Chapter IV (2)

_New York Irish-American_: In eliciting such valuable expressions of opinion, _The Republic_ has done a very good work; though, at this period of their connection with the United States, our people, as a component element of the population, do not need to produce certificates of character before any tribunal to which an honest appeal may be made. They have wrought out an excellent and enduring character for themselves by their purity of life in private, and their labors and sacrifices in every field of public duty, and stamped it so indelibly on the history of the Republic, that no hostile or malign influence can ever erase its strong and well-defined impression. To connect this work, however, with the refutation of such a paltry scribbler as this Arnold Forster, appears to us a waste of labor,--like crushing a _ciarog_ with a battering-ram. The Englishman was only following his low, natural instincts when he ambitiously engaged in the task to which so many of his countrymen before him, like Froude, have devoted themselves, since the time of that arch-falsifier of history, "Giraldus Cambrensis," and, as his original stock of knowledge of our people (especially here in the United States), must have been practically _nil_, he was compelled to draw on the store of old, worn-out libels against us, that have so often been refuted both by historical facts and direct evidence; but which are as persistently revamped and repeated by every scribbler who desires to vent his spleen, and exhibit his ignorance with regard to a race, that all fair-minded students of humanity admit has held its own with any other on earth, through centuries of adverse circumstances. The fellow is even worse than a libeller, for he began his attacks on the Irish people as an anonymous letter-writer in the columns of the English Whig and Tory organs, professing to give statements with regard to events in America that were within his own knowledge. The trained professional acumen of the leaders of the Irish Party quickly fixed the identity of the hidden assailant; and about the same time that "Buckshot" Forster himself was cowering before the assembled Commons of England, under the scorching invective of Parnell, this same Arnold Forster--his putative son and secretary--was being dragged into the light of public criticism, and exposed in his true character as a base defamer of men whose shoes he is not worthy to touch. In revenge for this double punishment he has since collected the slanders he first peddled at retail, and in this _Nineteenth Century_ brochure has flung them, _in globo_, at his chastisers. But he is not worthy of notice; his plane of thought and idea is too low for even contempt to reach him; and argument with him would be wasted. _Le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle_--"The game is not worth the candle."

_Boston Daily Globe_:--It was in some respects a fortunate thing that Mr. Arnold Forster uttered his recent malicious slander upon the Irish race. It has given opportunity for banishing, by the production of undeniable facts refuting some of Mr. Forster's specific statements, the vague innuendoes ever and anon set afloat by those who imagine that all who oppose British oppression must be wrong, because "it's English, you know."

Rev. Father Cronan, editor of the _Buffalo Catholic Union_, among others, vigorously replies to Mr. Forster, and in a vein somewhat different from any we have yet noticed in connection with the discussion. Says Father Cronan in the _Union_:

"Mr. Arnold Forster told more truth than he suspected, and
paid a compliment he never intended, when he wrote in the
_Century_ that Irishmen were 'born conspirators.' Divesting
the expression of the stupid sting and insult intended by its
misuse, it simply means that Irishmen are born _inspired_
with a love of justice, and that this inspiration, being
brutally thwarted by seven centuries of English misrule,
becomes a _conspiration_ (that is the true word, Mr. Forster)
of all Irishmen to effect the ends of freedom and
self-preservation. Show us a born bondsman and we will show
you 'a born conspirator,' or, a born fool, if he be not a
conspirator, in the sense we have explained. Let the nations
who rule by might instead of right learn at last that they
are the creators and perpetuators of conspiracy. If there is
shame in the sound, it is their shame. If ruin and riot in
the result, it is their handiwork. The day has gone by, long
ago, when suffering peoples are to be awed into silence and
submission to injustice by the silly outcries of salaried
soothsayers. There is no reason on earth, or in heaven, why
people should submit to be slaves. If they cannot boldly
burst the bonds that encircle them, they will triturate them
to dust by friction against the granite hearts of their
masters."

Americans who revere the memory of Jefferson and Adams and Patrick Henry and their fellow "conspirators" will agree with Father Cronan, that "conspiracy" by Irishmen for the freedom of their native land is a noble thing. Mr. Forster belongs to the class which considered Sam Adams the arch-conspirator of his day. Every attempt to bribe him or to frighten him was met with disdain. Because he could not be bought, England applied to him the meanest of epithets. So, to-day, England slanders the Irish leaders and the Irish race because they cannot be coaxed or driven into desertion of their country's cause.

But England found that misrepresenting the character of the Americans was a costly proceeding. She made them the more determined and at the same time deceived herself. A like effect will be caused by this latest attack upon the Irish race.

* * * * *

A pompous fellow was dining with a country family, when the lady of the house desired the servant to take away the dish containing the fowl, which word she pronounced fool, as is not uncommon in Scotland. "I presume, madam, you mean the fowl," said the prig, in a reproving tone. "Very well," said the lady, a little nettled, "be it so. Take away the fowl, and let the fool remain."

Orders of Knighthood.

