CHAPTER XIX.

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DONAHOE'S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XV. BOSTON, FEBRUARY, 1886. No. 2

"THE future of the Irish race in this country, will depend largely

upon their capability of assuming an independent attitude in

American politics."--RIGHT REV. DOCTOR IRELAND, _St. Paul_, _Minn._

The Columbian Abbey of Derry.

One bright sunny day last summer I found myself in the city of Derry,

with some hours to spare. I passed them in rambling aimlessly about

whither fancy or accident led me,--now on the walls, endeavoring to

recall the particulars of that siege so graphically described by

Macaulay, now in the Protestant Cathedral musing on the proximity of

luxuriously-cushioned pew and cold sepulchral monument along which the

sun, streaming through the stained windows, threw a mellow glow that

softened but did not remove the hideousness of the death's emblems on

them--now wandering down the busy street and admiring the beauties of

the Casino College, which, like the alien cathedral a little distance

up, rejoices in the patronage of St. Columb and is built on the site of

his old monastery. Here I lingered long, trying to picture to myself the

olden glories of the spot on which I stood, for

"I do love these ancient ruins;

We never tread upon them

But we set our foot upon some reverend history;"

although here not an ivy-clasped gable, or even a mossy stone remains to

claim the "passing tribute" of a sigh, or a vain regret for the golden

days of our Irish Church. Yet its very barrenness of ruins made it

dearer to my heart, for one never clings more fondly to the memory of a

dear friend than when all mementoes of him are lost. As warned by the

stroke of the town-clock, I hurried down to the station to be whirled

away to Dublin, I thought that perhaps my fellow-readers of the MAGAZINE

would bear with me while I gossiped for half an hour on the story of

this grand old monastery, the mother-house of Iona.

You know where Derry is, or if you don't your atlas will tell you, that

it is away up in the north of Ireland, where, situated on the shores of

the Lough Foyle, coiling its streets round the slopes of a hill till on

the very summit they culminate in the cross-crowned tower of St.

Columb's Cathedral, it lies in the midst of a beautiful country just

like a cameo fallen into a basket of flowers. The houses cluster round

the base of the hill on the land side, spread themselves in irregular

masses over the adjoining level, or clamber up the opposite rise on the

brow of which stands St. Eugene's Cathedral, yet unfinished, and the

pile of turrets which constitute Magee College. A noble bridge spans the

Foyle, and through a forest of shipmasts one may see on the other side

the city rising up from the water, and stretching along the bending

shore till it becomes lost in the villa-studded woods of Prehen.

The massive walls, half hidden by encroaching commerce, the grim-looking

gates, and the old rusty cannon whose mouth thundered the "No" of the

"Maiden City" to the rough advances of James, in 1689, give the city a

mediaeval air that well accords with its monastic origin. For, let her

citizens gild the bitter pill as they may, the cradle of Derry--the

Rochelle of Irish Protestantism--was rocked by monks--aye, by monks in

as close communion with Rome as are the dread Jesuits to-day.

Fourteen hundred years ago the Foyle flowed on to mingle its waters with

ocean as calmly as it does to-day, but its peaceful bosom reflected a

far different scene. Then the fair, fresh face of nature was unsullied

by the hand of man. "The tides flowed round the hill which was of an

oval form, and rose 119 feet above the level of the sea, thus forming an

island of about 200 acres."[1] A Daire or oak grove spread its leafy

shade over the whole, and gave shelter to the red deer and an unceasing

choir of little songsters. It was called in the language of the time

"Daire-Calgachi." The first part of the name in the modern form of

Derry, still remains--though now the stately rows of oak have given way

to the streets of a busy city, and the smoke of numerous factories

clouds the atmosphere.

One day, in the early part of 546, there visited the grove, in company

with the local chieftain, a youth named Columba, a scion of the royal

race of the O'Donnells. He was captivated by its beauty. It seemed the

very spot for the monastery he was anxious to establish. He was only a

deacon; but the fame of his sanctity had already filled the land, and

the princes of his family were ever urging him to found a monastery

whose monks, they hoped, would reflect his virtues and increase the

faith and piety of their clan. This seemed the very spot for such an

establishment. The neighborhood of the royal fortress of Aileach, that

"Sits evermore like a queen on her throne

And smiles on the valleys of green Innishowen,"

promised security; the river an unfailing supply of fish; the woods

material to build with; and, better than all, the lord of the district

was his cousin Ainmire, from whom Columba had only to ask to receive. He

did ask the island for God, and his request was joyfully complied with.

It was just three years after the deacon-abbot of Monte Casino had

passed to his reward, that the young Irish deacon began his monastery.

To erect monastic buildings in those days was a work of very little

labor. A wooden church, destined in the course of time to give place to

a more durable edifice--the seat of a bishopric--was first erected. Then

the cells of the monks were put up. They were of circular form and of

the simplest construction. A stout post was firmly planted in what was

to be the centre, and a number of slighter poles were then placed at

equal distances round it. The interstices--space however having been

left for a door--were filled up with willow or hazel saplings in the

form of basketwork. From the outer poles rafters sprang to the

centre-posts, and across them were laid rows of laths over which a fibry

web of sod was thrown, and the whole thatched with straw or rushes. The

inside of the wall was lined with moss--the outside plastered with soft

clay. A rough wooden bed--and in the case of Columba himself and many of

his monks--a stone pillow, a polaire or leathern satchel for holding

books, a writing-desk and seat, formed the furniture of this rude cell,

which was the ordinary dwelling of monk and student during the golden

age of the Irish Church.

Only a few weeks elapsed from the time that the first tree was felled

till the new community, or rather order, took up their abode in it, and

the swelling strain of their vespers was borne down the Lough by the

rippling breeze and echoed by the religious, whose convents, presided

over by SS. Frigidian and Cardens sentinelled the mouth of the Lough at

Moville and Coleraine. The habit of these monks--similar to that of Iona

and Lindisfarne, consisted of "[2]the cowl--of coarse texture, made of

wool, retaining its natural color and the tunic, or under habit, which

was also white. If the weather was particularly severe an amphibalus, or

double mantle, was permitted. When engaged at work on the farm the

brethern wore sandals which were not used within the monastery."

Though their time was mainly devoted to prayer, meditation and the

various other religious exercises, yet their rule made them apply every

spare moment to copying and illuminating MSS. or some other kind of

manual or intellectual labor, according as their strength and talents

permitted. By this, people were attracted to the spot. Houses sprang up

in the neighborhood of the monastery, that continually increasing in

number, at length grew into a city, just as from a similar monastic germ

have sprung nearly all the great German cities.

Columba in the busy years that elapsed between 546 and his final

departure from Ireland in 563, looked upon Derry as his home. It was his

first and dearest monastery. It was in his own Tyrconnell, but a few

miles from that home by Lough Gartan, where he first saw the light, and

from his foster home amid the mountains of Kilmacrenan, that, rising

with their green belts of trees and purple mantles of heather over the

valleys, seemed like huge festoons hung from the blue-patched horizon.

Then the very air was redolent of sanctity. If he turned to the south,

the warm breezes that swayed his cowl reminded him that away behind

those wooded hills in Ardstraw, prayed Eugene, destined to share with

him the patronage of the diocese, and that farther up, St. Creggan,

whose name the Presbyterian farmers unconsciously preserve in the

designation of their townland, Magheracreggan, presided over

Scarrabern, the daughter-house of Ardstraw. Then turning slowly

northwards he would meet with the persons, or relics, of St. O'Heney in

Banagher, St. Sura in Maghera, St. Martin in Desertmartin, St. Canice in

Limavady, St. Goar in Aghadoey, St. Cardens in Coleraine, St. Frigidian

in Moville, St. Comgell in Culdaff, St. McCartin in Donagh, St. Egneach

in the wildly beautiful pass of Mamore, St. Mura in Fahan, and his own

old teacher, St. Cruithnecan in Kilmacrenan. All these, and many others,

whose names tradition but feebly echoes, were contemporary, or nearly

so, with him; and with many of them, he was united in the warmest bonds

of friendship,--a friendship that served to rivet him the more to Derry.

Even the budding glories of Durrow and Kells could not draw him away

from his "loved oak-grove;" and at length, when the time had come for

him to go forth and plant the faith in a foreign land, it was the monks

of Derry who received his last embrace ere he seated himself with his

twelve companions, also monks of Derry, in his little osier coracle, and

with tearful eyes watched his grove till the topmost leaf had sunk

beneath the curving wave.

When twenty-seven years after he visited his native land, as the deputy

of an infant nation and the saviour of the bards, on whom, but for his

kindly intercession, the hand of infuriated justice had heavily fallen,

his first visit was to Derry. It was probably during this visit that he

founded that church on the other side of the Foyle, whose ivy-clad walls

and gravelled area the reader of "Thackeray's Sketch Book" may remember;

but few know that it was wantonly demolished by Dr. Weston (1467-1484),

the only Englishman who ever held the See of Derry; and "who," adds

Colgan, "began out of the ruins to build a palace for himself, which the

avenging hand of God did not allow him to complete."

Columba's heart ever yearned to Derry. In one of his poems he tells us

"how my boat would fly if its prow were turned to my Irish oak grove."

And one day when "that grey eye, which ever turned to Erin," was gazing

wistfully at the horizon, where Ireland ought to appear, his love for

Derry found expression in a little poem, the English version of which I

transcribed from Cardinal Moran's "Irish Saints."

"Were the tribute of all Alba mine,

From its centre to its border,

I would prefer the sight of one cell

In the middle of fair Derry.

"The reason I love Derry is

For its quietness, for its purity;

Crowded full of heaven's angels,

Is every leaf of the oaks of Derry.

"My Derry, my little oak grove,

My abode and my little cell,

O eternal God in heaven above,

Woe be to him who violates it."

With the same love that he himself had for his "little oak grove," he

seems to have inspired the annalists of his race, for on turning over

the pages of the Four Masters, the eye is arrested by such entries as,--

"1146, a violent tempest blew down sixty oaks in Derry-Columbkille."

"1178, a storm prostrated one hundred and twenty oaks in

Derry-Columbkille."

* * * * *

These little tokens of reverence for the trees, which had been

sanctified by his presence and love, show us how deep a root his memory

had in the affections of the Donegal Franciscans, when they paused in

their serious and compendious work to record every little accident that

happened to his monastery. But, alas, all the protection that

O'Donnell's clan might afford, all the fear that Columba's "Woe" might

inspire, could not save his grove. Like many a similar one in Ireland,

storms, and the destructive hand of man, have combined to blot it off

the face of the landscape, and nothing now remains but the name.

The monastery, too, shared the same fate. Burned by the Danes in 812,

989, 997 and 1095, phoenix-like it rose again from its ashes, each

time in greater beauty. The church, after one of these burnings, was

rebuilt of stone; and from its charred and blackened appearance after

the next burning, received the name of Dubh-Regles or Black Church of

the Abbey--a name by which in the Annals the monastery itself is often

called.

But Derry had other enemies than the Danes. In 1124 we find "Ardgar,

Prince of Aileach, killed by the ecclesiastics of Doire-Columbkille in

the defence of their church. His followers in revenge burned the town

and churches." The then abbot was St. Gelasius, who, after presiding

sixteen years over the monastery, which he had entered a novice in early

youth, was, in 1137, raised to the Primatial See of Armagh; and dying in

1174, nearly closes the long calendar of Irish Saints. The first year of

his abbacy (1121) had been marked by the death in the monastery of

"Domwald Magloughlin Ardrigh of Erin, a generous prince, charitable to

the poor and liberal to the rich, who, feeling his end approaching, had

withdrawn thither,"--a fact which shows the great veneration in which

this monastery was held.

