sion, one of their number was called upon under peculiarly historic circumstances to discharge his sacred functions. It was the night of Shrove Tuesday, 1867, that night remarkable in the chequered history of our country, when the Fenians marched out from the city by different roads, and proceeded towards the Dublin mountains. When the contingent that came along by Tallaght reached the village, they attacked the constabulary barracks. The police fired, and one of the assailants, poor Stephen spent between Dublin and Rome, and fresh from his victory over Froude in the United States, Father Burke, the great preacher. He came, it may be said, to die; for albeit he lived nearly ten years more, and preached frequently during that time throughout the country, the fell disease that was to take him off had seized upon him. Those were years of intense suffering, borne I have been told by one who lived with him (and to whom I am indebted for much information concerning him), with Christian— the custom at the death of a Dominican, the "Salve Regina," he gave up his soul to God at the comparatively early age of fifty-two. Gently did his brethrensome of whom had been trained in religious life by himself-a few days after, lay him beneath the walls of his unfinished church, in the presence of a large concourse of people, a great number of priests, many of whom came from England and Scotland, and nearly the entire Catholic hierarchy of Ireland. Soon did his countrymen complete it as his chief memorial. Within its consecrated walls, at the right as you enter, does he rest, awaiting the Resurrection; whilst daily in its choir the children of Dominic, professing the same faith as Aengus and Maelruain, sing the praises of the Lord. Verily, we may say, in the words of the great Lacordaire, "Monks and oaks are eternal." Veni Creator Spiritus Come, Spirit of the mighty Word, Well art Thou called the Paraclete; Thy mercies comfort and condole, Thou fount of life, the love, the heat, And soothing unction of the soul. Bearer of seven-fold blessedness, Finger of God to guide and teach, Shedding from heaven the promised grace, Enriching tongues with holy speech. Kindle our senses with Thy light, Thy love into our bosoms pour, Sustain each weakness with Thy might, And raise our souls for evermore. Drive from our paths the evil one, Bring gentle peace to crown our day; With Thee before us leading on, We shall not from Thy mercy stray. Grant that we may the Father know, And feel the love of Christ the Son, Through Thee, and in Thy holy glow Forever see the Three-in-one. Be glory to the Father given And to the risen Son, and Thee, NOTE This celebrated hymn is generally believed to be the production of the Emperor Charlemagne. The earliest record of its use is contained in the annals of the Benedictine Order. The occasion was the translation, in the year 898, of the relics of St. Marcellus, but the hymn was probably written many years earlier. There is no reason to doubt the ability of the great Emperor to produce the poem; and there is a record of a letter by him to his Bishops on a similar subject. As he died in the year 814, the poem must have been written not far from the beginning of the ninth century. Veni Creator Spiritus, Donum Dei altissimi, Sermone ditans guttura. Virtute firmans perpeti. Credamus omni tempore. Sancto simul Paraclito, Nobisque mittat Filius Charisma sancti Spiritus. Amen. For more than a thousand years it has been constantly sung throughout Western Christendom as part of the appointed offices for the coronation of kings, the profession of converts, the consecration and ordination of bishops and priests, the assembling of synods and other great ecclesiastical ceremonies. It is notable as being the only Breviary hymn which has been retained in the services of the English Church. I have attempted to make my translation as close as a strict adherence to the spirit and strength of the original would allow.D. J. DONAHOE. G By J. E. COPUS, S. J. (CUTHBERT) Author of "Harry Russell," "Saint Cuthbert," "Shadows Lifted," etc. I. GERALD. ERALD ALBURY, aged twelve, sat cross-legged in a deep seat in a bay window, oblivious to the noise his brothers and sisters were making in the room. He was reading a tale of knight-errantry. Gerald had the faculty of becoming absorbed in a book, and of living with its heroes for the time being, to the complete exclusion of any consciousness of his immediate surroundings. His active. imagination had seen, as vividly as if he had actually been present, Sir Launcefal tie the scarf of his lady fair on his arm, take from her the stirrup-cup, and then ride off in