We owe to the _Westfalische Merkur_ some interesting remarks on the Order of Christ recently conferred by Leo XIII. on Prince Bismarck. Although there is no strictly fixed precedence among European Orders of Knighthood, yet by common consent there is a kind of relative rank among these numerous honorary distinctions. Thus the first place is generally conceded to the Golden Fleece, nowadays conferred by both the Emperor of Austria and the King of Spain, and the above-mentioned Papal Order of Christ. Next may be said to rank the Garter of England; the Black Eagle of Prussia; the Order of Maria Theresa, Austria; and that of St. Hubert, Bavaria. As, however, the Order of Christ is given almost exclusively to sovereigns, and only in most exceptional cases to distinguished subjects, the conferring of the same on the Iron Chancellor is a most unusual honor.

The history of the Order is a curious one. Its origin is to be sought in one of the Mediaeval Militant Orders of Knights, founded in 1317 by Denis, King of Portugal, upon the ruins of the Great Order of the Templars--suppressed in 1312--in order to defend the empires of the Algarves against the Moors. The Order, under the title of "Knights of Jesus Christ," was confirmed by Pope John XXII. by a Bull of March 14th, 1319, which prescribed for them the rule of St. Benedict and the statutes of the Cistercian Order, besides granting very extensive privileges. The Abbot of Alcobaza was commissioned, in the Pope's name, to receive the oath of the Grand Master. The Pope reserved to himself also the right of admitting candidates to the Order, and extending its privileges and insignia to others. The Knights had to take the three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, till, in 1500, Pope Alexander VI. released them from this obligation, for the old crusading zeal had died out, and the Knights lived in the world like ordinary seculars. Meanwhile, repeated victories over the Moors had rendered the Order very rich. It possessed 450 commendatories, with a yearly income of over 1,500,000 livres. In 1550 Pope Julius III. attached the dignity of Grand Master forever to the Portuguese Crown. In 1797, after several attempts at reformation, the Portuguese Order was altogether secularized, and became a simple civil Order of Knighthood reserved to nobles; in 1834 the greater part of the income of the Knights was confiscated. The privilege reserved to the Holy See by John XXII., creating Knights of the Order, was fully exercised by that Pope and his successors, for he himself established a sister Order--_Ordine di Cristo_--in Italy, with like privileges and customs; a broad white woollen mantle, and on the breast a red cross with a small silver cross upon it. Pope Paul V. in 1605 gave the Papal Knights the rule of St. Augustine; but in course of time the Order in Italy followed the course of the Portuguese branch, and became the honorary distinction like all modern "Orders." The Knights now wear a golden cross with red enamel, of which the ends run out into two points.

The Holy See nowadays disposes of five honorary Orders of Knighthood: that of Christ, referred to above, and consisting of only one class, "Cavalieri;" that of St. Gregory the Great, founded by Gregory XVI., in 1831, and containing three classes: those of Grand Cross, Commander and Knight; the Golden Spur, created by Pius IV. in 1559, also known as the Order of St. Sylvester, and in two grades: Commanders and Knights, styled _auratae militiae equites_; the Order of Pius, established by the late Pontiff, with two classes; and, lastly, the Holy Sepulchre, conferred by the Patriarch of Jerusalem by delegation of the Pope, but also sometimes by the Holy Father himself.

Low-Necked Dresses.

[The venerable editor of the New York _Freeman's Journal_ has
the following article on "Vicious Customs and Costumes,"
which we recommend to some ladies who appear partially
dressed at some of our balls, "sociables," etc. The remarks
are as applicable to fashionable society in Boston, and
elsewhere, as they are in New York and other cities.]

The hours for social pleasures were never so late as at present. People do not think of showing themselves at any "evening" entertainment until midnight. The strain of this kind of thing on young people who have necessary duties to perform the next day, tends to lower vitality and shorten life. In London--from which city nearly all the fashions unsuitable to our climate and life come--there is a large "leisure class" who can sleep into the afternoon without shirking any urgent demands. Here, where even the richest men have to work, these late hours are preposterous. But they are English--and, rather than not be English, the young man of to-day prefers listless days and a frequent resort to brandy and soda--English, too!--and other stimulants, to keep him up to his work.

Another fashion, which has become so rampant as to need a general and continued objection to it, is that of wearing low-necked gowns. A little more firmness in defying the demands of fashion would, perhaps, save some woman's life. But it is very hard for a woman to be firm on a question of fashion. Queen Victoria insists on low-necked gowns; therefore all the American world of fashion insists that the Queen's mandate shall be followed. At a dinner or dance, the sight is sometimes appalling; for what can be more shocking than the apparent attempt of decent women, old and young, lean and fat, to show their shoulder blades? Like _Katisha_, in the "Mikado," they seem to think that the possession of a "beautiful left shoulder blade" will atone for all other defects. The boxes at the opera, and all the places where fashionable people sit, offer a startling picture of how immodest modest women can be when fashion demands it. A writer in a recent New York _Evening Telegram_ says:

"When one goes to the opera and sweeps the tiers of boxes
with an opera-glass for a moment, the question comes: Is it
proper to look? Upon careful examination and scientific
computation, it is pretty certain that of the ladies at the
opera in any five boxes adjoining one another, not less than
one out of every three is three-quarters naked above the
waist--that is, of the square inches of surface, from the
waist up, three-quarters are exposed to the view and to the
air. While this is true of opera-goers, of those who go to
balls it is far worse. The percentage of semi-nude figures
increases until fully ninety-five per cent. is reached."