The name of the next abbot, Flathbert O'Brolcan, or Bradley, is one of

the brightest in the Annals of Derry. He was greatly distinguished for

his sanctity and learning, but still more for his administrative

abilities. As abbot of Derry he was present at the Synod of Kells in

1152. Six years after, at the Synod of Brightaig (near Trim, county

Meath), a continuation or prorogation of that of Kells, Derry was

created an Episcopal See and Flathbert appointed its first bishop. A

much more honorable distinction was given him, when by the same synod,

he was appointed "prefect general of all the abbeys of Ireland," an

appointment which must probably be limited to the Columbian Abbeys,

which were at the time very numerous. Some idea of the wealth and power

of the Columbian order may be gathered from the records that the Masters

have given us of Flathbert's visitations. "In 1150 he visited Tireoghain

(Tyrone), and obtained a horse from every chieftain; a cow from every

two biataghs; a cow from every three freeholders; a cow from every four

villeins; and twenty cows from the king himself; a gold ring of five

ounces, his horse and battle-dregs from the son of O'Lochlain, king of

Ireland." "In 1153 he visited Down and Antrim and got a horse from

every chieftain; a sheep from every hearth; a horse and five cows from

O'Dunlevy, and an ounce of gold from his wife." And in 1161 he visited

Ossory, and "in lieu of the tribute of seven score oxen due to him,

accepted four hundred and twenty ounces of pure silver."

But though thus honored by the hierarchy and people, enemies were not

wanting to him. In 1144 the monastery had been burned and hostile clouds

were again gathering round it, when in 1163 Flathbert erected a cashel

or series of earthen fortifications, which baffled for a time the enmity

of the plunderer. A passing calm was thus assured him, of which he took

advantage, in 1164, to commence the building of his Cathedral, called in

Irish "Teampull-mor," a name which one of the city parishes still

retains. But the times were troublous, and hardly was the Cathedral

finished than we find in 1166 "O'More burning Derry as far as the church

Dubh-Regles."

In 1175, on the death of their abbot the monks of Iona elected

Flathbert; but he felt that the shadows of death were gathering round

him, and he would not leave his own monastery of Derry. He died the same

year, and "was buried in the monastery, leaving a great reputation for

wisdom and liberality;" but before his death he had the pleasure of

knowing that "1175, Donough O'Carolan perfected a treaty of friendship

with the abbey and town, and gave to the abbey a betagh townland of

Donoughmore and certain duties."

Some years before his death Flathbert had resigned the See of Derry in

favor of Dr. Muredach O'Coffey,[3] who, having been consecrated bishop

of Ardstraw had, in 1150, transferred that See to Maghera or Rathlure,

thus uniting Ardstraw and Rathlure. His accession to Derry joined the

three into one, to which under Dr. O'Carolan in the next century,

Innishowen was added, thus forming the modern diocese.

Dr. O'Coffey took up his residence in the abbey where, on the 10th of

February, 1173, he breathed his last. Archdall in his Monasticon calls

him "St. Muredach;" but the old Annalists content themselves with saying

that "he was the sun of science, the precious stone and resplendent gem

of knowledge, the bright star and rich treasury of learning; and as in

charity so, too, was he powerful in pilgrimage and prayer." The Masters

add that "a great miracle was performed on the night of his death; the

dark night was illumined from midnight to day-break; and the neighboring

parts of the world which were visible were in one blaze of light; and

all persons arose from their beds imagining it was day."

But I must now hasten to the end, for there is little in the history of

the next four centuries over which one loves to linger. The story it

tells is the old one of robberies and murders and burnings. It records

the first rumblings of that storm so soon to break over that land and

make of our island a vast coliseum, drenching it with the blood of

martyrs. I have often thought what a pang it must have cost the heart of

Brother Michael Oblery to pen such entries as these:

"1195, Rury, son of Dunlere, chief of Ulidia, plunders

Derry-Columbkille with an English force."

"1197, Sir John De Courcy plunders the abbey of Derry."

"1198, Sir John De Courcy again plunders Derry abbey."

How his eyes must have filled as he glanced in memory over the long tale

of his country's sufferings, on the record of which he was about to

enter. 'Twas bad enough to see the Dane lay sacrilegious hands on the

sacred vessels; but it was worse still to behold one's fellow-Catholic

apply the robber's torch to the church of God where, perhaps, at that

very moment our Lord himself lay hid under the sacramental veils. Yet

these were the men who, from the Loire to the Jordan had fought the

church's battle so gallantly,--whose countrymen would only hold the

Calabrian kingdom, that their lances had purchased so dearly, as vassals

of the Pope,--the very men who themselves were studding the Pale with

those architectural gems, of which the ruins of Dunbrody and its sister

abbeys still speak so eloquently. It was a strange fancy that made them

tumble the Irish monastery to-day, and lay the foundation of an

Anglo-Irish one to-morrow. Yet so it was; for in the charters of many of

those monasteries, in which, it was enacted in 1380, that no mere

Irishman should be allowed to take vows, the name of John De Courcy is

entered as founder or benefactor. One hardly knows whether to condemn

him for destroying Columba's favorite abbey, or praise him for the

solicitude he expresses in his letter to the Pope for the proper

preservation of Columba's relics. The acts of the man and his nation are

so contradictory, that the only reasonable conclusion we can draw from

them is the practical one, never again to wonder that the faith of such

men withered at the first blast of persecution.

Nevertheless, the monastery survived these attacks; for in the early

part of the fifteenth century, we find the then abbot of Derry

negotiating a peace between the English and O'Donnell. But in its

subsequent annals nothing more than the mere date of an inmate's death

meets us till we come to the great catastrophe, which ended at once the

monastery and order of Columba. Cox thus tells the story: "Colonel

Saintlow succeeded Randolph in the command of the garrison and lived as

quietly as could be desired, for the rebels were so daunted by the

former defeat that they did not dare to make any new attempt; but

unluckily on the 24th of April, 1566, the ammunition took fire and blew

up the town and fort of Derry, so that the soldiers were obliged to

embark for Dublin."[4] "This disaster was regarded at the time as a

divine chastisement for the profanation of St. Columba's church and

cell, the latter being used by the heretical soldiery as a repository of

ammunition, while the former was defiled by their profane worship."[5]

J. MCH.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Sampson.]

[Footnote 2: Cardinal Moran "Irish Saints in G. Brit." p 121.]

[Footnote 3: Theiner. Mon. Vat. p. 48.]

An actor once delivered a letter of introduction to a manager, which

described him as an actor of great merit, and concluded: "He plays

Virginius, Richelieu, Hamlet, Shylock, and billiards. He plays billiards

the best."

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 4: Cox. Hist. pt. I. p. 322.]

[Footnote 5: O'Sulliv. Cath. Hist. p. 96.]

The Penitent on the Cross.

Few deeds of guilt are strangers to my eyes,

These hands of mine have wrought full share of sin,

My very heart seemed steeled to pity's cries:

Whence then this thought that melts my soul within?

What is there in that Form that moves me so?

So sweet a victim ne'er mine eyes beheld;

That beauteous face, that majesty of woe,

That hidden something from my sight withheld.

Cease thou at least, nor join the mocking throng,

Thou heartless sharer in our common doom!

Just meed for us, but He hath done no wrong;

All seems so strange--what means the gathering gloom?

That lonely mother, there oppressed with woe,

O'erheard me now I saw her raise her eyes;

To bless me--and with clasping hands as though

She craved a something, through the darkening skies.

Hear how the priests discuss with mocking scorn

The triple scroll above His crowned head.

"Jesus of Nazareth," the lowly born;

"King of the Jews," in Royal David's stead.

Ah, me; but I have heard that name of old

From waylaid victims in my outlaw den.

They won me from fell purpose as they told

His deeds of love and wonder amongst men.

They told me how the sea in billows dashed

Became as marble smooth beneath His feet;

How He rebuked the winds to fury lashed,

And they were hushed to murmurs low and sweet.

He, then it was that gave the blind their sight,

And made the palsied leap with bounding tread;

And as you'd wake the sleeping in the night

From even their sleep awoke the slumbering dead.

Oh, Master, had I known Thee in those days,

Fain might I too have followed Thee as Friend;

But then I was an outlaw by the ways,

And now 'tis late--my days are at an end.

"No, not too late." Oh, God! whose is that voice

That sounds within me such a heavenly strain,

And makes my being to its depths rejoice

As if it felt creation's touch again?

What is that light, that glorious light which brings

Such wondrous knowledge of things all unseen,

And yet wherein I see fair, far-off things

To mortal vision hid, however keen.

And centred in that flood of golden light,

One truth that catches all its scattered beams--

Illumed above the rest so fair, so bright:

It is thy God whose blood beside thee streams.

Oh, God of glory! hear the outlaw's prayer,

And in Thy home but kindly think of me;

I dare but ask to be remembered there,

Nor heaven I seek, but to be loved by Thee.

From off the Cross whereon the Saviour hung

Fell on his ears response of wondrous love,

More sweet than though the cherubim had sung

The sweetest songs they sing in heaven above.

Yes, loved but not remembered thou shalt be--

The absent only may remembrance claim--

But in my kingdom thou shalt dwell with me,

Companion of my glory as my shame.

Amen, amen, I say to thee that thou,

Ere yet another day illume the skies,

With crown unlike to this that binds my brow

Shalt share the glories of my paradise.

F. E. EMON.

The Celt in America.

It is the common delusion of our day that Americans as a people are of

Anglo-Saxon lineage. This has been said and reiterated, until it

descends into the lowest depths of sycophancy and utter folly. It is

false in fact, for above all other claimants, that of the Celt is by far

the best. Glancing back to our primeval history, we find the Kelt to be

the centre-figure of its legends and traditions. We are told by an old

chronicle, that Brendan, an Irishman, discovered this continent about

550 A. D., and named it Irland-Kir-Mikla, or Great Eire; this is

corroborated by the Scandinavians. Iceland was settled in the sixth

century by Irish, and when the Norsemen settled there, they found the

remains of an Irish civilization in churches, ruins, crosses and urns:

thus, it is not at all improbable that the Celts of those islands sent

out exploring parties who discovered for the first time the American

continent. Passing over the myths and legends of that curious and quaint

era, let us read the pages of authentic American history.

On that memorable October day, when the caravels of Columbus came to

anchor in the New World, the Celt acted well his part in that great

drama. He who first reached land, from the ships of Columbus, was a

Patrick Maguiras, an Irishman. Columbus in his second voyage had on

board an Irish priest, Father Boyle, and several of his crew were Celts.

In the early discoveries and settlements the Kelt was ever in the van of

the pioneers of Western civilization; he explored rivers, bays, and

forests, while the Anglo-Saxon scarce tread on American soil until the

close of the sixteenth century. The first gateway to civilization for

the West, was made by priests from France, among whom were many Irish

missionaries, who were forced to fly their native land and seek shelter

elsewhere. St. Augustine and New Mexico were founded by the Spaniards

long before a cabin was built in Jamestown, and the Spanish and French

sovereigns ruled numerous flourishing dependencies in the New World ere

the English Pilgrims had seen Plymouth. The Anglo-Saxons, then, were not

so forward in explorations and discoveries as their neighbors, the Celts

and Latins. Review the epoch of the colonial development, and we find

that the Celt surpasses the Saxon.

The Huguenots fled from France; the Scotchman left his native heather to

escape despotism; the Irishman exiled from his patrimony sought a home

in the American wilds. Many a Spaniard made his Nova Iberia in the

South, and the log-cabins of the French pioneers dotted the

north-western wilderness. The Swedes founded Delaware, and New York was

created by the stolid Dutch. The Moravians and the Welsh came hither

likewise; the Puritans fled Merry England and Quakers sought religious

freedom in America; but the great body of the English people believing

in the State and the religion of their sovereign, had no desire to risk

fortune here, especially when the laws were made for their benefit even

if at the expense of the colonists. Thus, with exceptions of the Quaker

and the Puritan, some few Cavaliers and the paupers, the great body of

the Anglo-Saxon people remained at home. In American colonization,

Anglo-Saxonism was but a drop in the bucket. Among all the famous

thirteen colonies there was not one settled by Saxons exclusively; and

in all of the colonies the Celt predominated. The Puritans when they

founded Massachusetts, rigorously excluded all who differed from them;

nevertheless the Celt waxed strong in New England. "It was," says

Hawthorne, "no uncommon thing in those days to see an

advertisement in the colonial paper, of the

arrival of fresh Irish slaves and potatoes." Bunker Hill itself was

named after a knoll in county Antrim. Faneuil Hall was the gift of a

Celt, and the plan of it was drawn by Berkeley, the Irish philosopher,

who said prophetically,

"Westward the course of empire takes its way;

The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;

Time's noblest empire is the last."

