P. G. Smyth-probably every Catholic in America has seen this name some time or other, and millions of non-Catholics have seen it, besides. It is not too much to say that Mr. Smyth has contributed at some period to nearly every one of the leading periodicals of the country, Catholic and secular. His work may be found in everything-from The American Catholic Quarterly to Munsey's and The Argosy. He is a journalist doing special work for the great Chicago dailies, but he is much more than this. First and last, he has written nearly a dozen novels which have been published serially in as many journals. Last summer the Southern Cross, of Buenos Ayres, Argentina, republished a story of his written twenty years ago for a Dublin newspaper. The Irish Catholic, of Dublin, is now republishing another of his serials written long ago. He was a distinguished writer in Ireland, and, later, a well-known journalist in London. Here, in Chicago, it is generally admitted by all who know him that he is a man of genius. His humor is so exquisite that often the little skits of verse contributed by him to the Daily News set the entire city laughing. And he is a man of splendid scholarship, a genuine student, an indefatigable toiler. He is one of those rare men who can write on any subject and write well. Readers of THE ROSARY have read many

of Mr. Smyth's papers on Irish topics; they have never found Mr. Smyth making a mistake. Aside from his work as a journalist, he is a delver into old books that exist in the several great libraries— a seeker after long-forgotten facts-an omniverous reader, an unwearied writer. One result of this ceaseless energy is the appearance of articles from Mr. Smyth's pen in several magazines each month. You may find him in THE ROSARY, Donahoe's, The Catholic World, The Gael,

suming. He does not seem to realize that he may wake up and find himself famous some morning. In reality he belongs to the school of Lever, Kickham, and Lover-genial, witty, unpretentious, and apparently careless of fame. If some publisher would put Mr. Smyth's really wonderful work between covers, all America would say this is a man of genius. Since he is yet on the sunny side of forty-five, even this may happen to him before he is fifty.

The outside world affects to sneer at Chicago as a city without poets. People of culture, elsewhere, think of the tremendous commercial and industrial activity of the city-of its great stockyards, its terrible array of mills, foundries, factories, railways, lake vessels, roaring streets, crashing hammers, and apparently everlasting restlessness, and assert that Shakespeares and Shelleys are not born and nurtured amid such incessant din. Perhaps not; and yet during the last two or three years fully a dozen young poets of much promise have appeared. Nearly every issue of The New World, the Catholic weekly of the Archdiocese, presents really excellent work by one or more of these. That it is of merit is proved by the fact that it is almost instantly republished far and wide. One of these young poets is Miss Kathleen A. Sullivan, of Englewood, whose work is soon to appear in book-form from the press of a Boston publisher.

Another young writer of excellent promise is Miss Mary J. Lupton, the accomplished city editor of The New World. Miss Lupton has had exceptional advantages in several respects. Of gentle Anglo-Irish descent, she was born, not many summers ago, in the

same house in which Baron Russell, of Killowen, and Father Matthew Russell, the Irish poet-priest, were born. It, together with much other property, was the inheritance of her father, at that time one of the wealthiest men in historic Newry, County Down, Ireland. Miss Lupton's education was begun in Ireland, continued through several years spent in an academy at Richmond, England, and completed during five years' training received at Bayeux in Normandy, France. French she speaks like a native, is an accomplished musician, and has considerable knowledge of art. About three years ago she came to the United States with her mother, by accident contributed a little travel paper on the Land of St. Laurence to The New World, and was later induced to accept the duty of city editor when a vacancy occurred. Here she soon developed talent as a story-writer, and recognition straightway came to her, almost unsought. Several of her stories were widely republished, and at once she won a place on several high-class periodicals. THE ROSARY has published three of her graphic sketches, and all three have proved remarkably popular, being republished in nearly every Catholic journal in the country and in a number oversea. Few young writers have leaped into place so suddenly, yet it must be remembered that she began after years of preparation and travel. She has not yet done her highest work, still there is little fear but she will win an enviable place in the literature of her adopted country. A young lady who can write. stories that almost instantly find republication wherever the English language is spoken, is pretty certain to win fame.

T

HERE is no more prolific source of literature than the romances of chivalry. Their life-giving principles of beauty, honor, and truth have furnished motive for authors and artists of all ages. Tennyson, Lowell, Arnold and Taylor of our own daybeauty-lovers all have done nothing nobler for their art than the transmitting of these tales.