This picture is not exaggerated. The other night, at the opera of "Lohengrin," given by the American Opera Company, the dresses on the stage are described as modesty itself, compared with those in the audience. The "lady" who appears half undressed at a fashionable assembly, goes to church the next morning demurely and modestly, to think gently during the sermon of the vices of her neighbors, without once reproaching herself for an immodesty which is worse than Pagan, and which, when attempted by other than respectable women, is regarded as a shameless incentive to evil thoughts and evil deeds.

Probably, if there were any women in New York of sufficient firmness and social influence to stop this ape-like imitation of usages which, aside from their grave evils, are out of keeping with the habits of life made necessary in a climate which is not at all English, the custom might be relinquished. But there is none such; and the only pause that can be given to a whirl of fashion which perilously touches hell will be number of other deaths from late hours, mental and physical lassitude, and consequent heart and lung afflictions.

What is good in English usages may be imitated with advantage. But Americans will never be thoroughly independent of England until they arrange their habits to suit a climate whose caprices are so sudden and unexpected as to deal death to the unwary.

It is regrettable that the craze for low-necked dresses should be allowed to sweep away women who are bound by their "social duties" to appear in a costume which must have been invented by one of those females whose name is unmentionable here--from whom the women who imitate them turn in horror.

Columbus and Ireland.

One of the speakers at the dinner of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick in this city referred to the Irish missionaries in Iceland and to the member of the crew of the Pinta[3]--ship in which Columbus sailed from Palos--who was born in Ireland. This is astounding information.

Thirty-three years ago the learned Digby wrote in his "Road of Travelers," Compitum., Book I, page 380, as follows: "When the Northmen first landed in Iceland they found there Irish books, Mass-bells and other objects which had been left behind by earlier visitors, called Papas. These Papae, fathers, were the Clerici of Dicuil, the Irish Monk, who wrote in the year 823, a treatise, 'De Mensura Orbis Teriae.'"

The late Dr. O'Callaghan of New York, called attention to the native of Ireland, being among the crew of the Pinta, about fifteen years ago. The book referred to by him is entitled, "Collecion de los Viages y des Cumplimientos, Madrid, la imprenta real ano de 1825." (Collection of Voyages and Duties Discharged, Madrid, royal printing office, year of 1825.)

The crew list of the Pinta la tripulacion can be seen at Madrid, bearing the ancient Connaught patronymic of Eyre, as follows:--

"Guillermo Ires, natural de Galway, Irelanda," no "de" or "en" before the word Irelanda.

Eyre Court is not far from famed Ballinasloe, in the County Galway, and Eyre Square, visitors to the capital of the west of Ireland know, is the principal one in the town of Galway.

The Eyre family is "as old as the hills of Connaught," and were as intimate with Spain as we are with Cuba to-day, before Columbus was born. Up to and after the death of Elizabeth of England all the Catholic gentry of the "ould stock" were educated in Spain and Portugal.

Yours, etc.,

NEW YORK, March 19. R. F. FARRELL

FOOTNOTE:

[3] The flagship, if I may use such an expression, of the little fleet, was the Santa Maria. Of course, it was on board of this that the illustrious navigator took his departure in person. The Pinta, on board of which was William Eyre, "the man from Galway," accompanied her, vide _Catholic Telegraph_, August 14, 1879.

R. F. F.
NEW YORK, March 22, 1884.

Miss Mulholland's Poems: "Vagrant Verses."

Rosa Mulholland is a name well known to the readers of Catholic fiction. She is one of the most graceful, pure and tender writers we have. Hundreds of thousands of Catholic young people owe her some of the most pleasant hours that brighten happy youth. Her sweet fancy has revelled in the sunshine of melodious poesy, as well as in the green fields of fresh and charming prose. Her new book, "Vagrant Verses," is a real bosom companion, a jewel of dear books. Its prevailing tone is soothing tenderness, touched, as is usual with Irish singers, with sadness--but this is not the despairing sadness so prevalent to-day among those beyond the fold of Peter. What has been said of her splendid sister of song, Kate Tynan, may be as truly said of Miss Mulholland,--she cannot be all _sad_. In her darkest hour you have always a streak of dawn in the east. Her poetry is more domestic and tranquil than that of the "Thrush of Glenna Smoil," whose magnificent strains in "Louise," "Joan," "Vivia Perpetua," and so many others, recall to our minds those words of the immortal lay:

"Binn sin, a toin Dhaire an Chairn!
Ni chualas, an ard 's an m-bith,
Ceol budh binne na dho guth,
Acas thu fa bun do nid."
"Sweet thy song, blackbird of th' oak grove of Charn!
Heard I never in all the vast wide world
Song than thine more sweet--voice of song supreme!
Sitting thy nest beneath, singing thy song divine."

