was the residence of the Jesuit Fathers for a short time before the presbytery was finished in 1834, two years after the church. Belvedere House, to which Thomas Kelly followed the Jesuits from Hardwicke Street, was occupied till 1841, by the widow of the second and last Earl of Belvedere, who had died in 1814.

What if we were to inaugurate a Conundrum Corner, to run alternately with our Amen Corner every second month ? Meanwhile this paragraph may enshrine some of the solutions given of George Canning's conundrum printed last month at page 60. D. O'K. identifies it with the motto, In cruce salus.

"The Cross's bitter-sweet caress

Is life when grinding cares oppress."

M. G. W. does not soar quite so high

"What magic best can bitter cares dispel?
A sweet caress from one beloved well."

M. N. gives her answer, not in a couplet but a quatrain :

"Plural alas! fell foes of human peace,

Cares crowding exercise their dateless lease;
But, if a mother's arms around me press,
Cares vanish, vanquished in a sweet caress."

And so does J. G. with his :

"Cares banish peace by day,
Cares hinder sleep by night.
Caress! Cares pass away,

And dark things are made bright."

Canning's lines were quoted from memory, with two slight inaccuracies. We find it thus in print, introduced with the curious remark that "it may tempt our younger readers to pronounce 'metamorphosis' with the accent wrongly placed on the third syllable instead of the fourth." But does any dictionary make it thus rhyme with metempsychosis? Since asking this question, we have consulted the great Standard Dictionary of the English Language (Funk & Wagnall). It gives no countenance to this pedantic respect for the Greek derivation; and therefore without any misgiving we may end by quoting Canning correctly :

"There is a word of plural number,
A foe to peace and tranquil slumber.
Now of most words you chance to take
By adding S you plural make;
But if you add an S to this,
Strange is the metamorphosis !
Plural is plural now no more,

And sweet what bitter was before."

We hope that, if this paragraph should fall under the eye of one whom we shall venture to name, she will not be displeased at our wish to add thereby value and interest to the following extract from the Weekly Mail and Empire, just as we add value and interest to her own name by linking it with an illustrious name that must never be forgotten in Ireland. That awkwardly named newspaper of Toronto, Canada, has the good fortune to have on its staff Mrs. Willis, who was once Miss Kathleen Ferguson, daughter of the only married sister of Father Thomas Burke, the great Dominican preacher. If her department is always or often as bright and interesting as in the only number that has come into our hands, happy is the Mail and Empire. Here is one scrap from the issue dated February 16th, 1905 :

"As I write, I am looking out of the window at this Canadian Winter. Birds mating, indeed! There is a poor little wretch of a bird perched on a twiglet of the anonymous tree outside, who looks as if his marrying days were over. The snow is falling thick upon his humped-up back, and his little winter coat of feathers makes a poor shelter. It is impossible to keep the window-sill clean for the birds' breakfast, and the small shivering creatures don't seem to have the heart to fly up to look for any. And yet, over in the Old Land across the sea, I know that faint thrillings are stirring in the woods and little copses, that the yellow-hammer is uttering his first early warblings; that the noisy jackdaws are clamoring about grey church steeples; that the long-tailed field-mouse is turning in his sleep, making now and then for a nibble at his hoarded store, and blinking out at the wet world above and wondering why the daisy buds and violets are in such a hurry to thrust timid heads up at the foot of the old oaken tree. And there are outlying lonely places, stretching bogs and marshes, where now the bittern booms and the heron stands for hours watching the water; and the willows that edge the dark mere are pushing out their silvery catkins, and old Winter is napping, waking now and then to cast a few

last flakes abroad, but soon to lie lost in the deep sleep of Spring and Summer."

With young people one of the first thoughts in the morning is, "What is there to-day? Some break, something new, something to look forward to." Men are but "children of a larger growth," and more than young people feel at certain times a blank sensation of sameness, dulness, at the monotony of life. This train of thought is to be resolutely broken up. Turn your thoughts at once to something good, something useful. How wise St. Ignatius was in bidding us, in one of our first waking moments, turn the mind towards the subject prepared overnight for the morning meditation. That is something useful, something definite, and we are no longer at the mercy of the pleasing or displeasing anticipation of some agreeable or disagreeable thing that is likely to happen during the coming day.