In the "Sir Galahad" of Tennyson, we find embodied the highest spirit of chivalry. There is a sweet, penetrating quality about the poem that touches us deeply, and makes us long to live its exquisite sentiment, that, like Galahad, we, too, may keep fair through faith and prayer. All the world loves that youthful hero, yet the less-known Percivale, also God's knight, was likewise a character of striking interest. Let us consider him a space:

The brave knight, Pellenore, had fallen in battle, and either war or the tournament field had carried off his six strong sons. None but Baby Percivale was left to the broken-hearted mother, and she determined that he should not share the cruel fate of his brothers. So, while yet a little boy, he was taken off to the deep woods to live, far away from any road, where none should pass. The servants were forbidden to mention arms, or soldiery, or deeds of bravery, and no weapon was ever seen about the dwelling except a rude little arrow of his own making, which he used with exceeding skill. Only the simple joys of the forest were kept before his mind, and his boyhood's days went by with never a thought of any other world beyond the one in which he lived.

But one morning, while wandering in the wood, he met three horsemen, all covered with a shining something that

gave back the sun in rays of blinding light. He gazed in wonder, having never before seen such rich trappings. Surely these were the angels his mother had so often told of at the hour of prayer! One of the men called to him to know if he had seen a knight ride by.

"I do not know what a knight is," said the boy.

"Such a one as I," answered the man. "Where did you get all those beautiful things you 'wear?" questioned Percivale.

"The good King Arthur gave them to me," was the reply; "I am one of his knights."

Full of wonder, the boy ran home to his mother, and begged for a horse that he, too, might go to the king and become a knight. The poor lady knew then how vain had been her scheming. Was it not natural for a soldier's son to have such instincts? So she took him to her side and told him all the deeper meaning of that word, Knighthood; that he who shaped his life to its maxims should know the highest earthly bliss. And long she dwelt on all that a good knight must be-pure and highminded first of all, bearing himself with courtesy to every one, and in an especial manner to the poor and the oppressed, to women and to children—and even willing to lay down his life rather than to know shame or dishonor. With beating heart and wild longing, he learned of the "Round Table"-that goodly company of the king's, which comprised the bravest and noblest of earth-and how any might be admitted to its number who promised to be true. and pure and brave.

Every syllable sank deep in Percivale's memory, and without loss of time he fitted up their old scrawny steed after the manner of the horsemen, decking it

with every bit of faded finery offered by their humble home. A branch from a tree he cut to imitate a spear, and supplying himself well with his trusty arrows, he rode forth to find King Arthur.

As Percivale entered the king's court at Camelot, he saw the cup-bearer about to offer the queen a goblet of wine. At the same moment, a stranger-knight, who was stopping at the court, rushed forth to intercept the act. Seizing the cup, the stranger dashed the liquid in the queen's face and called out, "He who will may avenge! Let him follow me!"

Be sure the indignant knights leaped to their feet at once. In the excitement that followed, they did not perceive Percivale, till a little dwarf, guessing his identity from the resemblance he bore to his father, cried out above the din, "Welcome to Sir Pellenore's son!" Thereat, the tall Sir Kay, the head knight of the king's household, struck at the dwarf for such untimely speech.

Peals of laughter greeted the fantastic appearance of the newcomer. But, unheeding the clamor he had caused, the boy directed his steps to the king, and, kneeling at his feet, begged to become. one of his knights.

"My boy," said the king, "if you are in truth Sir Pellenore's son, you are welcome here. Avenge the insult to our queen, and the fellowship of our Table Round shall be yours."

When the stranger saw the uncouth boy who came out to meet him, he thought the knights were mocking him, and he refused to fight. But Percivale's blood was up, and one of his good arrows he shot straight at the fellow's eye and smote him to the ground, as fatally wounded as Goliath by the pebble from David's sling.

Now, one of the king's own knights, sorry to see the youth had been left to the mercy of the churlish stranger, rushed out to offer assistance. Pleased that Percival had been so prompt and

courageous, the good knight showed him how to remove the dead man's armor and fit it to himself, how to sustain the shield, and how to hurl the newly-won spear. Percivale proved so apt a pupil that the knight also taught him many of the finer feats of arms and horsemanship known only to one trained for the field. And the boy acquired it all as easily as though he had spent his life in the tilt-yard.