It is a great blessing to Erin in these hard, wrangling times, when so much that is good and sweet threatens to disappear, to have two such noble singers raising their melodious voices to appease the angry passions of men. Nor should he be forgotten, who has been the maccenas of these gifted and noble daughters of holy church--Rev. Fr. Matthew Russell, S. J., himself a sweet and true poet. Nor can I close this short notice without the feeble tribute of a word to one so dear to these three, and so dear to us all, Rev. Joseph Farrell, now with God--whose sweet wisdom is fertile in many hearts.

J. KEEGAN.

Seeing the Old Year Out: A True Story.

Scene, four young fellows were seated together in the dining-room drinking "the old year out" in a punch of Patrick Hallahan's best brew.

"Well, here's to the good old year of '82," said Patrick, raising his glass high above his head, "may the incoming year be as kind to us."

"Amen to that," said Phil, his brother.

"And so say all of us," chimed in Denis Walker and Arthur Floyd.

Up went the clouds of smoke in fanciful, weird wreathes to the white ceiling; up went the glasses with the "nectar of the gods!" to the healthy lips of these four friends, tried and true, again and again, until the huge, lanky-legged clock in the hall chaunted in deep monotone the hour of twelve.

The four rose as one man, and joined hands across the table.

"A happy new year," they said, in one and the same breath, and they ushered the poor, innocent yearling in to the tune of "For he's a jolly good fellow--for he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us."

"Stop," said Patrick, "what's that?"

The dining-room was but a pace from the hall door, and Patrick had heard quite distinctly a thud, as of something heavy falling down.

In a second he was out into the darkness, and nearly stumbled over an inert mass of humanity. It was a man--or the remains of one.

"He looks bad, Phil," said Patrick, "run for Dr. Naughten while I put him on the sofa." Phil threw his warm Inverness cape about him and seized his hat and was off in a trice; meanwhile the three men, left with the unconscious fourth, laid their burden down upon the sofa, loosened his neckerchief and collar, but no sign of life was there.

"Drink," said Arthur, "that cursed drink." The other men shook their heads in silent acquiescence. It seemed an age before the doctor, who lived only a few doors off, came upon the scene, not in the best of humors either, for he, too, had been making the night merry after the fashion of these four friends.

The doctor felt his pulse. "I'm no use here," said he. "The fellow's been dead this half-hour."

"Dead?" echoed the friends. "Dead?"

"Yes."

"But," said Patrick, "we heard the fall only a few minutes ago."

"Likely enough," said the doctor, "he had got as far as your door, propped himself up against the corner, and then went completely off into his last long sleep."

"Impossible!" they all exclaimed. "A man to die standing up!"

"Possible," retorted the doctor, "and in this case, as you say you heard the fall, most certain. Good evening, gentlemen, there is nothing more for me to do," and the doctor hurried away.

So this poor wretch of a fellow-man had been "seeing the old year out," but the old year was made of tougher stuff than he, and had seen him out.

They went for the police, who came with the stretcher (ah! what tales that rough canvas bed could tell, if it had the gift of tongue!), the body was taken away, and the four friends sat around the table again, but they raised the glass no more to their lips, though the punch-bowl was steaming still--their eyes turned fearfully to the sofa where death so lately lay in state, and for a few minutes a dreadful silence reigned.

"Oh! that awful drink, what harm it is working. I'll not taste another drop these six months." This from Patrick Hallahan.

"Nor I," said Phil.

"Nor I," said Denis.

"Nor I," said Arthur.

"Agreed," they all said, "and let us see if we cannot keep our word."

"And now let's break up, for I'm feeling sick at heart," were Patrick's words, and they separated.

* * * * *

They met six months after at the same place, and they had kept their word, though they never spoke of it to each other. They had been out to dinner parties, to "at homes," to balls and routs, for they were well-to-do, wealthy men of business, but they succumbed never once. They simply said, "No, thank you," when the wine was passed on, the grog went round. They still entertained, as was their wont, and gave their guests the best of their wine cellar, but they abstained themselves. One of them employed more than one hundred workmen. These men noticed a change in their master; he was more gentle with them in a way, quite as severe in the matter of time-keeping and of hard work, but he took an interest in their welfare, asked after their homes. One of them who brought him his luncheon from an eating-house near at hand, remarked that "the master never used the corkscrew now," and that "the bottom of his master's tumbler was never stained." The ninety-nine other men knew this ninety-nine seconds after. "If the governor, who works harder than any of us, can do without his liquor, dang it all, I can." Jack Furniss gave this forth to two pals, and these three entered quietly into a compact, upon fine of 1 d., to take no beer for a week; they took no beer for four weeks, for six months. Men are after all like sheep who follow their superior, the shepherd's dog; the dog leads this way or that way, and the flock follows. The dog (Jack Furniss was foreman to his master, a kind of shepherd's dog to the rest) led the way to pure spring water, and the whole flock--save the traditional black sheep--followed, not all at once, but little by little.

* * * * *

Now let us back to the shepherd and his three friends, who are met together six months after that awful death. The cloth is laid for four; sherry and claret shine upon the table, the champagne is underneath the sideboard in an iced pail--lemon, sugar, the silver ladle in the family punch-bowl.

They sat down, and after the soup, when the fish was put on the table, Patrick Hallahan passed the sherry to Arthur, Arthur passed it to Phil, and Phil handed it to Denis. Curiously, yet true enough, the decanter came back in the same state as it started.