*

In one of those interminable streams of "Winged Words that meander through all the volumes of this Magazine-sometimes taking the name of Aurea Dicta, or of "Good Things Well Said "it was set down, we foget on what authority, that "a rebuke is a very indigestible food and requires to be well cooked in the fire of charity." We have been told that a certain Sister of Mercy-which means an uncertain one, for we don't know, and, therefore, won't tell her convent-this good nun moved as an amendment the addition of the words, " and served up with the rich sauce of obedience." A rebuke ought only to come from a superior. That saint is acknowledged to be a wise legislator who begins one of his Rules with the words, Nemo alium reprehendat.

"

Many years ago this Magazine kept up a vigorous hunt after Sonnets on the Sonnet," and the results of the chase were finally embodied in a goodly volume bearing that title, and containing 150 sonnets, the subject of each of which was the sonnet itself under some aspect or other. If the following, by Lloyd Mifflin, a very assiduous American sonneteer, had come under the compiler's notice (it had probably not been written then) it would of course have found a place :

"Still let a due reserve the Muse attend

Who threads the Sonnet's labyrinth. As some bell
That tolls for vespers in a twilight dell,

So in the octave let her voice suspend

Her pomp of phrase. The sestet may ascend
Slowly triumphant, like an organ swell

In opulent splendour rising-pause and dwell
With glittering glories to its dolphin end.
"So oft at eve around the sunset doors

From uppiled splendours of some crimson cloud
Storm-based with dark-unrolling like a scroll,
Forth the accumulated thunder pours

Across the listening valley long and loud,
With low reverberations, roll on roll.

A few days after we had transcribed the foregoing, Mr. Eugene Lee Hamilton (brother to "Vernon Lee ") contributed to the Westminster Gazette (October 14th, 1905), the following, under the title of "The Weaving of the Sonnet" :—

"As in the banner'd and emblazon'd room
Of some great feudal keep, in days of old,

White queenly fingers wrought in cloth of gold
Fantastic patterns on a royal loom;

Wrought tendril, magic leaf, and lily bloom

Where dragon, lynx, and pawing pard were scroll'd,
Or those strange roses sainted queens behold,
Who, pale hands folded, sleep in minster gloom.
"So Fancy works upon the frame of Time
Her pageantry with gold eternal rays

Into the web of even fate and odd,

Till gleams some sonnet, where a hem of rhyme
Borders such dream-shapes as, for angel gaze,
Shine in the pattern on the stole of God."

EPITAPH ON AN ORGAN BLOWER
No more he blows; the blow that's universal
Has let his wind out till the Last Rehearsal.

J. H

GOOD THINGS WELL SAID}

1. It is a primary maxim for the successful fisherman and the effective preacher, "Keep yourself out of sight."-Anon.

2. Sober, reasonable men do not want controversy. What they want is exposition and explanation.-Rev. Ernest Hull, S.J

3. If you want to preserve a dead body, put it into alcohol; if you want to destroy a living body, put alcohol into it.-Anon. 4. To chivalrous souls a pathetic failure often appeals more than an excellent success.-Rev. Robert Hugh Benson.

5. Humility seems to me decidedly the most necessary of all virtues.-Francis Coppée.

6. It is one of the bad effects of living in one's own time that one never knows the truth of it till one is dead.-Horace Walpole.

7. Silence is the most powerful answer that any man can give to abuse.-Josh Billings.

8. The Catholic Church is the only one that can make a man die with any real hope.-Charles Stewart Parnell.

9. There is nothing that God loves more and that makes us feel better, than thankfulness.-Josh Billings.

10. Was it a chance that those who fought against the Church in the sixteenth century were the immoral Luther, the cruel Calvin, the blasphemous Zwingli, the adulterous Beza, the lying and cowardly Cranmer, Henry, model of husbands; the virgin Elizabeth, and such like? Was it a chance that those who defended unity were men like More, and Fisher, and Pole, and Cambian, and Allen, and Ignatius, and Charles Borromeo, and Philip Neri, and Canisius ?-Dom Chapman.

II. Mere readers are very often the most idle of human beings.-Sydney Smith.

12. The miseries of life are about equally divided: one person is chilly for want of a shirt, and another pines for a box at the opera, and both of them think life a hardship.-Josh Billings.