The Boston Irish Charitable Society was organized near a century and a

half ago, and the first paper mill in Massachusetts was built by a Celt

named Thomas Smith. The names of Belfast, Londonderry, Ulster, Sullivan

and Bangor show the nationality of their settlers. The founders of the

Empire State were Teutons; but when it passed to the English realm,

James II. sent over as Governor, Colonel Dongan, an Irishman. This

Governor during his term of office, brought over large numbers of Irish

emigrants. Pennsylvania was the most Keltic of the colonies. The first

daily paper in the United States was founded by John Dunlap, an

Irishman. So great was Celtic emigration to this State that in one year

(1729) there came to Pennsylvania no fewer than 6,208 persons, of whom

242 were Germans, 247 English, and 5,653 Irishmen. So numerous were

Celts that Washington once said, "Put me in Rockbridge County, and I'll

find men enough to save the Revolution." In Maryland it was the same.

The first ship that sailed into Baltimore was Irish, though the

figure-head, Cecil Calvert, was English; but the town from which he

derived his title, and after which the metropolis of Maryland is named,

is in Galway, Ireland. In the Old Dominion, the first settlers were in

good part English. The Scotch and Welsh were very powerful, and the

Irish were very numerous. The impress if the Celts in Virginia is seen

in Carroll and Logan counties, Lynchburg, Burkesville, Brucktown and

Wheeling.

In 1652, Cromwell recommended that Irishwomen be sold to merchants, and

shipped to New England and Virginia, there to be sold as wives to the

colonists. A manuscript of Dr. Lingard's puts the number sold, at about

60,000; Brondin, a contemporary, places the number at 100,000. The names

of these women have become anglicized, for the English law forbade the

Irish to have an Irish name, and commanded them to assume English names.

North Carolina was settled mainly by the Scotch and Welsh, with English

and Irish additions. So was Georgia. In South Carolina the Irish

predominated. "Of all the countries," says the historian of South

Carolina, "none has furnished this province with so many inhabitants as

Ireland. Scarce a ship leaves any of its ports for Charleston that is

not crowded with men, women, and children." So much for the so-called

English colonies. Among the foremost of distinguished men in the

colonial times were the Celts. The first man elected to an office, not

appointed by the Crown, was James Moore, Governor of North Carolina.

James Logan, the successor of Penn, and William Thompson, were both

Celts. Let us glance at the Revolution; it is in this struggle that the

Celt was covered with glory; and either on the field or in the forum he

was always in the van. The Celts of Mecklenburg made a declaration of

freedom over a year before the Declaration of Independence was made.

Thomas Jefferson, the author of the Declaration of Independence, was of

Welsh ancestry, and thus a Celt. John Hancock inherited Celtic blood

from his mother, Nora O'Flaherty. Behold the array of Celts who signed

the Declaration in 1776: Carroll, Thornton, McKean, Rutledge, Lewis,

Hart, Lynch, Jefferson and Reed. A merchant of Philadelphia, John Nixon,

first read to the people that immortal paper. Charles Thompson, Thomas

McHenry and Patrick Henry, the Demosthenes of the Revolution, were

Celts. The poetry of the loyal English writers afford abundant proof of

the influence and numbers of the Celts in those days. The first blow for

Independence was struck by James Sullivan of New Hampshire, and the

first blow on sea was struck by Jeremiah O'Brien, of Machias, Maine. A

Celt, Thomas Cargill, of Ballyshannon, saved the records of Concord when

the British soldiery went out from Boston to destroy the military stores

in Middlesex. Nor was it in the opening scenes alone that the Celts were

prominent; but from the death of McClary on Bunker Hill, to the close of

the war, they fought with a vigor and bravery unsurpassed. Who charged

through the snowdrifts around Quebec but Montgomery, a Celt.

Who fought so bravely at Brandywine? at Bemis's Heights, who saved the

day but Morgan's Irish Rifles. Was it not mad Anthony Wayne, a Celt, who

won Stony Point? General Sullivan, a Celt, avenged the Wyoming Massacre.

General Hand, a Celt, first routed the Hessians. The hero of Bennington

was a Celt, General Stark; so were Generals Conway, Knox, Greene, Lewis,

Brigadier Generals Moore, Fitzgerald, Hogan, Colonels Moylan and Butler.

In fact, American annals are so replete with trophies of Celtic valor

that it would be vain to narrate them all.

"A hundred battlefields attest, a hundred victories show,

How well at liberty's behest they fought our country's foe."

The only society that ever had the honor of enrolling the name of

Washington among its members was the Friendly Knights of St. Patrick. It

is an incident worthy of remark that at Yorktown it was a Celt, General

O'Hara, who gave to America the symbol of England's final defeat. When

the war of the Revolution was ended the Celt laid aside the sword to

engage in the arts of peace and build up the industries of the country.

Twenty Irish merchants subscribed $500,000 to pay the soldiers, and they

aided in every possible way the young and weak government. Then the

Celtic statesmen rose to view Hamilton, Jefferson, Gov. Sullivan of New

Hampshire, Gov. Sullivan of Massachusetts, De Witt Clinton of New York,

John Armstrong, jr., of Pennsylvania, Calhoun, Louis McLane and George

Campbell. Since those days the numbers and influence of the Celts has

been constantly increasing, and were it not for the sturdy Scotchman,

the Welshman, and Irishman our nation would still be a conjury of the

future. On the battlefield Grant, Meade, McClellan, Scott, Sheridan,

McDowell, Shields, Butler, McCook, McPherson, Kearney, Stonewall

Jackson, McClernand, Rowan, Corcoran, Porter, Claiborne and Logan show

the valor of the Celt. Jones, Barry, Decatur, McDonough, Stewart and

Blakely are the ideals of the American sailor. Morse, McCormack, Fulton

are among our greatest inventors. Jackson, Pierce, Buchanan, Wilson,

Cameron, Douglas, Blaine, Arthur and Hill are our Celtic statesmen.

Charles O'Conor, McVeagh, Stuart, Black, Campbell, McKinley, McLean,

Rutledge are our greatest jurists. Poe, Greeley, Shea, Baker, Savage,

England, Hughes, Spalding, O'Rielly, Barrett, Purcell, Keene,

McCullough, Boucicault, Bennett, Connery and Jones are Celts, names

famous in journalism, religion, literature and drama. The Celt, in the

words of Henry Clay, are "bone of our bone" and "flesh of our flesh,"

thus acknowledging him to be part and parcel of our nation.

Let us leave the flowery field of rhetoric and strike the hard pan of

statistics. The official census of 1870 numbers the Celts at 24,000,000,

the Saxons at 5,000,000, and the whole population at 38,500,000. In

proportion the Celts were five-eighths and the Saxons one-eighth of the

people of the country, two-eighths being of other origin. There are now

50,000,000 inhabitants, of which (20,000,000 are Irish-Americans)

five-eighths are Celts who number 32,500,000, and one-eighth Saxon, or

7,000,000, and the residue being filled with other races. Thus we see

that in numbers the nation is Celtic or nearly so. Let not national

vanity or prejudice of race assert itself too strongly, for here came

all to obtain their just and lawful liberty.

Worcester, Mass. J. SULLIVAN.

Southern Sketches.

XVII.

IN HAVANA, CUBA.--DESCRIPTION OF THE CITY, ITS PEOPLE, CHURCHES AND

CIVIL INSTITUTIONS.

On approaching the Isle of Cuba, the sight of this queen of the Antilles

seemed like the realization of some beautiful Eastern dream. As our

vessel neared the verdant, palm-clad hills, our party were caressed by

warm, odorous breezes. The softest of blue skies looked down upon us,

and we gazed on the smoothest and clearest of seas. No wonder that the

brave and holy Columbus, with his crew, should feel transported with joy

at the sight of the tropical isles on which they first set foot. The

poetic effect of the scenes then viewed must have been greatly increased

by the appearance of the native Indians, whose costumes and wild graces

were so strange to European eyes.

Richly painted boats filled with gay, chattering Cubans moved briskly

over the waters as we neared the entrance to the harbor. A beautiful

picture now appeared before us. It seemed as if enchanted palaces,

gardens, castles and towers had suddenly issued from the depths of the

green, transparent waves. Nearly every building had a peculiarly

exquisite tint, and all were flooded and enriched with the mellow,

tropical sunlight. Fort Morro, to the left, beetled over the waves like

some sombre and impregnable defence of the Middle Ages. Its golden-brown

and colossal walls sprung like a master-piece of feudal art from the

dark, wave-washed, slippery rocks below. The tall, slender light-house

connected with it greatly added to its attractions. Soldiers in bright

uniforms paced to and fro on the ramparts, while the flag of old Spain,

with its mingled hues of blood and gold, floated proudly above the

battlements. The harbor was narrow at the entrance and widened further

on, appearing in shape like the palm of one's hand. I felt so dazzled

with the splendors around me, that I could not grasp at once the

beauties of individual objects.

Opposite Fort Morro stood El Castillo de La Punta, an older, but

smaller defence erected by Philip II., in 1589. Immediately behind the

Morro, Fort La Cahanas spread away for nearly half a mile on the top of

a picturesque range of hills. This is one of the largest forts in the

world, and cost (as I was informed) thirty million dollars. When the

King of Spain heard of its vast price, he took his telescope at once,

and told his courtiers that so expensive a building ought to be plainly

seen from the top of his Madrid palace. White-stoned cottages lined the

waters to the left, and decorated the slopes of the hills, which were

full of cacti, century plants and thousands of other floral beauties.

Everything around us reflected the poetry of color and motion. The great

walls of the prison (el Carcel) appeared at the rear of the Punta, and

the hoary, weather-stained walls and towers of the cathedral were

conspicuous amid the many highly-colored houses of the city. The sight

of this strange and picturesquely colored town made me feel like

visiting the queer and lovely old Moorish cities of Spain, so charmingly

described by Washington Irving.

Havana has two quarters, the _intramural_ and the _extramural_; the

former lies along the bay. It has the narrowest streets and the oldest

buildings, dim, dusty, but poetic. The latter quarter spreads along the

ocean, and has the newest structures and widest streets, adorned with

palm and Indian laurel trees. The contrast from the moving ship appeared

very fine, and the glowing panorama was enriched by the presence of

stately men-of-war and merchant vessels from the United States, France,

Spain, Italy and other nations. Every mast, spar, flag and rope was

reflected on the dazzling waters. Through the vast collection of masts,

golden vistas were seen up the bay. Lovely isles and emerald shores

presented their wealth of waving palms, bananas, and tropical growths.

The fact of the thermometer being up to eighty degrees on this February

morning added immensely to the sense of enjoyment derived from these

luxuriant scenes. The booming of cannon from the Morro, the sound of

trumpets calling soldiers to their posts, and the whistling, laughing

and shouting of boatmen contributed no little interest to the picture.

