from truth, which in the least article I am not conscious of, may we not venture to say they had not their equals at any one time in any one theatre in Europe?"

The time covered by Cibber's "Apology" was an eventful period in European history, whether we consider it from the standpoint of political or intellectual development. The stage was an important center for the dissemination of ideas, the scattering of opinions amongst the people. Therefore the Government took a special interest in the plays produced, and more than one political theory was carried on a crest of success or buried under a wave of failure which started in a playhouse under the glare of such footlights as the time afforded. It is interesting to follow in the "Apology" the rise of interest in the theatre; the Government's

relation to the stage; the attitude of the players to the managers and to the playwrights; the change of opinion as to the propriety of the appearance of women on the stage; and the influence of the religious feeling or lack of feeling on the character of the plays produced. For light on these interesting subjects Cibber's book is a storehouse of exceptional value, a source, the testimony of an eye-witness. And if we take what he says for what it is worth; if we read in the light of the time and with some knowledge of the author; if we do not forget that Cibber was intolerantly antiCatholic and most servile in his attitude towards the Court, which was bitter in its Protestantism, we ought to be able to fill out the outlines he gives us so as to get a fairly accurate knowledge of the London stage during one of its most influential periods.

HE Baron de Chatenay had

T dined at his club, and about

half-past eight, having sipped

his black coffee, he sallied forth in the beautiful June moonlight, undecided how to finish his evening. Finally, having passed several theatres, he crossed the street and paused in front of one of those small but well-conducted places of amusement with which Paris is filled. Having purchased his ticket, he was about to ascend the short staircase which led to the foyer, when he bethought him of the overcoat still on his arm, and turning, placed it in the keeping of Madame Amelia, to whom he was well known. At the same time he observed that her companion was absent, and that she seemed to be alone in custody of the numerous wraps which lay on the broad counter before her.

"I do not see Madame Girard," said the Baron. "Is she taking a little vacation?"

"No, Monsieur," was the reply. "She is not taking a little vacation, but a very long one. She will return no more."

"No more? I am sorry. I am used to seeing her here. She is a very obliging person. Where has she gone?"

"To the hospital, Monsieur." "Do you tell me so!" exclaimed the Baron, who was fifty-seven, with an unusually kind heart, and more interested in human nature than in the drama he was about to witness, of which one act had already been played.

"The first act is just finished, sir," said Madame Amelia. "If you do not mind, I can tell you the whole story in a few moments, during the intermission."

"I beg that you will do so," answered the Baron, leaning on the counter. "Poor Madam Girard!"

"Well, this is the truth of it. For a long time I had noticed that she was not looking well, and that her usual kind disposition was sometimes a little ruffled, but I laid it all to the number and fatigue of her labors, as well as to the approach of old age. I know how it is myself, Monsieur. At last I said. to her one morning:

"But you are not well, Madame-I know you are not well. Your skin is so yellow and your eyes so dull-there must be something the matter with you.' For a moment she did not answer me. Then she said, in a voice very calm and unconcerned, 'I am going to die presently, Amelie. I have an incurable disease.' At first I did not know what to say. I was so shocked, so distressed, and so surprised at her apparent indifference. But after I had collected my senses, I tried to persuade her that she was mistaken, that while there was life there was hope, besides repeating all the other senseless and futile remarks that people make, under the same conditions, every day of the year. After I had quite finished, she looked at me. with the same calm expression and answered as before:

"I am going to die very soon.'

"What could I do, Monsieur? What could I say? I had simply to keep silence, and hope for the best. After that time, as though the revelation she had made me had taken away some of her strength with the breaking-down of the barrier of reserve and secrecy, so long maintained, she began to fail rap

idly. She never complained, but could no longer attend to her duties as she had formerly done. She came and went in a cab, but I was glad to do her work and my own for the sake of keeping her beside me; we had been companions so long. But at last the day came when she could endure no more; she was obliged to go to the Hotel Dieu."

"That is best," said the Baron.

"She is in Ward 17. I went to see her last Sunday. She seems well content, though she suffers greatly. Poor woman, she never had much happiness in life. She was very well-born, married early to a man who spent her fortune and then deserted her, after death had taken from her two lovely children. But she was glad to know that they were in Heaven, Monsieur, after she had begun to struggle with the world. She had a little money saved, but her illness has consumed it all. It is sad to think that she must die as a pauper, is it not, Monsieur ?"

"Very sad," answered the Baron. "I had always observed something superior about Madame Girard."

"Will you believe it, Monsieur," said Madame Amelie, "that of all our patrons, many of whom knew her very well, you are the first to inquire for her? That is also very sad; do you not think so?"

"Probably they thought, as I did, that she was taking a vacation," observed the Baron.

"That may be. But she will be glad, I know, to hear that you asked, Monsieur. She was always so grateful for every kindness."

"I will thank you for my coat," said the Baron. "The second act has begun : I will come another evening. Good night, Madame Amelie."

"A perfect gentleman!" said Madame Amelie to herself as the Baron slowly

sauntered through the vestibule to the crowded boulevard.