Then these four plain men of business rose like one man, and joined hands across the table. Not a word was spoken, but that grip of the hand spoke all they had to say to one another.

It is said they were satisfied with themselves and with one another, so satisfied that they had no wish to go from their word, even though the time of keeping it had gone by.

Afterwards they acknowledged one to the other over their cigars--for if they drank nothing strong they smoked very strong, and, be it said, very good tobacco--they acknowledged that their life had been brighter, lighter than before, their mental vision clearer, their home happier; and many a fellow-creature round about them could have added that _their_ lives had been made brighter and lighter, and their mental vision clearer, and their homes happier, by the example and kindness of these four friends.

* * * * *

There is an anecdote told of a certain priest who once happened to be riding a spirited young horse along a road in Ireland. His reverence whilst thus engaged was met by two gentlemen who had lately been raised to the magistracy of the county, and being in a good humor, they thought they would amuse themselves by quizzing him. "How comes it, good Father," said one of them, "that you are mounted on such a fine horse? Your predecessors, the Apostles, I understand, always performed their journeys on asses."--"That's easily explained," answered his reverence; "the fact is, that the Government has of late been making magistrates of the asses, and therefore I should not consider it respectful to travel about on the back of one of the fraternity."

Juvenile Department.

THE FLOWERS' ELECTION.

An election is now being held,
For the flowers are all mad for a queen;
The "speeching" and voting go on,
And cause a most terrible scene.

One tulip, a smart little flirt,
Screams loudly and long for the rose;
But a wee, giddy, columbine bud
Does flippantly interpose.

Nextly a cauliflower speaks,
For his cousin the cabbage he votes;
At which e'en a butterfly grins
As onwardly he lazily floats.

A full-blown and strong-minded flower
Votes loud for republic and peace!
Or else for a strawberry plant,
Who's her grandmother's brother's aunt's niece.

Next marigold speaks to the crowd,
Who is known to be forward and pert;
But a nettle makes stinging remarks,
Till the speaker declares himself hurt!

And then to rampage they begin;
Sweet William is scragging a rose;
Sweet-pea in a neighborly way,
Is pulling young marigold's nose!

Such a noise and confusion ensues
That a snail faints away on the wall;
And never as yet have I heard
What the end of it was after all.

MAUD EGERTON HINE, a child of less than eight years old.

* * * * *

"Doing anything now, Bill?" "Oh, yes, I'm busy all the time."--"Ah! Glad to hear it. What are you doing?"--"Looking for a job."

* * * * *

THE LITTLE FRENCH GIRL OF ST. SULPICE.

When I was in Paris, a year or two before the terrible war broke out, I often went to the church of St. Sulpice. A grand old place is St. Sulpice, not so majestic outwardly as Notre Dame, but far more interesting to me. Its painted chapels, its noble altar with the royal seat in front, its chairs full of kneeling people, from the splendid dame to the bonnetless peasant, its gorgeously dressed priests, its magnificent organ,--everything about it charmed and interested me.

One day I saw a little girl asleep at the foot of a statue. The calm, white, marble face seemed to look down in pity on the child, whose beauty startled me. Her white cape-bonnet had fallen from her head, and curls, lustrous as gold, and quite as yellow, fell over neck and cheeks. What long, dark lashes she had! Her complexion seemed blended roses and lilies. But her dress was very shabby. The most beautiful feet will get soiled if they go shoeless, and this child seemed one of the very poorest of the poor.

There came a grand burst of organ music, with which a thousand voices joined, and the child awoke. She lifted her head, and the great brown eyes seemed to drink in the melody. Then, seeing that we were watching her, she held out a little palm. The mute appeal was not resisted; I gave her my last franc.

She followed us out of the church. On the stone steps we could see the fountains playing. Omnibuses decorated with gay little flags, horses decked out with ribbons, merry groups passing, the red sunshine, the distant beauty of the green park, with its gravelled walks and flowery borders, made a picture that I shall never forget. The child touched my dress.

"I must sing for you, madame," she said, holding up the franc.

Then she stood back a little, let her pretty arms drop, and sang in a sweet contralto, a little French air. Her voice was charming.

"Why do you beg?" I asked.

"I do not beg, madame, I sing;" and her cheek flushed.

"Where do you live, my dear?"

"Rue St. Pere."

"Near Hotel St. Pere?"

"Not far from that, madame. My father makes wooden images; perhaps you pass his window. At least I call him my father."

I had often passed his window, filled with a melancholy collection of well-carved animals, boxes, heads, quite yellow by exposure. Nothing seemed ever to be sold.

One day I went in to ask the price of a stag's head. The poor man, broken down by sickness, sat whittling in the corner. His face was like saffron, while his thin hair was black as jet. A heavy curtain was hung across the shop. Presently the rings that supported it rattled a little; the curtain opened midway, revealing a bit of French home life. A cradle of an antique pattern, a woman ironing at a table, a tiny stove, two windows full of flowers, everything poverty-stricken but clean. As I was paying for the stag's head in came my little one of St. Sulpice. She knew me, but with only a nod and a smile passed into the other part of the room.

"That is your little girl, I suppose," I said.

