the helpless ones dependent upon them, in support of a mere idea, as the difference between one religion and another seemed to him. The old man rose in his excitement to his feet, and, standing erect and dignified, with flashing eyes exclaimed: “Renounce the faith! Sooner far might we consent that we be sold into slavery! Oh! yes; we could do _that_――we could bow our necks to the yoke in _this_ world that our souls might be free for the _next_――but to renounce the faith! It iss that we could na do whatever; no! not the least one among us, though it wass to gain ten kingdoms for us in this warld!”

My father apologized for a suggestion which had such power to move him, remarking that he was himself quite ignorant concerning the Catholic religion, and, indeed, not too well informed as to any other; upon which the hoary patriarch approached him, laid his hand upon his head, and said with deep solemnity: “That the great God, who is ever merciful to the true of heart, might pour the light of his truth into yours, and show you how different is it from the false religions, and how worthy that one should die for it rather than yield the point that should seem the most trifling; for there iss nothing connected with the truth that will be trifling.”

The grand old man! He little suspected that his words struck a responsive chord in the hearts of his listeners that never ceased to vibrate to their memory!

A few years after this incident I was passing the months of May and June with a relative in Montreal. Several British regiments were then quartered in that city. One of them, I was told, was the famous “Thirty-ninth” which had won, by its dauntless valor on many hard-fought battle-fields in India, the distinction of bearing upon its colors the proud legend, “_Primus in Indis_.”

It was ordered to Canada for the invigorating effect of the climate upon the health of soldiers exhausted by long exposure, in fatiguing campaigns, to the sultry sun of India. It was composed chiefly, if not wholly, of Scotch Highlanders, well matched in size and height, and, taken all together, quite the finest body of men in form and feature, and in chivalrous bearing, that I have ever seen. Their uniform was the full Highland dress, than which a more martial or graceful equipment has never been devised. Over the Scotch bonnet of each soldier drooped and nodded a superb ostrich plume.

Under escort of the kind friend to whose care I had been committed, and who was delighted with the fresh enthusiasm of his small rustic cousin, just transported from a home in the woods to the novel scenes of that fair city, I witnessed repeatedly the parade of the troops on the _Champ de Mars_. The magnificent Highlanders took precedence and entirely eclipsed them all, while the bitterness of feeling with which the other regiments submitted to the ceremony of “presenting arms” whenever the gallant “Thirty-ninth” passed and repassed was apparent even to me, a stranger and a mere child.

Impressive as these scenes on the _Champ de Mars_ were, however, to the eager fancy of a juvenile observer, they fell far short of the thrilling effect produced by a pageant of a widely different nature which I was soon to witness.

While I was expressing my glowing admiration for those “superb Highlanders,” my kinsman, himself a Presbyterian elder, would exclaim: “Oh! this is nothing at all. Wait until you have seen them march to church and assist at a grand High Mass!”

Accordingly, on one fine Sunday morning in June he conducted me to an elevated position whence the muster of the regiment with its splendid banners, and the full line of march――to the music of the finest band in the army, composed entirely of Highland instruments――could be distinctly observed. Then, taking a shorter turn, we entered the church, and secured a seat which overlooked the entrance of the troops within the sacred precincts. The full band was playing, and the music breathed the very spirit of their native hills. It was a spectacle never to be forgotten. The measured tramp of that multitude as the footfall of one man; their plumed bonnets lifted reverently before the sacred Presence by one simultaneous motion of the moving mass; their genuflections, performed with the same military and, as it seemed to a spectator, automatic precision and unity; the flash and clash of their arms, as they knelt in the wide space allotted to them under the central dome of the immense edifice; the rapt expression of devotion which lighted up each face; the music of the band, bursting forth at intervals during the most solemn parts of the first High Mass I had ever attended, now exquisitely plaintive and soul-subduing, and again swelling into a volume of glorious harmony which filled the whole church and electrified the hearts of the listeners――all this combined to produce emotions not to be expressed in words. Strangers visiting the city, and multitudes of its non-Catholic inhabitants, were drawn week by week to witness the solemn and soul-awakening ceremonial; first from curiosity, and afterwards, in many instances, from the conviction that a religion whence flowed a worship so sublime and irresistible in its power over the souls of men must be the creation of the great Author of souls.