Arrived at his bachelor apartments, he lit a cigar, and entered upon a long reverie. He had known the friendly work-woman for twenty years. Something in her face, deeply lined with care. and sorrow, had attracted him from the first night, when he had heard her ask of Madame Amelie, in a whisper, the name of the gentleman-his own-whose cloak had just been given to her care. And there was a fleeting reminiscence in the turn of her cheek, in the shape and expression of her eyes-which must in youth have been very beautiful-a suggestion of some one he had known, that always vanished before he could place it. And she had been so grateful! Several times when he had pressed an extra franc into her toil-worn hand, he had seen the tears come to her eyes. He remembered her profile, so clear-cut, he might say so aristocratic. To-night, in some indefinable manner, it mingled itself with that of his mother and that of his cousin Jeanne, who had been a famous beauty, till his spirits ebbing lower and lower as one thought following another opened wider the gates of memory, he exclaimed aloud. "I am surely getting old, when the illness of a poor 'ouvriere' can throw me into a state like this." Hastily ringing for his valet, he went gloomily to bed.

related to him by her old companion, and at once became possessed by the desire to enter and inquire for the sick woman. He was really a man who deprecated his own goodness, and as he approached the entrance, tried to persuade himself that he was prompted rather by curiosity than the wish to do a kindly act for a suffering fellow-creature and perhaps in some manner aid in softening the horrors of her dying bed.

His courteous manner, his gentle voice, his air of distinction, all made a most favorable impression on the Sister who received him and led him through long corridors and up and down stairways till they came to Ward 17 and the door was pushed open to give him. admission.

Madame Girard occupied the third bed from the right. He saw her at once; her eyes were closed, her hands clasped on her bosom, her face so pallid that at first he thought her dead. As he approached, hat in hand, the two Sisters who were standing beside it separated and made room for him. "She is very low," said one of them, "she may die at any moment. Are you a friend of this lady, Monsieur?"

"I have known her-in the line of her employment for many years," replied the Baron. "She was a good creature."

"Yes," was the rejoinder, "very patient, and gentle and grateful for every service. Refined, also, above her station, Monsieur." The visitor was regarding closely the face of the sick woman, who had slightly turned towards him. He started, so strikingly did her profile resemble that of his own mother on her death-bed. Suddenly she opened her eyes and a look of recognition illumined their clouded depths. The trembling hands unclasped; she held them towards him, one would say almost as though wishing to embrace him.

Confused, but anxious to gratify what would probably be her last wish, De Chatenay leaned forward.

"Armand!" she murmured, so faintly that the Sisters at the foot of the bed could not have distinguished what was said. But he, hearing his own name, instantly and fully comprehended. The red blood mounted to his face; gasping, he stood upright. The light died out of her eyes, her hands fumbled aimlessly among the covers.

"Marie-Louise was-the twin sister of the Baron de Chatenay," she mumbled, but only the man beside her heard; his hands clenched in agony, his knees trembling.

"She wanders," observed the nun, and as she spoke, the tired eyes closed. It seemed to the Baron that years of agony were compassed in the short space of time in which he stood gazing at the form before him, that of his twinsister, who had secretly left her father's house forty years before with a servant and 20,000 francs, which she had taken from her mother's escritoire; whose offence had been so great, so unpardonable, that her name had never again been spoken in the family she had humiliated and disgraced. But the agony was not to be prolonged. A little flutter of the eyelids, a scarcely perceptible sigh, and the tragedy was over.

"Here, Sister," said the Baron de Chatenay to the attendant, placing two notes of a hundred francs each in her hand. "Have some Masses said, and see that she is not buried in a pauper's grave."

When he left the hospital, the Baron directed his steps towards a certain chapel which he often passed in his walks but never entered. But to-day he did so, impelled by the desire of asking God's forbearance with a careless life, for grace, protection, mercy. He often goes there now.

I

N the beginning of January Bishop Stang wrote: "I look upon Father Denifle as one of the greatest men.of the great Order of St. Dominic. It is my intention to make known his works to the English-speaking world."

A little later, before even the month had passed, the Master of Life and Death took the pen from the hand of the strong and vigorous apostle, and called him to Himself. In honor of his memory we have taken up our own weak pen to continue, to the best of our ability, the work which the learned bishop left undone.

In the three last numbers of THE RO

SARY MAGAZINE we have tried to give an idea of Father Denifle's last work, "Luther and Lutherthum." Now we ask our reader to follow us to Father Denifle's first great work-a new, learned, critical publication of the German writings of Blessed Henry Suso.

Martin Luther and Henry Suso, these two most popular and influential religious writers of Germany of the sixteenth and fourteenth centuries, respectively, are diametrically opposed to each other both in character and doctrine.

Luther was naturally proud, violent and passionate, while Suso, like his Master, was kind, gentle and "meek and humble of heart." Luther's language, which is so often praised, teems with expressions of bitterness and vulgarity, while Suso's is always noble, flowery and poetic. Luther neglected the interior life of the soul, that is, prayer and mortification, and taught the religious

world to ignore the commandments; Suso was a perfect model of a devout soul. Living in solitude, he made his heart Christlike by constant prayer and austere penances, and became thus a master of the ascetic life, a leader of souls to Heaven. To turn one's thoughts from Martin Luther to Henry Suso, means to turn from the tempestuous, angry sea to the contemplation of the serene, starry heavens.

Blessed Henry Suso was born of noble parents, in Swabia, in the year 1300. From his devout mother he inherited a tender, loving heart, which God enriched and adorned with many exceptional graces. When but thirteen years of age he joined the Dominican Order. He studied at the University of Cologne, which still breathed the spirit of a Blessed Albert and of a St. Thomas of Aquin, and became, with Venerable Tauler, a disciple of Master Eckhart, the Father of German mysticism.

Many of his fruitful years were spent in a convent facing the calm Lake Constance and surrounded by the inspiring Alps.

The world has honored him with the title of "Prince of Mystic Theologians," and the Church calls him "blessed," and has set apart a day, the second of March, for the celebration of his feast.

The great work of Father Denifle, which we wish to bring before our readers, reviews four books of Blessed Henry Suso: His interior life, with an introduction to an ascetic life for beginners; the "Book of Eternal Wisdom;" the "Book of Eternal Truth;" and "Letters on Religious Life."