"Oh, no; I care for her; that is all. Her mother is dead; she is no kin to me, but one cannot see a little one suffer. Besides, she does very well with her voice; she will work her way in the world. We do not suffer; we have bread." Nevertheless I knew by his voice and the aspect of things that they did suffer sometimes, so I often made little expeditions that way, and spent for carved wood every franc I could spare.

Now comes the wonderful part of my story. I had been at home six months when the French war broke out. While reading the dreadful tidings, and seeing with my mind's eye those fairy-like palaces, over which I had wandered so often, sacked and destroyed, I thought of the little girl of St. Sulpice, and wondered what had become of her. Where were the wooden hounds with their life-like eyes, the stags' heads so beautifully carved, the long, French faces with the dust lying in their grotesque goatees? Where were the sick old man, the tidy little mother, the large, rosy baby?

One day, only a very few weeks ago, while walking down Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington, a splendid carriage drove past, and I caught a glimpse of a face that set my heart beating. I turned to look, and, strange to tell, the child was also turning to look at me. Could this be the little French girl of St. Sulpice? Impossible.

On the following day I was called into my sitting-room to see some one who wanted a donation.

"They're always a beggin', Miss Alice," said my maid. "There was three men with papers yesterday, and now come these flipflappers."

The "flipflappers" were two Sisters of Charity. One of them, the youngest, with large, loving, dark eyes, and one of the finest faces I ever saw, won me at sight. She was soliciting money she said for an Old Folks' Home. "You are not an American," I said.

"Oh, no; I am only five months from Paris. This is my sister, who can talk only French."

An hour passed during which I had told all about my St. Sulpice child.

The women looked at each other.

"It seems like Marie," said one.

"It certainly _does_ seem like Marie," responded the other.

"And who was Marie?"

"Marie was with a wood-carver. Marie's mamma was an Englishwoman. Her husband brought her to Paris. They both died when Marie was a little one. Marie used to sing, and she lived in rue St. Pere."

"It must be my St. Sulpice girl!" I said, excitedly.

"During the troubles," continued the woman, "the old wood-carver died. His wife, whose sister was a nun, went to one of the charity homes. She, alas! was shot, and soon after her baby pined and died. The sisters took care of Marie for awhile, she was so beautiful. No, madame, it is not to be denied that they would have liked it if Marie could have grown up in their midst, and become one of the holy order, but the war forbade that. Some of the sisters escaped to England, and Marie went with them. In London, Marie sang a little now and then, for we were much reduced.

"One day she was listened to by a lady living in some villa. She had the child brought in, and kept saying to herself, 'It is a wonderful likeness!' Then she called her husband and all the family, and they each one said that it was a wonderful likeness.

"Well, madame, they found the child was one of them, the child of a sister who had married imprudently and gone off, and after that we had little to do with Marie. But we came over to America in the same ship, and the little lady was very kind to us. Her friends have given largely to this fund since she has been here. Will madame contribute?"

On condition that they found where the child lived, I gave them what I could spare, and they went away grateful.

Only the next day a grand equipage stopped at my door. There were two men in splendid livery on the box, and a tiger behind, who sat with his arms folded like a statue of ebony.

Ah, but there was my sweet little St. Sulpice girl, with her nurse, or companion. How lovely she was! Her white hat and blue feather, beautiful blue silk, trimmed with costly white lace, her buttoned gloves, and dainty parasol, spoke most eloquently of the change in her circumstances. But to me she seemed just the same.

"Then you have not forgotten St. Sulpice," I said.

She shook her head and her lips trembled a little.

"It was so awful before we came away!" she said, with a shudder. "They took St. Sulpice for the soldiers, and they killed the nuns and shot the good priests, and, it seemed as if everybody was dead or dying. Oh, how we did fly for our lives!"

"But you are very happy now?"

"Yes; I have a governess, and I am studying English; but I shall always love my dear, dear France, and I would go there again, but poor Pere and Mere Bouve are gone, and their little child. If they could only have come to England with me!"

"And does your aunt stay in America long?"

"Till the next September. Oh, how I felt when I saw you on the street! I knew it was you. To-morrow we go to Cape May, and I shall never see you again."

"Oh, yes, you will. I shall come over to England next summer."

The child's eyes brightened.

"Will you?" and she threw her arms round my neck in true French style, and declared that she loved me.

I hope I shall see my little one of St. Sulpice again. If anybody meets an English family at Cape May, with one of the loveliest little girls in the world, I have no doubt she will answer to the name of Marie.

THE DONKEY.

Mine is not a common donkey at all, living upon thistles and weeds, or any rubbish he can pick up on the roadside; he is an aristocratic donkey, and eats, and sleeps, too, sometimes, in a lordly dining-hall, where kings and princes have dined. And where does he live? you will ask. In a beautiful old ruined castle in the Isle of Wight--Carisbrook Castle, the place of imprisonment of poor King Charles I., and the scene of his gentle daughter Elizabeth's early death. Within the ruined walls of that grand old castle does my friend, the donkey, live.