It seemed a fitting compensation to this noble race, after the degradation and oppression to which they had been subjected by their ruthless conquerors, that this valiant band of their sons should have been enabled to achieve such renown as gave them the most distinguished position in the British army, and placed them before the world with a prestige and a glory not surpassed by the bravest of their ancestors at the period of their greatest prosperity. But infinitely more precious than all earthly fame was the right, won back, as it were, by their arms, to practise fully and freely the religion of those ancestors, so long proscribed and forbidden to their people. Nor was it a slight satisfaction to their national pride and patriotism to be permitted to resume the costume which had also been proscribed and included in the suppression of the clans.

Since those days of long ago we have not seen a Scottish Highlander; but the notice in the London _Tablet_ of which we have spoken awakened the recollections we have thus imperfectly embodied as our slight tribute to the cairn that perpetuates, in this world, the memory of all this people have done and suffered for that faith which shall be their eternal joy and crowning glory in the next.

THE LATE ARCHBISHOP OF HALIFAX, N. S.

The Catholic Church in America has recently lost, in the person of the Most Reverend Dr. Connolly, one of her most distinguished prelates. Thomas Louis Connolly was born about sixty-two years ago in the city of Cork, Ireland. In his person were found all the virtues and noble qualities of head and heart that have made his countrymen loved and honored. Like many other distinguished churchmen, he was of humble parentage; and there are many townsmen of his in America to-day who remember the late archbishop as a boy running about the streets of Cork. He lost his father when he was three years old; nevertheless, his widowed mother managed to bring up her little son and a still younger daughter in comfort. She kept a small but decent house of entertainment, and the place is remembered by a mammoth pig that stood for years in the window, and which bore the quaint inscription:

“This world is a city with many a crooked street,
And death the market-place where all men meet.
If life were merchandise that men could buy,
The rich would live and the poor would die.”

Father Mathew, the celebrated Apostle of Temperance, whose church was but a few doors from young Connolly’s home, noticed the quiet, good-natured boy who was so attentive to his church and catechism, and, perhaps discerning in him some of the rare qualities which afterwards distinguished him as a man, became his friend, confidant, and adviser. The widow was able to give her only son a good education, and we learn that at sixteen young Connolly was well advanced in history and mathematics and in the French, Latin, and Greek languages. The youth, desiring to devote his life to the church, became a novice in the Capuchin Order, in which order Father Mathew held high office.

In his eighteenth year he went to Rome to complete his studies for the priesthood. He spent six years in the Eternal City, and they were years of hard study, devoted to rhetoric, philosophy, and theology. Even then he was noted for his application, and was reserved and retiring in his disposition, except to the few with whom he was intimately acquainted. He left Rome for the south of France, where he completed his studies, and in 1838, at the cathedral at Lyons, he was ordained priest by the venerable archbishop of that city, Cardinal Bolæ. The following year he returned to Ireland, and for three years he labored hard and fervently in the Capuchin Mission House, Dublin, and at the Grange Gorman Lane Penitentiary, to which latter institution he was attached as chaplain. In 1842, when Dr. Walsh was appointed Bishop of Halifax, the young Capuchin priest, then in his twenty-eighth year, volunteered his services, and came out as secretary to the studious and scholarly prelate whom he was afterwards to succeed.