search of adventures in her honor. The boy could see the weeping lady retire with her maids to her hall, with a heart so full of sympathy for her grief, that he actually found himself shedding a few tears over her sorrow at parting with her knight. Just at this critical moment, Willie, a brother who was younger than Gerald by one year, pulled aside the curtains of the window alcove and saw the subject of this story brush away a tear with the cuff of his coat-sleeve. "Oh! look, Blanche," said Willie, to his sister, "Gerald is crying over a book. Silly! silly! silly!" Blanche peered at Gerald as if he were a living curiosity, and then remarked: "Isn't he stupid! my! I can't see how boys can cry over people in books." Little Johnny agreed with her. Blanche, the vivacious, was not more than nine years old, and so she could not be expected to know much about story-books, and heroes and heroines. Gerald paid but little attention to her. He turned, however, upon Master William. "You just shut up," he said, rudely.. "I am not silly. How would you like to be a lovely lady left all alone in a big, big castle with ghosts, and dragons, and robbers, and murderers, and chains and rumbles and everything when her lover has gone away to fight?" "I wouldn't cry one bit," said Willie, the obduraté. "Nor I, either," said Blanche. "That's 'cause you are hard-hearted," replied Gerald, "and can't feel for the sorrows of others, and can't see things in a book, as pa says, and 'cause you haven't got any sense or feeling. People as haven't got any sense never read books. You would rather go and play with Blanche's dolls, that's what you would do." Gerald made this rather long speech for two reasons. He wanted the younger children to forget they had seen him in tears-no boy likes to be caught in that condition-and he desired to continue his reading unmolested. He was partially successful. Blanche dropped the curtain and slipped away. William, boy-like, would not give up so soon. "I don't see-" he began. "Oh! you go off and play dolls with Charlotte and Blanche. I heard you tell mamma the other day that you would rather keep doll-house than read storybooks or play ball. Keeping dolls ain't no boys' work, anyhow." The youthful scorn with which Gerald uttered this last remark completely vanquished his adversary. For a moment Willie had not a word to say, but as he dropped the alcove curtain he fired a parting shot: "Well, if I do play dolls with Blanche and Lotty, I don't have to. You have to read books 'cause mamma said you was to stay in the window-seat all the afternoon, 'cause you've been naughty." Master William retired with all colors flying, and left him who had "been naughty" to his own reflections. His words were perfectly true. That morning Gerald had been troublesome to a degree that had sorely tried the patience of Mrs. Albury and Martha, the housekeeper. It had been raining all day, and although it was summer vacation time, the children had, perforce, to remain within doors. After breakfast they had gone to their playroom, and both mistress and maid congratulated themselves on the quietness of those upstairs. But Master Gerald soon tired of playing ring-around-the-rosy. He had arrived at the mature age of twelve, and therefore, with infinite disdain, despised all such trivialities as doll-houses and pewter tea-sets. It was not long before he stole away from the nursery. After wandering from room to room in the big house, he was, like iron to the lodestone, attracted to the pantry. was If we could have read Gerald's mind we should probably have discovered his intention of making for the pantry as soon as he escaped from his brothers and sisters. Some boys are politic, and on this occasion Gerald was remarkably so. He was not sure whether his mother not still in the regions of the kitchen. It was well to be safe, you know. And then Martha! It was necessary to watch her movements, for she was the unquestioned ogress of the kitchen, who watched with jealous eye over the riches of the pantry, and had been known to drive off-even with a broom-handle-all rash intruders into her domain. watched and waited that wet vacation morning, going from one room to another in an apparently aimless sort of way, nevertheless keeping a sharp eye and an alert ear for the whereabouts of Martha. Presently he heard her go upstairs. The rattle of the dust-pan and brushes was music to his ears. By the sound he knew that she had gone to the upper rooms to set them in order. The coast was clear, and the enchanted land of the pantry was, for the nonce, unguarded. It was Saturday, and Martha, as a provident housekeeper, had