The knight now thought that Percivale had given promise of a likely soldiership, and urged him to go at once. to the king and claim the due reward. To his surprise, the boy made a stern refusal: "I will never go to the king's court till I have punished Sir Kay for striking the dwarf. Bear to him this message.

Then Percivale rode away, he knew not where, only anxious to win a name for himself. Traveling knights of those days, or knights-errant, as they were called, had the privilege of offering or accepting challenges on any pretext, however slight, and be sure Percivale never lost an opportunity of testing his prowess or of winning new spurs. It was his good fortune to bear down the antagonist in every encounter, and with each victory the enemy was pardoned only on condition of taking his message to Sir Kay.

One evening Percivale stopped at a castle gate, requesting shelter for the night. The owner of the castle was a maiden, young and passing fair. Although she welcomed Percivale, she said she could offer him no refreshment. A wicked knight held the entrance to her home because she refused to be his wife, and would allow no provisions to enter there, thinking to starve her into yielding.

Percivale saw that here was a duty for him, and at dawn of day he rode out to challenge the unwelcome suitor to combat hand to hand. The knight and

youth closed at once in deadly struggle, and fierce was the fight which ensued. Luck, as usual, was on Percivale's side, and the wicked knight not only had to restore the maiden the freedom of her castle, but also go to remind Sir Kay that Percivale was yet waiting for the passage-at-arms.

Each time that message came to court, the knights marveled more and more at the achievements of the youth. At length Kay felt that if he persisted in refusing the challenge he would leave. himself open to the charge of cowardice; so, in company with the king, he set out to search for the young hero.

After securing the maiden's freedom Percivale continued his travels. One morning he noticed by the roadside a dead raven, whose blood had stained the new-fallen snow. Now a bird was often given as the prize in tournaments when devoted knights met by challenge to prove the worth of their "ladyes faire." Percivale paused to look at the bird, and as he did so his mind wandered away to his recent adventures; it seemed to him. that the raven's blood was not so bright as the maiden's cheek, nor the blackness of its wing so deep as her midnight hair. So absorbed was he in his thought that he did not perceive a stranger who spoke to him. The man, receiving no reply, gave a thrust with his lance. Now this was an insult, and Percivale turned with terrific force and unhorsed the assailant. He then returned to his meditations and when, later, a second stranger addressed him, without receiving answer, and also used his weapon, this one, too, met with much the same treatment as the first.

A third came along. Waiting patiently till Percivale looked in his direction, he said: "If I thought you would care to hear it, I would give you a message from King Arthur. wishes you to come to his tent near-by. Two others before me have also brought the same request."

He

"Yes," said Percivale, "but they attacked me without warning while I was in pleasurable thought. Say to the king that I am under vow never to enter his court till I have punished Sir Kay for striking the dwarf."

"Then you must be he for whom we are all in search! The dwarf is avenged! You have punished Sir Kay! He was the second you unhorsed this morning!"

Hearing this, Percivale allowed himself to be led to court. On their return to Camelot the knights made a great feast of rejoicing for him, with tourney, and dance, and feasting, and every pomp that eye or ear did love. When all was duly celebrated, Percivale knelt at the king's feet to receive the sword-stroke and take the oath of the Round Table.

"Sir Percivale," said the king, "none of this fair company of our Table Round while yet so young, has done such knightly deeds as you. It has been foretold that the flower, of all chivalry should be of this fellowship. Mayhap that you are he for whom we have so long waited."

As he spoke, all eyes were turned to the Round Table; for whenever a new knight joined the circle, it was the custom for his name to appear by some mysterious power above the seat he was to occupy. Two places next the throne had never yet been taken, and were regarded with great awe and wonder by the knights. And now, behold! there above the second place, in characters of living fire, blazed out the name of the hero, "Percivale."

If we go back for a moment to the earlier days of the Christian Era, we will remember that the cup used by our Lord at the Last Supper came into possession of Joseph of Arimathea-he who gave his own tomb for the Saviour's burial place. place. When Christ was taken down from the cross, Joseph caught a few drops of the sacred blood in this vessel, and there they had since remained.