Numerous boats sped here and there over the bay as our vessel anchored

in the basin outside the custom-house. Each one had some lively Cuban

boatmen and messengers from hotels, who came to row passengers to shore,

and solicit patronage for particular houses. The whole scene presented a

most animated picture, and the green, red, blue and yellow boats, with

the white-dressed, broad-hatted, dark-eyed occupants looked uncommonly

grand. When the health-officer came on board, each person was inspected

as to his sanitary condition, and then left to excited crowds, who

delivered their solicitations for patronage in excellent Spanish mixed

with a little broken English. Cards, bearing pictures of "the Hotel de

San Carlos," "El Teleprafo," "Hotel de Inglaterra," "de Europa," and

others were tossed rather than handed to us by white-clad characters who

thronged the decks. Among the smaller brown-faced, curly-headed boatmen

were some lithe and powerful Cubans dressed in simple white shirt and

pants, blue neck-ties and Panama hats. Having agreed with one of these

to go from the vessel to the city at the rate of fifty cents apiece in

gold, our party passed down the companion-ladder and entered a

well-built bumboat, painted in green, blue and yellow, adorned with

carpets, cushions, one sail and a gorgeous awning. The soft, tropical

sun shone down on this poetical scene, and as the powerful arms of the

oarsmen propelled the boat, the breezes played over us and the green

waters.

On embarking at the custom-house, an unpretending wooden structure, our

luggage was carefully overhauled by a courteous officer, attired in

spotless, light-blue linen. Passing through the building I emerged on

the street where crowds of negroes, Cuban and foreigners were engaged in

smoking, chatting, and watching the newly-arrived travellers. Numerous

coaches were drawn up in this neighborhood, and a person could visit any

part of the city in one of them for a trifling sum. The Hotel de Europa,

where I intended to stay, was only a few minutes' walk from the

custom-house, and was delightfully situated on the Plaza de St.

Francisco, facing the bay.

The first sight of Havana reveals to the United States visitor, who

never saw a Spanish city, a style of architecture, habits and scenes

entirely characteristic of Spain. The streets through which I passed

were but wide enough for one vehicle; the sidewalks could only

accommodate one foot passenger, and the houses, usually of one story,

were built of stone as thick, solid and gloomy looking as fortresses. On

my way I noticed that the windows had no glass, but were as large as

doors, fortified within by iron bars like those of a prison, and

additionally defended by heavy, wooden shutters generally painted green.

The shops were on a level with the pavement, and their rich and rare

collection of goods were all exposed to the view of the public. Awnings

now and then extended overhead across the street. Now some darkies and

Chinamen moved along bearing big burthens on their heads, and announcing

their wares in loud tones in the Spanish language. These were followed

by what appeared to me to be mysterious moving stalks of corn. As the

latter came nearer, the heads and legs of donkeys were seen amidst the

green mass. Then came a Cuban chicken vender from the country, with a

great big hat and blue shirt, leading his mule by the reins, while the

panniers on each side of the animal's back were filled with live fowl.

Immense wagons, laden with hogsheads of sugar and molasses, rattled over

the rough pavements as they were drawn by huge oxen, that were steered

by stout ropes, which were cruelly passed through their nostrils. I was

not a little surprised to see three or four cows walking silently on and

stopping at the doors of the houses to be milked before the public.

Customers need have no fears that any adulteration could take place on

such occasions, as the liquid comes from the pure and natural fountain

right before their eyes. Two old sailors, each minus an arm, were

singing patriotic songs and the signors, signoras and signoritas who

listened to them at the doors and balconies, seemed thrilled with

delight, at the musical recital of the grand victories of old Spain.

Peddlers moved along with an immense heap of miscellaneous wares fixed

in boxes on the backs of their mules. Tall, stately negresses, with

long, trailing dresses, of flashy green and yellow, walked along quite

independently, as at Key West, smoking cigars which in New York would

cost twenty-five cents a piece. One or two Cuban ladies hurried by,

wearing satin slippers, silken dresses and mantillas of rich black lace.

The Hotel de Europa, which I soon reached, is a large, plain, solid

building adorned by a piazza, which runs along the second story, and by

numerous little balconies higher up. It is a very well-managed

institution, has an agreeable interpreter in its office, an excellent

table, and on the hottest day a cool, refreshing breeze from the bay

sweeps through the rooms. The office on the second story is reached by a

large stone staircase. The house is built around a spacious courtyard,

in the centre of which is a beautiful fountain, encircled by choice

native flowers. The music of the fountain and the shade of the trees

have a pleasing and cooling effect.

After securing my room I was shown to it by a bright-eyed, garrulous

Cuban youth named "Josepho," who was well acquainted with his own, but

lamentably ignorant of the English language. He tried to compensate for

this drawback by a copious and intelligent use of gesture. Josepho soon

led me to my room, which stood at the end of a corridor, that was

flanked on one side by the courtyard, and on the other by sleeping

apartments. Two great jars, of Pompeian style, stood on a side-board

outside the door, and were full of cold water. These were for the use of

the guests on the corridor. When I entered my room I found it had a

floor of red and yellow tiles, immense, thick rough rafters overhead,

painted blue and white, an iron bedstead, a great chest of drawers, no

carpet, and shutters as heavy and ponderous as those of some old

European prison. Yet everything was pleasant and cool. The view from the

window of the bay, forts, shipping and houses was very beautiful, and,

surely, I had keener apprehension of it than the lazy mulateers, whom I

saw sleeping in their ox-carts below on the square, their red-blue caps

and white jackets flooded in sunshine. The visitors to Cuba need not

expect the luxury of a feather bed or a mattress. Neither was visible in

my room. The couch consisted of a piece of canvas tightly spread over

the iron frame, and strongly attached to it. A single sheet constituted

the only covering, and the stranger will find that the pillow, filled

with the moss of the island is not at all too soft. The nights are so

pleasant that Cuban hotel keepers think this amount of bed furniture

quite sufficient.

After a little rest, I decided that the famous Jesuit College, "De

Belen," would be the first institution worth seeing. I went alone, and

soon found it on the corner of Lutz and Compostilla Streets. A stranger

cannot miss it, as it is one of the most formidable buildings in Havana.

Though its style has something of the barbaric about it, yet it is

chiefly so on account of its ruggedness, vastness and stern grandeur. It

is built of stone, cemented and brown in color. The main arched entrance

is very lofty, and on the steps as I passed by I noticed a gaunt,

diseased and ragged negro, with outstretched arms soliciting alms. I

rang the bell. A porter admitted me, and after asking for one of the

priests in fair Spanish, I was conducted to a grand saloon up stairs and

politely requested to await the arrival of Father Pinan who was

conversant with English. The saloon was a magnificent apartment, about

one hundred feet long by thirty wide. Its walls were adorned with

splendid paintings done by ancient masters, and all represented dear,

religious scenes. The lofty white pillars and the blue mouldings of the

saloon produced a charming effect. Several rows of rocking-chairs,

placed in pairs so that those occupying them would face one another and

converse freely, were in this saloon, as is the custom in all others in

Cuba. As I was admiring the pictures Father Pinan entered, and at once

welcomed me very cordially to the college. The news, from the States

interested him, and he promised to give me all the information he could

regarding the college. "Ah," said he, "it is good to hear that there are

so many good Catholics and converts in the United States. I do hope that

they will persevere earnestly."

Father Pinan's frankness, intelligence and hospitality charmed and

encouraged me. Passing from the saloon through a lofty arch, we entered

the Museum of Natural History, which was very large and contained a

splendid collection. Here I saw gorgeous stuffed birds from tropical

lands, ostriches' eggs, skins of boas, the maha (a large, harmless

snake), porcupines, sea bulls, flying fish, immense sword fish, jaws of

enormous sharks, brilliant big butterflies from South America, and an

immense sea cockroach caught by Spanish men-of-war and presented by a

general of the navy. Very large sponges, natural crosses of white rock

from Spain, splendid pearls, magnificent shells from the Pacific Ocean

and Mediterranean Sea, ivory baskets and miniature churches from China,

beautiful Oriental slippers, Chinese grapes and apples, royal green

birds from Mexico, relics of Columbus from St. Domingo, fragments of the

stone on which General Pizarro sat after his victories, cannon balls

used by Cortez in his conquest of Mexico, dust from the streets of

Naples, lava from Vesuvius, pebbles from Mount Ararat, fragments from

the homes of the vestals of Pompeii, and some of the ruins of Ninevah.

Here Father Pinan was obliged to take his leave to attend class, and his

place was splendidly filled by Father Osoro, a young and engaging

Spanish priest, who was passionately attached to the sciences of Natural

History and Philosophy. He introduced me at once to the relics with the

spirit of an enthusiast. He pointed out to me some of the remains of

Babylon, grand illuminated copies of the Holy Bible and of the office of

the Blessed Virgin, done on parchment by the monks in 1514, and

handsomely embellished with gold. He showed me gifts from kings and

princes of marvellous precious stones, opals, rubies, sapphires,

diamonds, agates, amethysts, cups of agate, golden snuff-boxes, natural

crosses in agate, skulls made into cases and pocket books, brilliant

mosaics and rosaries of gold. Father Osoro directed my attention to the

paper money of the French Revolution, of the Cuban (so-called) Republic

and of St. Domingo. He showed me Roman, Spanish, Lusatanian, English,

French, Belgian, Australian, German, Swedish, Danish, Chinese and

Japanese coins. Here were immense stone earrings of Indians, mineral and

geological relics of Guatamala, grand green crystals, teeth of

antedeluvian beasts, fossils of various kinds, sulphur and iron ore of

Cuba, and specimens of one hundred and eight different kinds of wood

that grow on the island. I saw hundreds of other rare and lovely

curiosities, but it would take a volume to describe all of them. Father

Osoro next introduced me to the hall of Chemistry and Natural

Philosophy, a fine room, full of all the modern instruments designed to

practically illustrate the workings of these useful and interesting

systems.

From there we went to the refectory, which was capable of seating five

hundred pupils. Everything here was remarkable for neatness, solidity

and order. The dormitories, containing five hundred beds, were very

lofty and airy. I saw handsome crucifixes in conspicuous places here,

and holy pictures, also, all to remind the pupils of the spirit of

devotion which they owed to God and his saints. We noticed men washing

and ironing in the large laundry; no women were employed in the house.

Here were several grand marble swimming basins for the boys, with large

apparatuses for hot and cold water, splendid gymnasiums, forty or fifty

feet long by thirty wide, with pillars painted sky blue, and supporting

a magnificent ceiling. Swings, dumb-bells, Indian clubs and instruments

for raising weights were strewn all over the sawdust floors. We passed

by six court-yards adorned with statues, flowers, fountains and ponds

full of gold fish. I noticed in front of the church entrance a large and

splendid representation of the grotto of Lourdes made by one of the

Jesuit Fathers. Two noble palm-trees which grew near the grotto, added

greatly to its beauty. The exterior of the church was plain, but massive

in its appearance, and the interior with its handsome marble floor,

paintings, frescos and altars, formed a sight of no little interest to

the stranger. Soft vermillion, pink, rosy and violet reflections from

the stained glass windows filled the sacred edifice, and gave an

exquisite coloring to the superb old pictures. On the right, a grand and

costly crucifix looked down with life-like agony on the priests who were

vesting in the sacristy. Enormous chests lined the walls of several

rooms, and in those were stored gorgeous vestments, wonderfully

beautiful in color and material, and enriched with gold and precious

stones. Costly presents from kings and Spanish grandees were shown to me

by the brother sacristan, who took an honest pride in exhibiting those

blessed things. Magnificent society banners, used during processions on

great festivals, were subjects of intense interest to the good brother.

I saw lace albs there, with crotchet work marvellously executed by hand,

and adorned with brilliants. Each of these cost $1,500. The chapel of

St. Placidus, attached to the church is a perfect gem with its pillars

of white and gold. While in Havana, I had the pleasure of saying Mass in

the Jesuit Church. Other priests were celebrating at the same time, and

a magnificent congregation of men and women attended. The music was

exquisitely rendered, but I could not see how the people could continue

standing and kneeling so patiently all the time. In this, as in the rest

of the Cuban churches, there are but a few pews. The majority of the

people, who bring neither seats nor cushions with them, stand, kneel, or

sit on their heels at intervals. I do not think our Catholics in the

United States could muster up sufficient courage to endure all this.