Until 1851, a period of nine years, Father Connolly labored incessantly, faithfully, and cheerfully as parish priest, and after a while as Vicar-General of Halifax. In the prime of his manhood, possessed of a massive frame and a vigorous constitution, with the ruddy glow of health always on his face, the young Irish priest went about late and early, in pestilence and disease, among the poor and sick, hearing confessions, organizing societies in connection with the church, preaching in public, exhorting in private, doing the work that only one of his zeal and constitution could do, and through it all carrying a smiling face and cheering word for every one. It is this period of his life that the members of his flock love to dwell upon, and to which he himself, no doubt, looked back with pleasure as a time when, possessed of never-failing health, he had only the subordinate’s work to do, without the cares, crosses, and momentous questions to decide which the mitre he afterwards wore brought with it. Indeed, at that time Father Connolly was everywhere and did everything. All the old couples in Halifax to-day were married by him; and all the young men and women growing up were baptized by him.

The worth, labors, and abilities of the ardent missionary could not fail to be recognized, and when Dr. Dollard died, in 1851, on the recommendation of the American bishops Father Connolly was appointed to succeed him as Bishop of St. John, New Brunswick. He threw all his heart and soul into his work, and before the seven years he resided in St. John had passed away he had brought the diocese, which he found in a chaotic, poverty-stricken, and ill-provided state, into order, efficiency, and comparative financial prosperity. Without a dollar, but with a true reliance on Providence and his people, he set to work to build a cathedral, and by his energy and the liberality of his flock soon had it in a tolerable state of completion. He seems to have taken a special delight in building, and no sooner was one edifice fairly habitable than he was at work on another. Whatever little difficulties or differences he may have had with the Catholics under his jurisdiction can be all traced to this; they were money questions, questions of expense. He always kept a warm corner in his heart for the orphans of his diocese, whom he looked upon as especially under his care, and who were to be provided for at all costs; and soon the present efficient Orphan Asylum of St. John sprang up, nuns were brought from abroad to conduct it, and, through the exertions of their warm-hearted bishop, the little wanderers and foundlings of New Brunswick were provided with a home.

On the death of Archbishop Walsh, in 1859, Bishop Connolly was appointed by the present Pontiff to succeed him. In his forty-fifth year, with all his faculties sharpened, his views and mind widened, and his political opinions changed for the better by his trying experience, Bishop Connolly came back to Halifax a different man, in all but outward appearance, from the Father Connolly who had left that city eight years before.

Halifax is noted as being one of the most liberal and tolerant cities on the continent. Nowhere do the different bodies of Christians mingle and work so well together; and although it is not free from individual bigotry, the great mass of its citizens work and live together in harmony and cordial good-will. It is too much to credit the late archbishop with this happy state of affairs, for it existed before his time, and owes its existence to the good sense and liberality of the Protestant party as well as the Catholic; but it is only common justice to say that the archbishop did all in his power to maintain it. Hospitable and genial by nature, it was a pleasure to him to have at his table the most distinguished citizens of all creeds, to entertain the officers of the army and navy, and to extend his hospitality to the guests of the city. Without lessening his dignity, and without conceding a point of what might be considered due to the rights of his church, he worked and lived on the most friendly and intimate footing with those who differed from him in religion. A hard worker, an inveterate builder, and a great accumulator of church property, he was hardly settled in his archdiocese before he set to work to convert the church of St. Mary’s into the present beautiful cathedral. The work has been going on for years under his personal supervision, and he resolutely refused to let any part out to contract; and although his congregation has grumbled at the money sunk in massive foundations, unnecessary finish, and the extras for alterations, yet time, by the strength, durability, and thoroughness of the work, will justify the archbishop in the course he adopted. School-houses were built, homes for the Sisters of Charity, orphanages, an academy, and a summer residence for himself and clergy at the Northwest Arm, a few miles from the city. All of these buildings have some pretensions to architecture, and are substantial and well built. Excepting the cathedral, the archbishop was generally his own architect; and as he was a little dogmatic in his manner, and not too ready to listen to suggestions from the tradesmen under him, he on more than one occasion made blunders, more amusing than serious, in his building operations. A man’s religion never stood in his way in working for Archbishop Connolly.