Many must have heard of the wonderful well at Carisbrook, which is so deep no one can draw the water up, so that they are obliged to have a donkey to do it. And it is done in this way: there is an enormous wheel, with steps inside, and the donkey goes in, and by walking continually up the steps turns the wheel, and so draws up the water. And this was the work Jacob, for that is the donkey's name, had to do for many years. But he has long since retired from public life, being very old, and his place has been supplied by a younger donkey; Jacob having nothing to do now but eat, sleep, and amuse himself.

We were having a little picnic at Carisbrook, the children and I, not long ago, and Jacob took an immense interest in all our proceedings. The children were greatly delighted with his friendly way of receiving us, and fed him with biscuits and buns, which he seemed to enjoy very much. He even drank some tea out of a saucer, and ate up all the pieces of bread we left. In fact, Jacob's and our own appetites were so good that there was nothing left of our feast, excepting half of a large pat of butter, which we never supposed Jacob would touch, and were much amused on looking round to see him quietly eating up that, too, and licking the plate well afterwards so as not to lose a bit.

He is a very fat little creature, and his hair has grown quite long and soft, like a young donkey's. Evidently his lazy life agrees with him, though, I have no doubt, he has done his fair share of work, and quite deserves to pass a peaceful, happy old age.

As I am on the subject of donkeys, I must tell about a very clever one I heard of a few days ago. She lives somewhere in Ireland, and she and her little foal were turned into a field where a very deep ditch had been dug. And one day some men who were at work in the next field saw Viva, the mother donkey, come toward them in a great hurry. She came close up to the hedge, braying loudly, and seeming much distressed. At first they took no notice of her, but she would not go away, and continued to bray until one of the men went to her, and then she started off in the direction of the ditch, and there he found the poor little foal, which had tumbled in. Fortunately it was not hurt; but if the mother had not been so sensible, it must have died, for it could not possibly have got out.

It is the fashion to consider donkeys stupid, ill-tempered, and obstinate, which I do not think quite just. They are often obstinate, certainly, but they are generally made so by constant ill-treatment. How often one sees a poor little donkey staggering along with a load a great deal too heavy for him, and being beaten and abused the whole time because he can scarcely draw it! Donkeys after a time get so accustomed to being incessantly beaten that it has no effect, excepting to make them turn obstinate and sulky. And I do not believe they are either by nature; for a donkey that is really well brought up, and has always been kindly treated, is not at all obstinate. He will trot or canter when he is required to do so, just like a pony, is good-tempered and gentle, and altogether a different animal from his unfortunate poor relation, who has been kicked and beaten and dragged at from his babyhood upwards.

And to say that donkeys are _stupid_ is quite a mistake, for many are extremely clever. I knew an old one--I think he must have been thirty at least--that could never by any means be kept _in_ any field or _out_ of any garden that he chose to enter. And as he much preferred nice green vegetables to his legitimate food, he was constantly trespassing, and his owners were continually in trouble about him. He would always find some means of either opening a gate or getting over the hedge. The only place he could be kept in was the village pound, to which he often paid a visit. He was, as may be fancied, quite a nuisance in the village, and every one was truly thankful when he was found dead one morning. It was said he died of old age; but as he had made many enemies by his numerous depredations, I should not wonder if some of them had to do with his sudden end.

HOUNDS.

Two hounds belonged to a gentleman in Lancashire, and he, wishing to make them a present to a friend, sent them to Kilkenny, the place where he lived in Ireland. But the hounds apparently did not like their new quarters, and, no doubt, missed their old master; for after a few days they disappeared, and could not be found or heard of, until at last their master got a letter from their former owner in Lancashire to say that the hounds had returned to him. It was afterwards discovered that they had gone to the North Vale in Dublin, jumped on board a steamboat, which fortunately was going to England, and had found their way to their old home.

Some dogs take offence very easily. I know one absurd, diminutive creature, who has the greatest dislike to being talked about, and directly he hears any one mention his name even, he gets up and walks out of the room in the most dignified way possible, looking round all the time, as much as to say, "How dare you talk about me?"

Another dog belonging to a friend took great offence because he could not have his own way. He is a nice old dog, very old and quite blind, and has always lived with the same master, to whom he is quite devoted, accompanying him everywhere, and at night keeping guard on the mat at his bedroom door. A short time ago his master went on a visit to a house about sixty miles distant from his own home, and as usual his old favorite went with him. When night came, the old dog, having found out his master's room, posted himself, as he had always been accustomed to do, at his door. But the servants of the house, not knowing his ways, drove him downstairs. The next day the dog was gone; but was heard of soon afterwards, having returned to his own home. He had taken offence at not being allowed to sleep where he liked, and had found his way back, in spite of the distance and his blindness.

THE CALIFORNIA ROADRUNNER. (_Geococcyx Californianus._)

A very singular and yet a very little known bird is the roadrunner chaparral cock, or, as it is known in Mexico and the Spanish sections of the United States, the paisano.

It belongs to the cuckoo family, but has none of the bad habits by which the European cuckoo is best known. It is a shy bird, but is not by any means an unfamiliar object in the south-western portions of the United States and in Mexico. Sometimes it wanders up into middle California, but not often, seeming to prefer the more deserted, hotter, and sandier parts of southern California, and from there stretching its habitat as far east as middle Texas.