After seeing the handsome, dark-eyed boys of the college, its fine

library and other interesting apartments, I ascended with Father Osoro

to look at the observatory en the top of the building.

This solid and business-like structure possesses the newest and most

complete astronomical and meteorological instruments, and the accuracy

of the scientific results arrived at by the Fathers, has become justly

celebrated. They received a manifestation of merit from the Centennial

Exposition of '76, on account of their meteorological observations, and

the Parisian Exhibition presented them with a magnificent medal. Father

Benito Vines, the president, communicates regularly with Washington and

nearly every civilized nation. After viewing the interior of the

observatory, we came out on the roof, and here I beheld a novel and

wonderfully lovely sight. Stone and brick walks, four or five feet wide,

with railings at each side spread away, intersecting each other at

different points, and all were above the dark, red-tiled roofs of the

institution. Strong little edifices like watch towers, painted in blue

and white, stood out prominently near the walks, and no sooner did the

eye turn from these immediate objects, than it was dazzled by the superb

panorama of city, ocean, bay, sky and woodland that spread before it.

Father Osoro enjoyed the expressions of admiration that escaped me, as I

gazed on the high and low roofs on every side, the black turrets, the

walls of houses, red, green, blue, crimson, yellow, and white all

mellowed by age. Down below us were the narrow streets, the iron-barred

windows, the curious shops, verandas, balconies, flag staffs, flying

pigeons, flowers blooming on the roofs, and bananas growing. Away to the

north-east stood the grand Morro Castle, the sentinel of the harbor,

with its frowning guns, and its grand, revolving light shining like a

gem above the sea. Behind it, Fort Cabana looked long, bold and ancient,

backed on the east by evergreen hills, and decorated on the south by

palms and other tropical trees. The harbor, which glittered with

sunlight, was full of ships, buoys, sail-boats, music and sailors. On

this side of the bay appeared the old cathedral, with its dark gray

walls and black and brown roof. Yellow pillars, old towers, picturesque

wind-mills, brown iron stairs running up to the roofs of mansions,

palaces, domes, cupolas, plants of great beauty in vases on roofs, and

numerous old spires intervened. On the right, near the bay, could be

seen the old church, de San Francisco (now a customs storehouse), the

church de San Augustin, the church de Sancto Spiritu, and the palace of

the admiral to the south, the church de Mercede, that of St. Paul, the

arsenal, military hospital, gas houses, the Castello de Princepe, and

the suburban gardens of the captain-general. On the north, we beheld the

ocean, the Castello de Punta and the Casus de Benefecentia.

The Campo de Marte, Parque de Isabella, the parade grounds, trees,

statues, fountains and hotels appeared to the west. A refreshing breeze

stirred an atmosphere of seventy-eight degrees, and not a particle of

dust arose on street or house-top as the rain which fell on the

preceding night made all things clean. I would have remained on the top

of the college 'till dusk, contemplating that superb prospect, but I had

no time, so bidding good-by to the kind Fathers I determined to see more

of the city. Before leaving them, however, I could not help reflecting

upon the immense amount of good which they were doing in Havana. Before

the Liberals got hold of the Spanish government, the constitutional

authority of the church in Cuba was not interfered with, but since the

accession of Freemasons and Freethinkers to power, ecclesiastical

property has suffered violence from the hands of the State, and the

nomination and appointment of priests and bishops to place has been

arrogantly wrested from those appointed by God to legislate in

spirituals, and assumed by a class of irreligious despots. Though the

State pays the clergy, still it owns the church property, and entirely

cripples the power of the bishop, who cannot remove a bad and refractory

priest, if it suits not the pleasure of the civil authorities. Such a

state of things naturally caused some demoralization among the clergy,

and, as a consequence, much religious indifference among the people.

Societies like the Jesuits, who have been but a few years in Havana, are

gradually removing pernicious influences like these by the learning,

piety and zeal which they exhibit from the pulpit and among the people.

Hundreds of men, as well as of women, are drawn to the sacraments by

their persuasive eloquence and self-sacrificing, holy lives. The good

work will continue and bear glorious fruit, if these noble men be not

persecuted in Havana. My earnest hope is that the glorious influence of

Catholic Spain will protect them from danger.

REV. M. W. NEWMAN.

A Valiant Soldier of the Cross.

By the Author of "Leaves from the Annals of the Sisters of Mercy."

In describing scenes over which mine eye has wandered, I have kept so

faithfully to the land of the sun, where winter seldom or never leaves

his icy footprints, that my discursive papers were not improperly styled

"Southern Sketches." Yet other latitudes in America are not wholly

unknown to me. Month after month have I gazed on the white monotony of

unthawing snow. No one could admire more than I the chaste beauty of the

feathery flakes, or the gorgeous sparkle of trees bereft of leaves and

covered with crystals that flashed every hue of the rainbow. But even in

this bright September day, with the mercury among the eighties, I get

chilled through and through, and shake with the "shivers" when I imagine

myself once more among the hard frosts of New Hampshire. Unlike the

brave soldier of Christ whom I am about to introduce to the readers of

the "Irish Monthly," and who found the heat of a short Northern summer

simply "intolerable," the tropics and their environs rather allure me.

True, soldiers and old residents speak of places between which and the

lower regions there is but a sheet of non-combustible tissue paper.

Nevertheless, the writer who has lived in both places would rather, as a

matter of choice, summer in the Tropics than winter in New Hampshire.

Though this State, in which my hero passed the greater part of his holy

life, be the Switzerland of America, a grandly beautiful section, full

of picturesque rivers, tall mountains, and dreamy-looking lakes,

attracting more tourists than any other place in America save Niagara,

yet I will pass over its stern and rugged scenery to write of a man

whose titles to our admiration are wholly of the supernatural order.

To me, the finest landscape is but a painted picture unless a human

being enliven it. Just one fisherwoman on a sandy beach, or a lone

shepherd on a bleak hill-side, and fancy can weave a drama of hope and

love and beauty about either. Faith tells of a beautiful immortal soul

imprisoned in forms gaunt and shrunken; a prayer that we may meet again

in heaven surges up in my heart. The landscape is made alive for me in

the twinkling of an eye, and stretches from this lower world to the

better and brighter land above. Father MacDonald was for forty-one years

the light of a manufacturing town. And when I think of its looms and

spindles and fire-engines, and forests of tall, red chimneys, and tens

of thousands of operatives, Father MacDonald is the figure which

illumines for me the weird and grimy spectacle, and casts over it a halo

of the supernatural. Little cared he for the sparkling rivers, or

bewitching lakes, or romantic mountains of the Granite State; his whole

interest was centred in souls.

Some fifty years ago, Irish immigrants began to come timidly, and in

small numbers, to the little manufacturing town of Manchester which

rises on both sides of the laughing waters of the Merrimac. Here, in the

heart of New Hampshire, one of the original thirteen States, and a

stronghold of everything non-Catholic, these poor but industrious aliens

knocked at the gates of the Puritan[6] for work. Strong and willing arms

were wanted; and Bishop Fitzpatrick, of Boston, learning that some

hundreds of Catholics working in the Manchester factories were sighing

for the ministrations of a parish, sent Father MacDonald, in July, 1844,

to take charge of their spiritual interests.

William MacDonald was born in the county Leitrim, in 1813, being the

youngest of a family of six sons and one daughter, whose parents were

John MacDonald and Winifred Reynolds. The now aged daughter is the sole

survivor of this large family. They were very strictly brought up by

their virtuous, pious parents, and through long and chequered lines,

were upright, honorable citizens, and thoroughly practical Catholics.

Years ago, the writer was told that no descendant of Mr. and Mrs.

MacDonald had ever seen the inside of a non-Catholic school. Charles and

William became priests, the former emigrating when quite young. William

attended the school of his native parish, where he received a solid

rudimentary education, after which he pursued his classical studies in

Dublin. In 1833, he joined his brother Charles, who was pastor of a

church at Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. Father Charles died in

his prime, with a high reputation for sanctity. William always carried

about him a little Latin Imitation of Christ, which had also been the

_vade mecum_ of his beloved brother. The spiritual life of both was

formed in that wonderful book, and Father William was wont to prescribe

a suitable chapter in the same for every mental trouble, difficulty, or

temptation referred to him.

Father MacDonald's education was finished in the College of Three

Rivers, Canada, under the Sulpician Fathers. After his ordination he

exercised the ministry in several places till sent by the Bishop of

Boston to Manchester. Here he found his co-religionists and countrymen

regarded as Helots, and far more despised by Yankee and Puritan than the

slaves in the South by their rulers. The Irish were denied the privilege

of sidewalks, and obliged, in order to avoid perpetual quarrels, to walk

in the middle of the streets. Wherever they appeared, they were hissed

and hooted, and "blood-hounds of hell" was the affectionate epithet the

ubiquitous small boy bestowed on them. Previous to Father MacDonald's

arrival, Father Daly, whose parish included nearly all New Hampshire and

Vermont, used to say Mass in Manchester with unfailing regularity every

three months. On one of these occasions, the floor of the temporary

chapel gave way, and priest, altar, and congregation, were precipitated

into the cellar. Providentially, beyond a few bruises and abrasions, no

one was injured. The previous day, the bigots having heard that Mass was

to be said in the room, had cut the supports from under the floor.

To these people, a priest was an object of hatred and scorn, whom they

believed it would be a good work to kill, and Father MacDonald settled

among them at the risk of his life. But when duty was in question, he

knew not fear. _The servant is not greater than his master_, he would

say: _If they have persecuted me they will persecute you also_. It was

in vain they used every means their perverse ingenuity suggested to

intimidate this dangerous papist. They even began to like him. Slowly

but surely, he won his way among them, and within a year of his arrival

he was able to hire the Granite Hall as a temporary chapel. In 1849, he

built a church on a square purchased with his own patrimony, at the

corner of Union and Merrimac Streets.

Besides the theological virtues which the "natives" valued not, Father

MacDonald possessed all the natural virtues which they pretend to

canonize. He was most frugal. To great objects he would give royally,

but it was doubtful if he ever wasted a dollar. He sought to live on as

little as possible, but it was that he might have more for the needy. He

was industrious; not a moment of his day was lost. For many years, he

was one of the only two priests in the State; but when his parochial

duties left him a little leisure, he was seen to handle the trowel and

use the broom. He paid cash for everything he bought, and whoever worked

for him received full pay on the day and hour agreed upon: no cutting

down of rates. If they wished to give to the church, very well; but they

must take their pay from him to the last farthing. He was neatness

personified. The fresh complexion and fine physique common among his

countrymen he did not possess. Barely reaching middle height, his spare

form, sharp features, sallow complexion, and keen, spectacled eyes, made

him look like a son of the soil. As for energy, no Yankee ever had more,

or perhaps so much. Non-Catholics knew that his power over his flock was

absolute. But they admitted that his wish, his word, and his work, were

always on the side of order, sobriety, frugality, and good citizenship.

When Father MacDonald's beautiful church was finished, the

Know-Nothings, or Native American Party, by way of celebrating in a

fitting manner the independence of the United States, burst upon the

defenceless Catholics, July 4, tore down their houses, destroyed their

furniture, dragged their sick out of bed into the streets, and finally

riddled the beautiful stained glass windows of the church. For these

damages no compensation was ever made. An Irishman having some dispute

with a native, the latter seized a monkey-wrench that was near, and

killed him. Father MacDonald asked for justice, but the officials

refused to arrest the murderer. Through his wise counsels, the

Catholics, though boiling with indignation, did not retaliate, and, as

it takes two parties to make a fight, the Know-Nothing excitement having

spent itself, soon subsided. But for years, the Irishmen of Manchester

and their brave pastor had to take turns at night to guard the church

buildings from sacrilegious hands.