His duties as the father of his flock were not neglected on account of his outside work. No amount of physical or mental labor seemed too much for him. After the worry, work, and travelling of the week, it was no uncommon thing for him to preach in the three Catholic churches in the city on the one Sunday. His knowledge of the Scriptures was astonishing, even for a churchman, and was an inexhaustible mine on which he could draw at pleasure. His reading was wide and extensive. It was hard to name a subject on which he had not read and studied; on the affairs and politics of the day he was ready, when at leisure, to talk; and on his table might be found the periodical light literature as well as heavier reading. In 1867, when the confederation of the different British provinces into the present Dominion of Canada was brought about, he took an active part in politics. Believing that Nova Scotia would be rendered more prosperous, and that the Catholics would become more powerful by being united to their Canadian brethren, he warmly advocated the union. But despite his position and influence, and the exertions of those on his side, the union party was defeated at the polls all over the province as well as in the city of Halifax. Since that he ceased to take an active part in politics, and refrained from expressing his political opinions in public.

As a speaker he was noted for his sound common sense and the absence of anything like tricks of rhetoric or of manner. His lectures and addresses from the pulpit of his own church to his own people were generally extempore. He was powerful in appealing to a mixed audience, and spoke more especially to the humbler classes. He had a fund of quaint proverbs and old sayings, and, by an odd conceit or happy allusion, would drive his argument home in the minds of those of his own country. He could, at times, be eloquent in the true sense of the word; and when he prepared himself, girded on his armor for the conflict, he was truly powerful. On the melancholy death of D’Arcy McGee the archbishop had service in St. Mary’s, and delivered a panegyric on the life and labors of that gifted Irishman, who was a personal friend of his own, which is looked upon as one of his ablest efforts.

If he was quickly excited, he was just as quick to forgive; and when he thought he had bruised the feelings of the meanest, he was ever ready to atone, and never happy till he did so. Like many great republicans, while claiming the greatest freedom of thought, word, and action for himself, he was, though he knew it not, arbitrary in his dictates to others. Whatever he took in hand he went at heart and soul. The smallest detail of work he could not leave to another, but would himself see it attended to――from a board in a fence to the building of a cathedral. Travelling over a scattered diocese with poor roads and poor entertainment, preaching, hearing confessions, and administering the sacraments of the church, can it be wondered at that his health broke down? that a constitution, vigorous at first, wore out before its time? With everything to do and everything a trouble to him, can we wonder that some mistakes were made, that some things were ill-done?

Though hospitable, witty, and a lover of company, he was very abstemious and temperate in his habits; and, although never attacked by long disease, his health was continually bad. Last fall he visited Bermuda, which was under his jurisdiction, partly for his health, and also to see to the wants of the few Catholics there. In the spring he returned to Halifax, but little benefited by the change.

If there was one subject of public importance more than another in which the archbishop was interested, it was the public-school question. No question requires more careful handling; none involves vaster public interests. His school-houses had been leased to the school authorities; he had brought the Christian Brothers to Halifax, and these schools were under their charge; and the Catholics in Halifax had, thanks to their archbishop and the tolerance of their fellow-citizens, separate schools in all but the name. For a long time past there had been personal and private differences and grievances between the archbishop and the brothers. What they were, and what the rights and the wrongs of the matter are, was never fully made public, nor is it essential that it should be. On the Sunday after his arrival from Bermuda the archbishop was visited by the director-general of the brothers, a Frenchman, who gave him twenty-four hours to accede to the demands of the brothers, or threatened in default that they would leave the province. Both were hot-tempered, both believed they had right on their side, and it is more than probable that neither thought the other would proceed to extremities. The archbishop did not take an hour to decide; he flatly refused. Next day saw the work of years undone; the brothers departed; their places were temporarily filled by substitutes; the School Board took the matter in hand; and the sympathies of the Catholics of Halifax were divided between their archbishop and the teachers of their children.