already done the preliminary cooking for Sunday in the shape of pies, custards and cookies. Half an hour before, Master Gerald had become aware of this fact by his nostrils being assailed with the odors from the kitchen, and now he was sure that the pantry was a treasure-house of untold riches. It would not be entirely fair to Gerald's reputation to tell how many little custards he demolished, or how many cookies vanished during his visit, or what depredations were committed among his mother's little pots of jam and jelly. It was the old tale. Stolen sweets are sweetest. And it was the old tale, too, in its consequences, for just as he was enjoying his feast, or to speak more correctly, after he had enjoyed his feast to surfeiting, and there had arisen a few qualms which were not those of conscience, but which came from a region rather lower than that where a boy's conscience is supposed to reside-he heard some one enter the kitchen. Was it Martha? Was it his mother? Unfortunately for the young depredator, in his eagerness at the sight of the good things on the shelves, he had not taken the precaution to shut himself in the pantry, and so lessened his chances of escaping detection. The boy's heart pal So Master Gerald Gregory Albury pitated, as all wrong doers' hearts do when they are caught. He slipped behind the pantry door, in the slim hope of remaining undiscovered. He heard, with a sinking of the heart, the dust-pan and brushes being put away in the cupboard beneath the sink. Martha had returned! The boy waited. breathlessly for developments. "My! my!" from his hiding-place he heard the housekeeper say, "who left that pantry door open! I wonder if them cats-” Gerald caught the sound of hurried feet approaching. Oh! why had he stayed so long! Why had he eaten so much! Gerald now asked himself. Martha entered her own particular realm of the pantry. "Bless those cats! they've been here, surely. I wonder why missus keeps so many in the ho—” She did not finish. Looking around for a possible intruder she espied Master Gerald's perennially muddy shoes protruding beyond the sheltering door. "So you are the cat, are you! Well, you naughty boy! I'll just call your mother straight away. That's what I'll do!" "Oh! Martha! Martha, dear, don't. I feel sick. Please don't call mamma." "Yes I will, you ba-ad boy! The domestic, thoroughly angry whren she saw how many of her cup-custards were demolished, and what a hole there was in her plate of sweet cakes, took Gerald by the arm into the kitchen where she gave him a vigorous shaking. With this partial relief to her feelings, she opened the kitchen door and called loudly upstairs: "Mrs. Albury, do please come down a minute. Here's Gerald doing awful things." The mother of Gerald came down in a flurry of excitement. While not exactly a timid woman, she relied very much on the faithful house-servant's assistance in the management of her children. She lived in more or less dread that her reliable maid would leave her. She realized the value of a good servant, and owing to the fear of losing her, was more or less under her sway. As soon as she entered the kitchen she saw that the cook was very angry and determined to have the culprit chastised. "What have you been doing, Gerald?" she asked. "He's been stealin', mum; that's what he's been doing." "Is that so, Gerald?" "Sure it's so, mum, or I wouldn't be saying it. Just look into the pantry, mum, and all my cooking for Sunday gone, and most of the rest sp'iled," answered the irate domestic. "Why don't you answer, Gerald?" again asked the mother. Martha was too angry to allow him an opportunity. "Answer, is it, mum? Sure, there's nothing to answer by the likes of him. Don't the empty cups speak loud enough without him answering a word!" With a shrewdness born of many a delinquency, Gerald saw that it would be merely adding fuel to Martha's firewere he to open his lips. He, therefore,. remained silent, while the domestic gave voice to her wrath with the greatest volubility. It was an appalling resume of our young friend's recent transgressions, and it wound up with the alarming statement: "And it's my firm conviction, mum, that the likes of such is born for the gallows. Isn't he starting young with his thieving ways. It's meself that wouldn't undertake to say where it will end." Mrs. Albury rather resented so strong an imputation against her first-born. What mother would not? "It's not so bad as all that, Martha. Still he's a very bad boy." "Bad is it. He couldn't do worse than steal my Sunday custards. It's you that will punish him right now, mum?" "I will tell his father when he comes home." |