So far from being frightened at the lawlessness of the mob, Father

MacDonald, at the height of the excitement, announced a daring project.

He would bring nuns to Manchester, and he called a meeting of his

parishioners to devise ways and means. But, for the first and last time,

they strenuously opposed him. "It would be madness. They had frequently

heard their employers say they would never allow a nunnery in the city."

He soon saw that if he waited for encouragement from any quarter his

object would never be accomplished. He built his convent. It was set on

fire when completed, but he was not to be baffled. He repaired the

damages. Though he declined some compensation offered on this occasion,

he was not slow to express his opinion as to the effect such evidences

of New England culture might have on his beloved and most generous

flock. He invited Sisters of Mercy from Providence, R.I., and had the

pleasure of welcoming them, July 16, 1858.

He received them in his own house, which they mistook for their convent.

Great was their surprise when they heard that the handsome pillared

edifice in the next square was theirs. "I will conduct you thither,"

said he; "but first we will visit our Lord in the church." The Rev.

Mother, M. Frances Warde, and the Sisters, admired the exquisite church,

and the extreme neatness and beauty of the altar. "No hand," said he,

"but mine has ever touched that altar. No secular has ever been admitted

within the sanctuary rails even to sweep. I myself sweep the sanctuary,

and attend to the cleanliness of everything that approaches the Blessed

Sacrament. But my work as sole priest here is now so arduous, that I

will resign this sweet and sacred duty to you."

Schools were immediately opened for boys, girls, adults. Night schools

and an academy for the higher studies followed. On account of the

superior instruction given in this institution, it has always been well

patronized by the best Protestant families in New Hampshire. Indeed, the

success of the Sisters of Mercy in this stronghold of Puritanism has

been phenomenal. During Father MacDonald's incumbency, Catholics

increased from a few despised aliens to more than half the population of

Manchester. He was never obliged to ask them for money; they gave him

all he needed. He never failed to meet his engagements; and in one way

or another every coin he handled went to God's church or God's poor. He

laid up nothing for himself. He had the most exalted ideas of the

priesthood, and he carried them out to the letter in his daily life.

Thousands of young men have been enrolled in his sodalities. As an

example to them, he totally abstained from tobacco and from intoxicating

drink. St. John's Total Abstinence Society was the pride of his heart.

One of his "Sodality Boys," Right Rev. Denis Bradley, became first

bishop of Manchester, and many have become zealous priests. From the

girls' schools and the sodalities, too, many religious vocations have

sprung, and the number of converts under instruction is always very

large. This worthy priest brought free Catholic education within the

reach of every Catholic in his adopted city. As soon as he finished one

good work he began another, and splendid churches, convents, schools,

orphanage, hospital, home for old ladies, etc., remain as monuments of

his zeal. These institutions are not excelled in the country. They are

all administered by the Sisters of Mercy, to whom he was a most generous

benefactor.

During the forty-one years of Father MacDonald's life in Manchester, he

never took a vacation but one, which his bishop compelled him to take.

He was so methodical in the distribution of his time that it was said he

did the work of six priests, and did it well. He knew every member of

his flock, and was to all friend and father as well as priest, their

refuge in every emergency. Every day he studied some point of theology,

visited his schools and other institutions, and went the rounds of his

sick and poor. Every home had its allotted duty, and grave, indeed,

should be the reasons that could induce him to deviate one iota from his

ordinary routine. His charities were unbounded, yet given with

discrimination, nor did his left hand know what his right hand gave.

With the sick and the aged, he was like a woman, or a mother. He would

make their fires, warm drinks for them, see that they had sufficient

covering. Though they all doated on "Father Mac," they must not thank

him, or even pretend they saw what he was doing for them, so well did

they know that he worked solely _for Him who seeth in secret_. Monday,

August 24, 1885, this holy man was stricken with paralysis of the brain,

and died two days later, while the bishop and the Sisters of Mercy were

praying for his soul. It is almost certain that he had some presentiment

of his death, as he selected the Gregorian Requiem Mass for his

obsequies, and asked the choir to practise it. August 28, his sacred

remains were committed to the earth, the funeral sermon being preached

by the bishop, who had been as a son to the venerable patriarch. In

real, personal holiness, Father MacDonald possessed the only power that

makes the knee bend. Over twenty years ago, his sexton said to the

writer: "I never opened the church in the morning that I did not find

Father MacDonald kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament." What time he

entered it, no one knew. How edifying this must have been to the poor

factory hands, who were wont to beg God's blessing on their daily labor,

in the short, scorching summer, and the bitter cold of the long winter,

for at that time the church was not heated. Never did these children of

toil miss that bent and venerable form, absorbed in prayer before the

hidden Jesus, of whose august presence he had such a vivid realization.

Before such a life of toil and prayer, no bigotry could stand. By sheer

force of virtue alone, this holy man wrought a complete change in the

sentiments of his adversaries. Hence the extraordinary respect shown to

his memory. The non-Catholic press says that no man ever exercised so

much influence in Manchester for forty years as Father MacDonald, and

that he was the man whom Manchester could least afford to lose. The

mayor and the city government attended his obsequies in a body, and the

governor of New Hampshire wrote to express his regret that absence

hindered his paying the last tribute of respect to a priest he so highly

revered. Business was suspended and all the factories closed, that the

whole city might follow his remains to the tomb. On Sunday, August 30,

the non-Catholic pulpits of the thrifty city resounded with the praises

of this humble priest, whose chief characteristics were stainless

integrity, an entire absence of human respect, burning zeal for God's

glory, and life-long efforts to promote it. He feared no man and sought

the favor of none, and his noble independence of character won him the

admiration of all who had the privilege of knowing him. His death was

universally deplored as the greatest calamity that ever befell

Manchester. Among the Protestant ministers who eulogized him in their

sermons, August 30, was Rev. Dr. Spalding, who thanked God for raising

up a man whose life was remarkable "for its large consecration to Church

and people, for its high earnestness, its sacrifices and unselfishness,

its purity and truthfulness. God grant unto us all," he continued, "a

desire to imitate this life in its devotion to others, and its trust in

Him."

As a preacher, Father MacDonald was rather solid than brilliant. In

manner, he was somewhat blunt. He conversed pleasantly and sensibly; but

people given to gossip or foolish talk soon learned to steer clear of

him. Hospitality was with him a Christian duty. If he heard that some

ecclesiastic was at the hotel--and he heard everything--he would at once

go for him, and place his own neat, comfortable house at his disposal.

"Many a time," he would say, "has a young priest acquired a taste for

card-playing by spending but one night in a hotel." So fearful was he of

the least thing that might disedify the weaklings of his flock, that,

when the writer knew him, he was accustomed to send to Boston for altar

wine. "If I buy it here," he said, "some poor fellows will think I don't

practise what I preach. They will want stimulants as well as I. Even the

people who sell will never think of altar wine." Father MacDonald had a

great love for the South. Its material advancement gave him pleasure,

but his chief interest lay in its spiritual progress. Six years ago, the

writer met him after an interval of sixteen years. After the usual

greetings, he began to question: "Now, tell me, how is religion in New

Orleans? Are the priests zealous? Have you a live bishop? Are the public

institutions well attended by priests and religious? But, above and

before all else, are your Catholic children all in Catholic schools? And

have you superior schools, so that children will have no excuse for

going to the godless schools? How are the Masses attended? Are the

people well instructed? Do many lead lives of piety?" He was then in his

sixty-seventh year, rather broken from incessant labors, but as active

as ever. His hair had changed from black to white since last we met.

When I gave some edifying details, he would say: "God be praised. I am

so glad of what you tell me. Thanks be to God." And he called the

attention of a young priest at the other end of the room: "Listen! Hear

what they are doing in the South for the school-children, and the waifs

and street arabs. And all that is done for the sick and the prisoners.

Oh, blessed be God! How happy all this makes me."

I felt as though I were listening to St. Alfonso, so irresistably did

this remind me of him. I was no longer among the crisp snows of New

Hampshire, that had crackled beneath my feet that morning. Fancy had

transported me to the genial clime of Naples. I stood by the bed-ridden

Bishop of St. Agatha, in the old Redemptorist's Convent at Pagani, and

listened to the touching dialogue between Mauro, the royal architect,

and the saint: "And the churches in the city of Naples, are they much

frequented?"--"Oh, yes, Monsignor, and you cannot imagine the good that

results from this. All classes, especially the working people, crowd

them, and we have saints even among the coachmen." At these words the

saint rose from his recumbent position, and cried out in tones of joy

and triumph: "Saintly coachmen at Naples! Gloria Patri." He could not

sleep for joy at this intelligence, but during the night would

frequently call for his attendant: "You heard what Don Mauro said?

Saints among the coachmen at Naples! What do you think of that?"

Associated in our mind with the great St. Alfonso, we keep this holy

priest, whom Bishop Bradley so justly styled, "The pioneer of Catholic

education in New England." His flock universally regarded him as a

saint, and a great saint. And, in all humility, and in perfect

submission to the decrees of Holy Church, the writer is able to say, of

her own knowledge and observation, that this humble, hard-working,

mortified Irish priest, William MacDonald, practised in a high, a very

high, degree, every virtue which we venerate in the saints of God. I

never met a holier soul. I could not imagine him guilty of the smallest,

wilful fault. I feel more inclined to pray to him than for him; it seems

incredible that he should have anything to expiate in purgatory. May his

successors walk in his footsteps, and his children never forget the

lessons he taught them more by example than by word. May our friendship,

a great grace to me, be renewed _in requie aeterna et in luce perpetua_.

Amen.

_Dublin Irish Monthly._

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: The Irish Catholic names, Sullivan and Carroll, are stamped

on two of the ten counties of New Hamshire, in memory of Revolutionary

heroes.]

The Avaricious Man can not enjoy riches, but is tormented by anxiety or

sickness. Others are worn out by the jealousy or envy which consume

them. Others, again, wrapped in their pride, are being continually

galled by the supposed indignities offered to them, and there is no

sharper crown of thorns than that worn by the proud man. There is one

sin which seems to be rampant in our day, and that is scepticism, or

doubting God and revelation; and this also brings its own punishment in

the present. On the other hand, to those who are tempted, suffering, or

afflicted, Jesus Christ promised, "Be thou faithful unto death and I

will give thee the crown of life."

Gerald Griffin.

Leal heart, and brave right hand that never drew

One false note from thy harp, although the ache

Of weariness and hope deferred might shake

Harsh discords from a soul less clear and true

Than thine amid the gloom that knew no break--

The London gloom that barred the heaven's blue

From thy deep Celtic eyes, so wide to take

The bliss of earth and sky within their view!

On fleet, white wings thy music made its way

Back o'er the waves to Ireland's holy shore;

Close nestled in her bosom, each wild lay

Mixed with her sighs--'twas from her deep heart's core

She called thee: "'Gille Machree'[7] come home, I pray--

In my green lap of shamrocks sleep, asthore!"

ROSE KAVANAGH, in _Irish Monthly_.

Mary E. Blake.

Two years ago we concluded a slight notice of the poems of "Thomasine"

(known in Ireland as Miss Olivia Knight, and in Australia as Mrs. Hope

Connolly), with the following words: "A writer in the _Irish Fireside_

said lately that Eva and Speranza had no successors. We could name, if

we dared, three or four daughters of Erin whom we believe to be singing

now from a truer and deeper inspiration and with a purer utterance."