Many think the excitement and worry that he underwent on this occasion had much to do with his death. A gentleman who had some private business with the archbishop called at the glebe-house on the Tuesday following the Sunday on which the rupture with the brothers had taken place. Although it was ten o’clock in the morning, and the sun was shining brightly outside, he found the curtains undrawn, the gas burning, and the archbishop hard at work writing at a table littered with paper. In the course of their conversation he mentioned incidentally to his visitor that he had not been to bed for two nights, nor changed his clothes for three days. Even after the difficulty had been smoothed over, and matters seemed to be going on as of old, it was noticed that the archbishop had lost his cheerfulness and looked wearied and haggard. His duties were not neglected, though sickness and sadness may have weighed him down. He began a series of lectures on the doctrines of the church which unhappily were never to be completed. On the third Sunday before his death, in making an appeal to his parishioners for funds to finish the cathedral, he enumerated the many other works he wished to undertake, and stated that he trusted he had ten or fifteen years of life before him wherein to accomplish these works. The meeting which he had called for that afternoon was poorly attended, and the amount subscribed not nearly what he expected. It was noticed that this troubled him; for he loved to stand well with his people always, and he took this as a sign that his popularity was on the wane.

On Saturday, the 22d of July, he complained of being unwell, but it did not prevent him from speaking as usual at the three churches on the morrow. He never allowed his own sufferings to interfere with what he considered his duty. None of the many who heard him that day surmised that the shadow of death was then on him, and that on the following Sunday they would see the corpse of the speaker laid out on the same altar. On Monday, still feeling unwell, he drove to his residence at the Northwest Arm, thinking that a little rest and quiet would restore him to his usual health. The next day, growing worse, and no doubt feeling his end approaching, he told his attendants to drive him to the glebe-house and to write to Rome. Next day the whole community was startled to hear that the archbishop was stricken down by congestion of the brain; that he was delirious; that he had been given up by the doctors; and that his death was hourly expected.

A gloom seemed to have fallen over the city. The streets leading to the glebe-house were filled all the next day and late into the night with a noiseless throng; and hour after hour the whisper went from one to another, “He still lives, but there’s no hope.” All this time the dying prelate remained unconscious. The heavy breathing and the dull pulse were all that told the watchful and sorrowing attendants that he yet lived. From his bedroom to the drawing-room, in which he had at times received such a brilliant company, they carried the dying man for air. Those who wished were allowed in to see him; but he saw not the anxious faces that gazed sorrowfully for a moment and then passed away; he heard not the low chant of the Litany for the Dying that was borne out through the open windows on the still night-air; he knew not of the tears that were shed by those who loved and honored him, and who could not, in the presence of death, repress or hide their sorrow. At midnight on Thursday, the 27th of July, the bell of the cathedral tolled out to tell the quiet city that the good archbishop lived no more.

The next day, in the same apartment, the corpse was laid in state, and was visited by hundreds of all creeds and classes, who came to take their last look at all that remained on earth of the wearied worker who had at last found rest. What were the thoughts of many who looked upon that face, now fixed in death? Among the throng were those who had come to him weighed down by sorrow and sin, and had left him lightened of their loads and strengthened in their resolutions of atonement and amendment by his eloquent words of advice. Some had felt his wide-spreading charity; for his ear and heart were ever open to a tale of distress, and he gave with a free and open hand, and his tongue never told of what his hand let fall. The general feeling was one of bereavement; for the great multitude of his people knew not his worth till they had lost him. Who would take his place? They might find his equal in learning, in eloquence, even in work; but could they find one in whom were united all the qualities that had so eminently fitted him for the position he so ably filled? Perhaps there were others present who had to regret that they had misjudged him, that they had been uncharitable in their thoughts toward him, that they had not assisted as they should have done the great, good, and unselfish man who had worked not to enrich or exalt himself, but who had worn out his life in the struggle for the welfare of his people and the glory of his church.