It is not by any means a brilliantly colored bird, although some of its hues are very beautiful. The prevailing color of the roadrunner is olive green, which is marked with brown and white. The top of the head is blue black, and is furnished with an erectile crest. The eyes are surrounded by a line of bare skin.

It is not a large bird, being seldom twenty-four inches long, with a tail taking more than half of that length. The tail, indeed, is the most striking feature of the bird, being not only so very long, but seemingly endowed with the gift of perpetual motion, since it is never still, but bobs up and down, and sidewise, too, into every possible angle, and almost incessantly.

But while its tail is most striking, its legs are most remarkable, being not only long and stout, but wonderfully muscular, how muscular nobody would be able to imagine who had not put them to the test.

A traveller in Mexico tells of going out with his ranchero host to hunt hares with a brace of very fine hounds. Going over a long stretch of sandy plain, relieved only by pillars and clusters of cactus, the Mexican called the attention of his guest to an alert, comical-looking bird, some distance from them.

With the remark that the gentleman should see some rare coursing, the Mexican slipped the leashes of the straining hounds, which sprang off as if used to the sport, and darted after the bird. For a moment it seemed to the stranger a very poor use to put the dogs to, but he was not long in changing his mind.

Instead of taking wing, the bird tilted its long tail straight up into the air in a saucily defiant way, and started off on a run in a direct line ahead. It seemed an incredible thing that the slender dogs, with their space devouring bounds, should not at once overtake the little bird; but so it was. The legs of the paisano moved with marvellous rapidity, and enabled it to keep the hounds at their distance for a very long time, being finally overtaken only after one of the gamest races ever witnessed by the visiting sportsman.

The roadrunner, however, serves a better purpose in life than being run down by hounds. Cassin mentions a most singular circumstance among the peculiarities of the bird. It seems to have a mortal hatred of rattlesnakes, and no sooner sees one of those reptiles than it sets about in what, to the snake, might well seem a most diabolical way of compassing its death. Finding the snake asleep, it at once seeks out the spiniest of the small cacti, the prickly pear, and, with infinite pains and quietness, carries the leaves, which it breaks off, and puts them in a circle around the slumbering snake. When it has made a sufficient wall about the object of all this care, it rouses its victim with a sudden peck of its sharp beak, and then quickly retires to let the snake work out its own destruction, a thing it eventually does in a way that ought to gratify the roadrunner, if it has any sense of humor. Any one watching it would say it was expressing the liveliest emotion with its constantly and grotesquely moving tail.

The first impulse and act of the assaulted snake is to coil for a dart; its next to move away. It quickly realizes that it is hemmed in, in a circle, and finally makes a rash attempt to glide over the obstruction. The myriad of tiny needles prick it and drive it back. The angry snake, with small wisdom, attempts to retaliate by fastening its fangs into the offending cactus. The spines fill its mouth.

Angrier still, it again and again assaults the prickly wall, until, quite beside itself with rage, it seems to lose its wits completely, and writhing and twisting horribly, buries its envenomed fangs into its own body, dying finally from its self-inflicted wounds. After the catastrophe, the roadrunner indulges in a few gratified flirts of its long tail and goes off, perchance to find its reward in being run down by hounds set on by men.

JOHN R. CORYELL, in _Scientific American_.

* * * * *

Man is hard to satisfy. Poverty is the only thing he can get enough of.

* * * * *

POWER OF THE "LORD'S PRAYER" AND THE "HAIL MARY."

In 1836, while connected with the Church of St. Roque, I was for a long time engaged in giving catechetical instruction to the children; not only the ordinary catechism, but what we called, and what is still called, catechism of perseverance, at which young persons of both sexes attended until their marriage.

One day I was called upon to solemnize the marriage of one of these young persons, who was very pious; she had most assiduously followed our instructions until the hour of this great engagement; her betrothed was a practical Catholic, so that it was one of those marriages which we can bless with hope and consolation.

Ordinarily an exhortation is given on these occasions; I said a few words according to the custom, and I still remember that while speaking I had a distraction; it was caused by a tall man, at least six foot high, who stood erect while every one else was seated, looking at me with a fixed, intense gaze, and, as he was one of the first witnesses at the ceremony, he stood scarcely three steps from me. This proximity, his great height, his original manner, and his fixed look, had, as you may readily understand, attracted my attention, for a moment, and then I cast the impression aside. After the ceremony all retired, and I thought all was finished; far from it. At five o'clock the next morning my bell was rung by the bridegroom, who came in great haste to summon me to a dying man, his uncle, the same tall man who had so singularly distracted me the previous evening. He was quite aged, seventy-four years old; he had taken cold at the wedding ceremony, and the physician declared he could not live. I started immediately, and as we went along the street, I asked, "Was your uncle a good Christian?"--"He was a good man; but we fear that he neglected his religious duties."--"Has he any idea of his dangerous condition?"--"Yes, he is fully sensible of it."--"Does he wish to see me?"--"Yes, when we saw that he was struck by death, we asked him if he would not like to see a priest, and he did not refuse. After a moment he said 'bring me the one I heard yesterday; he pleased me, and he will arrange my affairs.'"