Happily, since these words were printed, two of these unnamed rivals

whom we set up against the gifted wife of the new M. P. elect for Meath,

and against the more gifted widow of Sir William Wilde, have placed

their names on the title pages of collections of their poems. We allude,

of course, to Katharine Tynan and Rosa Mulholland. Not only these whose

place in literature is already secured, but higher than some to whom the

enthusiasm of a political crisis gave prominence, we should be inclined

to rank such Irish songstresses as the late Attie O'Brien and the living

but too silent "Alice Esmonde." And then of Irishwomen living outside

Ireland we have Fanny Parnell, Fanny Forrester, Eleanor C. Donnelly, and

the lady whom we claim as our own in the title of this paper--Mrs. Mary

E. Blake. Though the wife of a physician at Boston, she was born at

Clonmel, and bore the more exclusively Celtic name of Magrath.[8]

Boston claims, or used to claim, to be the literary metropolis of the

United States. A prose volume by Mrs. Blake and a volume of her poems

lie before us, and for elegance of typography do credit to their Boston

publishers. "On the Wing"--lively sketches of a trip to the Pacific, all

about San Francisco and the Yosemite Valley, and Los Angeles, and

Colorado, but ending with this affectionate description of Boston

aforesaid:

And now, as the evening sun drops lower, what fair city is this

that rises in the east, throned like a queen above the silver

Charles, many-towered and pinnacled, with clustering roof and taper

spire? How proud she looks, yet modest, as one too sure of her

innate nobility to need adventitious aid to impress others. Look at

the aesthetic simplicity of her pose on the single hill, which is

all the mistaken kindness of her children has left of the three

mountains which were her birthright. Behold the stately avenues

that stretch by bridge and road, radiating her lavish favors in

every direction; look at the spreading suburbs that crowd beyond

her gates, more beautiful than the parks and pleasure grounds of

her less favored sisters. See where she sits, small but precious,

her pretty feet in the blue waters that love to dally about them;

her pretty head, in its brave gilt cap, as near the clouds as she

could manage to get it: her arms full of whatever is rarest and

dearest and best. For doesn't she hold the "Autocrat of the

Breakfast Table" and Bunker Hill, Faneuil Hall, and Harvard

College? Do not the fiery eloquence of Phillips, the songs of

Longfellow, the philosophy of Fisk, the glory of the Great Organ,

and the native lair of culture, belong to her? Ah! why should we

not "tell truth and shame the devil"--doesn't she bring us to the

babies and the family doctor?

But it is not as a writer of prose that Mrs. Blake has secured a niche

in our gallery of literary portraits. Indeed, without knowing it, we

have already introduced her poetry to our readers: for we are pleased to

find in her volume of collected poems an anonymous piece which we had

gathered as one of our "Flowers for a Child's Grave," from a number of

_The Boston Pilot_ as far back as 1870. We should reprint page 171 of

this volume if it were not already found in our eighth volume (1880) at

page 608. The division of Mrs. Blake's poems to which it belongs

contains, we think, her best work. Her muse never sings more sweetly

than in giving expression to the joy and grief of a mother's heart. The

verses just referred to were the utterances of maternal grief: a

mother's joy breaks out into these pleasant and musical stanzas:--

My little man is merry and wise,

Gay as a cricket and blithe as a bird;

Often he laughs and seldom he cries,

Chatters and coos at my lightest word:

Peeping and creeping and opening the door,

Clattering, pattering over the floor,

In and out, round about, fast as he can,--

So goes the daytime with my little man.

My little man is brimful of fun,

Always in mischief and sometimes in grief;

Thimble and scissors he hides one by one,

Till nothing is left but to catch the thief;

Sunny hair, golden fair over his brow--

Eyes so deep, lost in sleep, look at him now;

Baby feet, dimpled sweet, tired as they ran,

So goes the night-time with my little man.

My little man, with cherry-ripe face,

Pouting red lips and dimpled chin,

Fashioned in babyhood's exquisite grace,

Beauty without and beauty within,--

Full of light, golden bright, life as it seems,

Not a tear, not a fear, known in thy dreams;

Kisses and blisses now make up its span,

Could it be always so, my little man?

My little man the years fly away,

Chances and changes may come to us all,--

I'll look for the babe at my side some day,

And find him above me, six feet tall;

Flowing beard hiding the dimples I love,

Grizzled locks shading the clear brow above,

Youth's promise ripened on Nature's broad plan,

And nothing more left me of my little man.

My little man,--when time shall bow,

With its hoary weight, my head and thine,--

Will you love me then as you love me now,

With sweet eyes looking so fond in mine?

However strangely my lot may be cast,

My hope in life's future, my joy in life's past,

Loyal and true as your loving heart can,

Say, will you always be my little man?

My little man! perchance the bloom

Of the hidden years, as they come and pass,

May leave me alone, with a wee, wee tomb

Hidden away in the tangled grass.

Still as on earth, so in heaven above,

Near to me, dear to me, claiming my love,

Safe in God's sunshine, and filling his plan,

Still be _forever_ my own little man.

Perhaps our Irish poetess in exile--Boston does not consider itself a

place of exile--would prefer to be represented by one of her more

serious poems; and probably she had good reasons for placing first in

her volume the following which is called "The Master's Hand."

The scroll was old and gray;

The dust of time had gathered white and chill

Above the touches of the worker's skill,

And hid their charm away.

The many passed it by;

For no sweet curve of dainty face or form,

No gleam of light, or flash of color warm,

Held back the careless eye.

But when the artist came,

With eye that saw beyond the charm of sense,

He seemed to catch a sense of power intense

That filled the dusky frame.

And when with jealous care

His hand had cleansed the canvas, line by line,

Behold! The fire of perfect art divine,

Had burned its impress there!

Upon the tablet glowed,

Made priceless by the arch of time they spanned,

The touches of the rare Old Master's hand,

The life his skill bestowed.

* * * * *

O God whom we adore!

Give us the watchful sight, to see and trace,

Thy living semblance in each human face

However clouded o'er.

Give us the power to find,

However warped and grimmed by time and sin,

Thine impress stamped upon the soul within,

Thy signet on the mind.

Not ours the reckless speed

To proudly pass our brother's weakness by,

And turning from his side with careless eye,

To take no further heed.

But, studying line by line,

Grant to our hearts deep trust and patient skill,

To trace within his soul and spirit still,

Thy Master Hand divine!

Mrs. Blake in one point does not resemble the two Irish woman-poets--for

they are more than poetesses--whom we named together at the beginning of

this little paper. Ireland and the Blessed Virgin have not in this

Boston book the prominence which Miss Mulholland gives them in the

volume which is just issuing from Paternoster Square. The Irish-American

lady made her selection with a view to the tastes of the general public;

but the general public are sure to be won by earnest and truthful

feeling, and an Irish and Catholic heart cannot be truthful and earnest

without betraying its devotion to the Madonna and Erin.

_Irish Monthly_, edited by REV. MATHEW RUSSELL, S.J.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: _Gille Machree_, "brightener of my heart;" the name of one

of Gerald Griffin's sweetest songs.]

[Footnote 8: Amongst American women we cannot claim Nora Perry, in spite

of her Christian name; but the father of Miss Louise Guiney was an

Irishman. Both of these show a fresh and bright talent, which lifts them

far above feminine verse-writers.]

George Washington.

HIS CELEBRATED WHITE MULE, AND THE RACE IT MADE AWAY FROM A DEER RIFLE.

Washington has generally been credited with the introduction in America

of mules as a valuable adjunct to plantation appurtenances; but very few

people know that one of his favorite riding animals was a white mule,

which was kept carefully stabled and groomed along with his blooded

horses at Mount Vernon. In the year 1797, there was published at

Alexandria for a brief period, a weekly paper called _Hopkin's Gazette_.

A few numbers of this sheet are still extant. In one of them there is an

account of an exciting adventure, in which Washington, the white mule,

and one Jared Dixon figured. It is evident that the editor of this paper

did not have an exalted opinion of the great patriot, as he speaks of

him as "a man who has the conceit of believing that there would not be

any such country as America if there had not been a George Washington to

prevent its annihilation." From this account it appears that Jared Dixon

was a Welshman, who lived on a hundred-acre tract of land adjoining the

Mount Vernon plantation. Washington always claimed that the tract

belonged to him, and made several efforts to dispossess Dixon, but

without success. According to the _Gazette_, Washington's overseer had,

on one occasion, torn down the Dixon fence and let the cattle into the

field, and various similar annoyances were resorted to in order to force

Dixon to move away. But Dixon would neither surrender nor compromise,

and kept on cultivating his little farm in defiance of the man who had

been first in war and was now first in peace.

"It was last Thursday about the hour of noon," says the _Gazette_, "when

General Washington rode up to Mr. Dixon's gate. He was mounted on his

white mule, which had come down the broad road on his famous fox-trot of

eight miles an hour. There was fire in the General's eye and his under

lip protruded far, betokening war. His riding-boots shone in the sun, as

did his gold spurs. His hair was tied with a gorgeous black ribbon, and

his face was pale with resolution. Mr. Dixon and his family were

adjusting themselves for dinner, when they heard the call at the gate.

There was a most animated conversation between these two neighbors, in

which the General informed the humble settler that he must receive a

certain sum for his disputed title or submit to be dispossessed.

Whereupon Mr. Dixon, who was also a Revolutionary soldier, and felt that

he has some rights in this country, informed the lordly neighbor that

the land was his own, that he had paid for it and built houses thereon,

the children were born to him on it, and that he would defend it with

his life. Continuing, he charged the general with inciting his employes

to depredate on the fences and fields. It was natural that this should

arouse the mettle of the modern Mars. He flew into a towering rage, and

applied many epithets to Mr. Dixon that are not warranted by the Ten

Commandments. He even went so far as to raise his riding-whip and to

threaten personal violence. Mr. Dixon is a man of few words, but a high

temper, and, not caring to have his home and family thus offended, he

gave the general one minute to move away while he rushed into his house

for his deer rifle. There are none who doubt the valor of the general;

but there may be a few who do not credit him with that discretion which

is so valuable a part of valor. Suffice it for the ends of this

chronicle to say that it required only a few moments for him to turn the

gray mule's head towards Mount Vernon, and, in less time than it takes

to here relate, the noble animal was distancing the Dixon homestead with

gallant speed. It was no fox-trot, nor yet so fast as the Derby record,

but most excellent for a mule. At any rate, it was a noble race, which

saved a settler's shot and a patriot's bacon, and averted a possible

catastrophe that might have cast a gloom on American history."

If this narrative is strictly accurate, Washington might have replied to

his refractory neighbor, on being warned away, in the language of the

Nevada desperado who was put on a mule by a committee of vigilants and

given ten minutes to get out of town; "Gentlemen," said the desperado,

"if this mule don't balk, I don't want but five."

Washington's Mother.

Mrs. Washington found little difficulty in bringing up her children.

They were disciplined to obedience, and a simple word was her command.

She was not given to any display of petulance or rage, but was steady,

well-balanced, and unvarying in her mood. That she was dignified, even

to stateliness, is shown us by the statement made by Lawrence

Washington, of Chotauk, a relative and playmate of George in boyhood,

who was often a guest at her house. He says--"I was often there with

George--his playmate, schoolmate, and young man's companion. Of the

mother I was ten times more afraid than I ever was of my own parents.

She awed me in the midst of her kindness, for she was indeed truly kind.

I have often been present with her sons--proper tall fellows, too--and

we were all as mute as mice; and even now, when time has whitened my

locks, and I am the grandparent of a second generation, I could not

behold that remarkable woman without feelings it is impossible to

describe. Whoever has seen that awe-inspiring air and manner, so

characteristic in the father of his country, will remember the matron as

she appeared, when the presiding genius of her well-ordered household,

commanding and being obeyed.

A Child of Mary.

An old general was once asked by a friend how it was that, after so many

years spent in the camp, he had come to be so frequent a communicant,

receiving several times a week. "My friend," answered the old soldier,

"the strangest part of it is, that my change of life was brought about

before I ever listened to the word of a priest, and before I had set my

foot in a church. After my campaigns, God bestowed on me a pious wife,

whose faith I respected, though I did not share it. Before I married her

she was a member of all the pious confraternities of her parish, and she

never failed to add to her signature, _Child of Mary_. She never took it

upon herself to lecture me about God, but I could read her thoughts in

her countenance. When she prayed, every morning and night, her

countenance beamed with faith and charity; when she returned from the

church, where she had received, with a calmness, a sweetness and a

patience, which had in them something of the serenity of heaven, she

seemed an angel. When she dressed my wounds I found her like a Sister of

Charity.