In his loved cathedral, the unfinished monument of his life, now draped in mourning, the last sad and solemn rites of the Catholic Church were performed by the bishops and clergy who had been ordained by him, who knew him so well and loved him so deeply. He was followed to his last resting-place by the civil and military authorities, by the clergymen of other denominations, and by hundreds of all creeds, classes, and colors, who could not be deterred by the rain, which fell in torrents, from testifying their respect for him who was honored and esteemed by all.

We may add that the late and much-lamented archbishop was ever the sincere and faithful friend of the Superior of the Paulist community. Among the first of their missions was one at St. John; and the archbishop afterwards called them also to his cathedral at Halifax. Both superior and congregation, no less than his own people, owe Dr. Connolly a debt of gratitude which it would indeed be difficult to pay.

The character of Archbishop Connolly was marked by an ardent zeal for the faith; a magnanimity which, whenever the occasion called for its exercise, rose above all human considerations whatever, even of his own life; and a charity that was not limited either by nationality, race, or religious creed.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

MEMOIRS OF THE RIGHT REVEREND SIMON WM. GABRIEL BRUTE, D.D., FIRST
BISHOP OF VINCENNES. With sketches describing his recollections of
scenes connected with the French Revolution, and extracts from his
Journal. By the Rt. Rev. James Roosevelt Bayley, D.D., Bishop of
Newark. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1876.

The Catholic Church in America has reason to be thankful that the seeds of faith were sown on her shores by some of the most eminent and holy men that ever lived. The names of Cheverus, Flaget, Carroll, Dubois, and Gallitzin might be fittingly blazoned on the same scroll with those of an Augustine, a Gregory, or an Ambrose. To the untiring labors, profound piety, and extensive learning of these men Catholic faith and sentiment in our land owe their freshness and vitality. To their devotion to the Holy See, and strictest adherence to all that is orthodox and canonical, American Catholics owe their unity and their ardent attachment to the fortunes of the Sovereign Pontiff. And if the distinguished ecclesiastics just mentioned contributed much to secure those glorious results, more still even did that prince of missionaries and model of bishops, Simon William Gabriel Bruté. The growing interest manifested in this admirable character is full, timely, and calculated to do much good. As a man he was eminently human, feeling for his fellows with a keenness of sensibility which could alone grow out of a heart that throbbed with every human emotion. This feature of high humanity also it was which gave that many-sidedness to his character, making it full-orbed and polished _ad unguem_. Thus viewed, he was in truth _totus teres atque rotundus_. His constantly-outgoing sympathies brought him into the closest relations with his people, and magnate or peasant believed that in him they had found one who could peculiarly understand themselves. Nature endowed him with just those gifts which pre-eminently fitted him for missionary life. Lithe, agile, and compactly built, he could endure exposure and privation beyond most men. Constantly cheerful, and with a mind which was a storehouse of the most varied and interesting knowledge, he could illumine darkness itself and convert despondency into joy. Travelling at all seasons and at all hours, his presence was everywhere hailed with delight, and many a cot and mansion among the regions of the Blue Ridge Mountains watched and welcomed his presence. So inured was he to hard labor that he deemed a journey of fifty-two miles in twelve hours a mere bagatelle. And the quaintness with which he relates those wonderful pedestrian achievements, interspersing his recital with humorous and sensible allusions to wayside scenes, is not only interesting, but serves often to reveal the simple and honest character of the man. His English to the end retained a slightly Gallic flavor, which, so far from impairing interest in what he has written, has lent it a really pleasing piquancy. He thus records one of his trips: “The next morning after I had celebrated Mass at the St. Joseph’s, I started on foot for Baltimore, without saying a word to anybody, to speak to the Archbishop.… Stopped at Tancytown at Father Lochi’s, and got something to eat. At Winchester found out that I had not a penny in my pocket, and was obliged to get my dinner on credit.… In going I read three hundred and eighty-eight pages in Anquetil’s history of France; … fourteen pages of Cicero _De Officiis_; three chapters in the New Testament; my Office; recited the chapelet three times.” As a worker he was indefatigable; nay, he courted toil, and the prospect of a long and arduous missionary service filled him with delight. Not content with preaching, administering the sacraments, and visiting the sick and poor, he was constantly drawing on his unbounded mental resources for magazine articles, controversial, philosophic, and historical. He longed to spread the light of truth everywhere, and to refute error and recall the erring was the chief charm of his life. He had early formed the habit of committing to paper whatever particularly impressed him, and recommended this practice to all students as the most effectual mnemonic help, and as accustoming them to precision and exactness. His admirable notes on the French Revolution were the normal outcome of the habit of close observation which this practice engendered. Nothing escaped his notice, and the slightest meritorious act on the part of a friend or acquaintance drew from him the most gracious encomiums, whilst the reproval of faults was always governed by extreme consideration and charity. Consecrated first Bishop of Vincennes, much against his will, he entered on his new field of labor with the same zeal and love of duty which had characterized him as missionary and teacher at Mt. St. Mary’s. The limitless distances he had to travel over in his infant diocese never daunted him. Four or five hundred miles on horseback, over prairie and woodland, had no terrors for him, who bore a light heart and an ever cheerful soul within him, praising and blessing God at every step for thus allowing him to do what was pleasing to the divine will. What he most regretted was his separation from the friends he left behind at Mt. St. Mary’s. He had a Frenchman’s love of places as well as of persons, and he accordingly suffered much from the French complaint of nostalgia, or home-sickness. But nothing with him stood in the way of duty; and when the _fiat_ was pronounced, he went on his new way rejoicing. His memory will grow among us “as a fair olive-tree in plains, and as a plane-tree by the waters”; “like a palm-tree in Cades, and as a rose-plant in Jericho.” When such another comes among us, our prayer should be, _Serus in cælum redeas_.

The Most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore has honored himself by thus honoring the memory of a saintly bishop; and whoever knows the graces of style which the fluent pen of Archbishop Bayley distils will not delay a moment in obtaining this delightful volume.

THE VOICE OF CREATION AS A WITNESS TO THE MIND OF ITS DIVINE AUTHOR.
Five Lectures. By Frederick Canon Oakeley, M.A. London: Burns &
Oates. 1876. New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

This little volume bears the undoubted impress of a high reverence for the Creator. It is not a mere refutation of atheistical opinions, as is the celebrated work of Paley, but an eloquent tribute to the divine beneficence as made manifest in the works of nature. Everywhere and in all things the author, looking through the eyes of faith, beholds the finger of God――not alone in those marvels of skill and design in which the animal and vegetable worlds abound, but in those apparent anomalies which the unseeing and unreflecting multitude often pronounce to be the dismal proofs of purposelessness. Canon Oakeley, however, is not a mere pietist, but a highly cultured, scientific man withal, and so grapples with the latest objections of godless philosophers, and disposes of them in a satisfactory manner. In his letter of approbation his Eminence Cardinal Manning thus expresses himself: “The argument of the third lecture on the ‘Vestiges of the Fall’ seems to me especially valuable. I confess the prevalence of evil, physical and moral, has never seemed to me any real argument against the goodness of the Creator, except on the hypothesis that mankind has no will, or that the will of man is not free.… If the freedom of the will has made the world actually unhappy, the original creation of God made it both actually and potentially happy.… What God made man marred.” His Eminence pronounces the book to be both “convincing and persuasive,” with which high approval we commend it to the attention of our readers.

UNION WITH OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST IN HIS PRINCIPAL MYSTERIES. For all
seasons of the year. By the Rev. F. John Baptist Saint Jure, S.J.
New York: Sadlier & Co. 1876.

Father Saint Jure flourished in the seventeenth century and is known as the author of several spiritual works. The present volume, which is a good translation of one of these works, published in a neat and convenient form, is intended as a help to meditation during the various seasons of the ecclesiastical year. It is very well adapted for that purpose――simple, brief, easy of use, and in every way practical.