"Suddenly, I myself was taken with the desire to love the God whom my

wife loved so well, and who inspired her with those virtues which formed

the joy of my life. One day I, who hitherto was without faith, who was

such a complete stranger to the practices of religion, so far from the

Sacraments, said to her: 'Take me to your confessor.'

"Through the ministry of this man of God, and by the divine grace, I

have become what I am, and what I rejoice to be."

Dead Man's Island.

THE STORY OF AN IRISH COUNTRY TOWN.

T. P. O'CONNOR, M. P.

CHAPTER XIX.

MAT BECOMES A FENIAN.

Shortly before this, the Widow Cunningham had received the news that her

poor boy had been killed in a colliery accident in Pennsylvania. This

stopped the allowance which he used to send her out of his own scant

wages.

The destruction of her daughter now came as the last blow that broke her

long-enduring spirit. There had been a time when she would have died

rather than have gone into the workhouse, but she had nothing left to

live for now, and she became a pauper. The Irish workhouse soon kills

what little spirit successive misfortunes have left in its occupants

before their entrance, and in a few years there was nothing left of the

once proud, high-spirited and splendid woman, whom we knew in the early

days of this history.

Meantime, the fate of the girl had been the final influence in deciding

the fate of another person. Mat Blake had fluctuated for a long time

before he could make up his mind to join the revolutionary party; but on

the very evening of the day on which he had seen Betty in the streets of

Ballybay he made no further resistance, and that night was sworn in as a

member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

It is not my purpose in this story to enter at length into his

adventures in his new and perilous enterprise. He had not been long in

the ranks when he was recognized by Mr. James Stephens as one of the

most promising members of the conspiracy, and he was chosen to do

important and serious work. The funds of the organization were nearly

always at the lowest ebb, and during this period of his life Mat had to

pass through privations that could only be endured by a man of

passionate purpose and unselfish aims. Many and many a time he had not

the money wherewith to buy a railway ticket. His clothes were often

ragged, and he frequently had to walk twenty miles in a day in shoes

that were almost soleless. The arrangement usually was for the members

of one circle to supply him with the money that would take him to the

next town; and though he saw many instances of abject cowardice and

hideous selfishness at this period--especially when the suspension of

the _Habeas Corpus_ Act left the liberty, and to some extent, the life

of every man at the disposal of the police. He also witnessed many

proofs of heroic courage and noble devotion.

At length the time came when everybody expected the blow to be struck at

British tyranny, and the star of Irish liberty to arise. Mat, owing to

his fiery and impatient temperament, naturally belonged to that section

of the Fenian Brotherhood which demanded prompt action, and still in the

age of illusions and of blinding rage, he would admit no difficulties,

and feared no obstacles. Mat had sworn in hundreds of members. He had

passed through the town of Ballybay on the memorable night when an Irish

regiment, as it was leaving for other quarters, cheered through the town

for the Irish Republic, and some of the men on whom he relied most

strongly were in high authority in the police force. He knew nothing of

the almost total want of arms, taking it for granted that all the wild

boasts of the supplies from America and other sources were founded on

facts. He was one of the deputation that finally waited upon the leaders

in Dublin to hurry on the struggle.

He went down to Ballybay on the night of the 17th of March, 18--, which

had been fixed for the rising. The head centre of the province had

arranged to meet the men there that night with arms. The Ballybay

Barracks were to be surrendered to them through one of the sergeants who

belonged to the Brotherhood; and it was hoped that by the evening of the

next day, the green flag would float over the castle which for three

centuries had been garrisoned by the soldiers of the enemy.

Two hundred men met at the trysting place, close to the "Big Meadows."

They were kept waiting for some time; impatience began to set in, and

demoralization is the child of impatience. At last the head centre

appeared; he had five guns for the whole party. Then the men saw that

their hopes were betrayed. Most of them quietly dispersed towards their

homes. That night Mat was seized in his bed, and within a few minutes

afterwards was in goal. He felt that the game was up, that all his

bright hopes, like those of many another noble Irish heart before him,

had ended in farcical nothingness. Disaster followed upon disaster. When

he made his appearance in court he saw upon the witness table one of his

most trusted friends, who was about to give the evidence that would

ensure his conviction.

A final outrage was in store for him. The Government had resolved, when

once it had entered upon the campaign against the conspiracy, to pursue

it with vigor, and judges were selected who might be relied upon to show

the accused no justice during the trial, and no mercy after the

conviction. Crowe, who had been made a judge shortly after his last

election for Ballybay, was naturally chosen as the chief and most useful

actor in this drama. During all the years that had elapsed since his

treason he had distinguished himself, even above all the other judges of

the country, in the unscrupulous violence of his hostility to all

popular movements. Trial before him came to be regarded as certainty of

conviction. The fearlessness of the man made him inaccessible to the

threats that were everywhere hurled against him, and his rage became the

fiercer and his violence the more relentless on the day after he found a

threatening letter under a plate on his own table. He brought to his

task all the ferocity of the apostate. Under all his apparent

independence, his quick vanity and his hot temper made him sensitive to

attack, and the Fenian Press had made him the chief target of its most

vehement and most constant invective.

Mat Blake was known as one of the bitterest writers and speakers of the

movement, and some of the writings in which he had attacked Crowe

displayed a familiarity with the incidents of Ballybay elections which

could only have come from the pen of one who had been intimately

associated with those struggles.

The two men now stood face to face--the one on the bench and the other

in the dock. Crowe did not allow himself to betray any sign of previous

acquaintance with the prisoner before him. The jury was selected; every

man who might be supposed to have the least sympathy with National

movements was rigorously excluded from the box, and Mat was tried by

twelve men, of whom nine were Orangemen and the other three belonged to

that Catholic-Whig _bourgeoisie_ against which he had always waged

unsparing war. Anthony Cosgrave was the foreman. Mat was convicted, and

sentenced to seven years' penal servitude.

The sufferings he underwent during this period I will not attempt to

describe. After a very short stay in Ireland he was transferred to

Portland, and there the English warders exhausted upon him all the

insolence and cruelty of ignorant and triumphant enemies. One suffering,

however, was in his case somewhat mitigated. He had not a large

appetite, and the prison food, though coarse, was sufficient for his

wants. With the generosity which characterized him, he was even ready to

divide his food with those whose appetites were more exacting. Among his

companions were two men, tall, robust, red-haired, who belonged to a

stock of Southern farmers, and who were possessed of the gigantic

strength, the huge frame, and the sound digestion of Cork ploughmen.

Every day these hapless creatures complained of hunger and of cold, and

Mat and Charles Reilly, another member of the _Irish People_ staff,

sometimes found a sombre pleasure in finding and gathering snails for

them. Whenever either of them brought a snail to Meehan or to Sheil the

famished men would swallow it eagerly, without even stopping to take off

the shell. Meehan is now a prominent member of the Dynamite Party in New

York. Sheil became insane shortly after his release, and threw himself

into the Liffey.

One day, after four years' imprisonment, the Governor called Mat into

his room and told him that he was free. He was transferred to Milbank,

then he was supplied with a suit of clothes several times too large for

him, and he went out and by the Thames, and gazed on that noble stream

with the eyes of a free man.

He wandered aimlessly and listlessly along, unable yet to appreciate the

full joy of his restoration to liberty. As he was passing over

Westminster Bridge he was suddenly stopped by a man whom he had known in

the ranks of the organization, and whom the fortune of war had not swept

into gaol with the rest. The stranger looked at Mat for a few moments;

gazed on the hollow eyes, the pale cheeks, and the worn frame, and,

unable to restrain his emotions, burst into tears. This was the first

indication Mat received of the terrible change that imprisonment had

wrought in his appearance. The next day he set out for Ballybay.

Meanwhile, vast changes seemed about to come over Ireland. The Fenian

conspiracy had been the death-knell of the triumphant cynicism and

corruption that had reigned over the country in the years succeeding the

treason of Crowe. The name of Mr. Butt, as the leader of a new movement,

was beginning to be spoken of. An agitation had been started which

demanded a radical settlement of the land question. Demonstrations were

taking place in almost every county, and the people were united,

enthusiastic, and hopeful. Several of the worst of the landlords had

already been brought to their knees, and there had been a considerable

fall in the value of landed property. The serfs were passing from the

extremity of despair and demoralization into the other extreme of

exultant and sometimes cruel triumph.

Even the town of Ballybay was beginning to be stirred, and the farmers

all around joined the new organization in large numbers.

By a curious coincidence a monster demonstration was announced in

Ballybay for the very day of Mat's arrival.

As Mat passed along the too well remembered scene between Ballybay and

Dublin, he could not help thinking of the time when he had gone over

this road on his first visit to Ireland after his departure for England.

He had then thought that desolation had reached its ultimate point; but

in the intervening period the signs of decay had increased. It appeared

as if for every ruin that had stared him in the face on the former

occasion ten now appeared. For miles and miles he caught sight of not

one house, of no human face; he seemed almost to be travelling through a

city of the dead.

As the newspaper containing tidings of the new movement lay before him,

he leaned back in reflection, and once more thought of the days in which

Crowe figured as the saviour, and then as the betrayer of Ireland. It

had been a rigid article of faith with the Fenian organization that no

confidence was to be placed in constitutional agitations and agitators.

Mat retained in their full fervor the doctrines he had held for years

upon this point; and he turned away from the accounts of the new

movement as from another chapter in national folly and prospective

treason. Looking out on the familiar grey and dull sky, he could see no

hope whatever for the future of his country. Irish life appeared to him

one vast mistake; and so far as he had any plans for the future they

were of a life removed from the chaos and fret and toil and moil and

disappointments and humbug of politics. He thought of returning once

more to his profession; but he resolved that it would be neither amid

the incessant decay of Ireland, nor surrounded by hostile faces and

unsympathetic hearts in England. His thoughts were of the mighty country

which had extended its hospitality and generosity to so many of his

race, and had bestowed upon them liberty, prosperity, and eminence. In

all these visions one figure, one sweet face mingled itself. With Mary

Flaherty by his side he felt that no career could be wholly dark, no

part of the world wholly foreign, and as he once more indulged in waking

dreams he hummed to himself the well-known air,--

"Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,

Still wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me."

At last he was at the railway, and there were his poor old father and

his mother standing before him, their hair bleached to whiteness,

trembling, feeble, with tears rolling down their cheeks. Mat was in his

mother's arms in a moment.

Ballybay, even on this occasion, was true to itself. The arrival of Mat

in Dublin had been announced in the newspapers, and the heart of the

people throughout the country went forth to him, as it always does to

those whose generous rashness has been punished by England's worst

tyranny. He had been accompanied to the railway station at the

Broadstone by a crowd; thousands cheered him, and shook him by the hand,

and wept and laughed. The word had mysteriously gone along the line that

the patriot was returning, and at every one of the stations, however

small, there was a multitude to greet him warmly.

But at Ballybay, still deep down in the slough of its eternal despond, a

few lorn and desolate-looking men stood on the platform. There they were

once more, as if it were but yesterday, with their hands deep down in

their pockets; the wistful, curious glance in their eyes, and the

melancholy slouch in their shoulders. They tried to raise a cheer, but

the attempt died in its own sickliness.

And then Mat left the train, walked over the station as one in a dream,

and was placed upon the sidecar almost without knowing what he was

doing.

There was a terrible dread at his heart; he asked his mother a question;

she answered him; and then, and for the first time since he had left

prison, his heart burst, his spirit broke, and he entered his father's

house pallid, trembling, his eyes suffused with bitter tears.