REAL LIFE. By Madame Mathilde Froment. Translated from the French by
Miss Newlin. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1876.

Real life is, generally speaking, a dull enough thing to depict. The living of a good Christian family life has nothing outwardly heroic in it, however much heroism there may be, and indeed must be, concealed under the constant calm of its exterior. For Christianity, in its smallest phase, is eminently heroic. It is just such a life that Madame Froment has taken up in the present volume, and out of it she has constructed a useful and, on the whole, an interesting narrative. The narrator is the heroine, who begins jotting down her experiences, hopes, thoughts, aspirations, while still a girl within the convent walls. On the twenty third page she is married, and thenceforth she gives us the story of her married life, its crosses and trials as well as its pleasures. The whole story is told in the first person, and in the form of a diary. This is rather a trying method, especially as in the earlier portions of the narrative Madame Froment scarcely catches the free, thoughtless spirit, the freshness and _naïveté_ of a young girl just out of a convent and entering the world. Then, too, many of the entries in the diary are remarkable for nothing but their brevity. Of course this may be a very good imitation of a diary, but too frequent indulgence in such practice is likely to make a very poor book. As the narrative advances, however, the interest deepens, and the whole will be found worthy of perusal. The translation, with the exception of an occasional localism, is free, vigorous, and happy.

SILVER PITCHERS AND INDEPENDENCE. A Centennial Love-Story. By Louisa
M. Alcott. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1876.

Of course our Centennial would not be complete without its Centennial literature. We have had odes, poems, and all manner of bursts of song which might have been better, judged from a literary point of view, but which all possess the one undeniable character of genuine and unbounded enthusiasm. It was but proper, therefore, that we should have some Centennial story telling, and we are glad that the task has fallen into no worse hands then those of Miss Alcott. This lady has already recommended herself to the reading public by a series of fresh, sprightly, and very readable little volumes. She tells a story well. She is not pretentious, yet never low, and the English has not suffered at her hands. Of late it has somehow become the vogue among so-called popular writers to supply true tact and the power to enlist interest by a sort of _double-entendre_ style which, if it does not run into downright indecency, is at least prurient; and, alas! that we should have to say that our lady writers especially lay themselves open to this charge.

To our own credit be it said that this reprehensible manner of writing is more common in England than among ourselves. Miss Alcott has avoided these faults; and in saying this we consider we have said much in her praise. Her _Silver Pitchers_ is a charming little temperance story told in her best vein. It is somewhat New-Englandish, but that has its charms for some――ourselves, we must confess, among the number. Pity Miss Alcott could not understand that there are higher and nobler motives for temperance than the mere impulse it gives to worldly success and the desire to possess a good name. The siren cup will never be effectually dashed aside by the tempted ones till prayer and supernatural considerations come to their assistance.

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XXIV., No. 140.――NOVEMBER, 1876.

Copyright: Rev. I. T. HECKER. 1877.

THOUGHTS ON MYSTICAL THEOLOGY.

St. John of the Cross, in commenting on these two lines of the thirty-ninth stanza of his _Spiritual Canticle_:

“The grove and its beauty
In the serene night,”

gives us a definition of mystical theology. “‘In the serene night’――that is, contemplation, in which the soul desires to behold the grove (God as the Creator and Giver of life to all creatures). It is called night because contemplation is obscure, and that is the reason why it is also called mystical theology――that is, the secret or hidden wisdom of God, wherein God, without the sound of words _or the intervention of any bodily or spiritual sense_, as it were in silence and repose, in the darkness of sense and nature, teaches the soul――and the soul knows not how――in a most secret and hidden way. Some spiritual writers call this ‘understanding without understanding,’ because it does not take place in what philosophers call the active intellect (_intellectus agens_), which is conversant with the forms, fancies, and apprehensions of the physical faculties, but in the intellect as it is passive (_intellectus possibilis_), which, without receiving such forms, receives passively only the substantial intelligence of them, free from all imagery.”[35]