life, that the unuttered songs became articulate, and that to a fancy stirred beyond its wont the whole church responded in praise of Him for whom it was built, and that those angels in whose name it had been blessed should join in the heavenly song.

VI

Eve of the Feast of St. Gabriel. Yesterday we used the old church, and the new was shut for cleaning purposes. Kneeling at sunset in the gallery of the old church, I could not help thinking of the many generations who had come and gone and passed away. It is darker than the new church, and there is something melancholy in its deserted stalls. Not that it is useless. The upper half, containing the sanctuary with its exquisite marble altar, is used by the villagers as their parish church. Some six years after the consecration of the new church it was thought wise to allow the village people to use the old church instead of walking to the next village where, properly speaking, the parish church is situated. The parish priest lives in a quaint house next to the church. It is a dark little house, but built on a height, and commands a wonderful view. Before its windows slopes a grassy knoll literally covered in spring with a carpet of whitest snowdrops. Quite lately, hidden away in the old sacristy, they came across an exquisite old painting of Our Lord upon the Cross. Who was the artist, and how it came into such an out-of-the-way nook no one knows. But since the parish church now is absolutely within the precincts of the cloister, the old church at Bythorpe is more deserted than ever. No one could tell in former days if the villagers went to Sunday Mass or not, and truant boys found erring at the Priory fell back on Bythorpe for an excuse, and vice versa.

It meant a great deal to the community, the giving up of the church to the public. It had seen their reception and heard their vows; many had received their First Holy Communion at its rails; some had made their first confession there. On the evening before it was thrown open to the public the community went through it for the last time, for once it passed "outside" the enclosure it became forbidden ground. The other half of it, containing the stalls, is screened off and still used by the nuns for stations, examen, private prayer and meditation.

VII

Palm Sunday, 20th March. This morning we entered on the final tragedy of the Passion. The choir were finishing Terce as I entered church. Some of the children were in the habit in order to maintain the pueri Hebraeorum when the community went up to the altar to receive the palm. It is a rule of the house that on certain days the children are privileged to wear the habit and go to choir, a privilege dating back many centuries. Some hundreds of years ago, when the world was a much rougher place than it is now, and when bold barons used to harry the land, and, incidentally, their neighbour's property, it was customary for girls to be placed in the convents for their education and safety at a very early age. These babes led the life of the cloister, and were clothed in tiny religious habits. They were taught the Divine Office, and took their part in the choir, were up early in the morning to intone the Martyrology, and were trained to share in the religious life with decorum. It must have been a quaint and pretty sight to watch these little ones brought up within the very courts of the house of God. Some, having grown to love the life, remained in the house, took their vows and were professed. Others, at a marriageable age, went out into the world to take their place there. It has been sometimes remarked by non-Catholic historians how the women of history bore their extraordinary trials, what fortitude and courage they showed in adversity. Perhaps the early training received by many a Catholic girl in the cloister helped to give them this fine courage and noble daring, for they were women strong to do and to dare. The mystical tie uniting the heart to that of its Creator is hard to loosen, when the knot has been tied early in life, a form of betrothal known and cherished by every Catholic heart.

This morning as we walked in solemn procession through the cloisters, with waving palms and cross held high, with the exquisite tones of the "Ingrediente Domino in sanctam civitatem" ringing in our ears, I caught sight of the four children clothed in the habit-pueri Hebraeorum cum ramis palmorumand we seemed to have stepped back through the ages.

This evening it is like summer, very different from the past few days when we had snow-storms-only yesterday I gathered. a great bunch of daffodils whose petals were thick with snow.

From my open windows, as I write, the view is perfect. Beyond the budding lime trees the park slopes upland to where its summit is crowned by a rough wooden cross. A small reservoir stands on the slope, a thick belt of trees hides the silver water from my view. And the little white entrance-gate looks friendly in the sunset. I love that little gate, it gives a touch of rustic homeliness that is often wanting in monastic surroundings.

To-morrow I shall be far from the land of St. Benedict, in the midst of the hurry of town life; but to-night, as I look out on the gracious view, hear the silence, and watch the sunset, the words of the morning's Gradual sound in my ears: Thou hast held me by my right hand; and led me along by Thy will; and with glory hast Thou taken me up."

Then memory many a tale recalls,
While fancy builds those crumbling walls
As once they stood, when castle rang
With warriors' shout and armour's clang.
When convent church and stately tower,
Unharmed as yet by foes,

From plain and valley rose-
Enriched by Faith and fenced by Power.

Ye men of Erin, look around-
Where'er ye step 'tis holy ground:
In plain, hill, vale beneath your tread
Repose in peace our glorious dead;
See how the sacred ruins keep

Strict watch and ward above their sleep.
Withered the Irish heart, and cold,
That feels, amid those landmarks old,
No pride for Erin's ancient days,
No pain that each hoar pile decays.

Still in proud strength, throughout the land,
With rugged brows the ruins stand

Like beetling cliffs whose sombre form Flings back unmoved the surge and storm. How lovingly the ivy clings

To lone Round Towers, and sheltering flings
Its mantle o'er full many a rent

In buttress, wall, and battlement !
'Twould seem as if, in grief and pain,
It mourns each fallen stone,
And lends to castle keep and fane
Its own bright sheen of living green
For perfect beauty flown :-
Indignant that degenerate man,

With no great-hearted thought or plan,
Leaves those dark walls to waste away,
Victims of slow but sure decay.
Shame, shame be ours e'en in the tomb,
If, soulless grown, those piles we doom
To fate abhorred, oblivion's gloom!
Oh! save we, ere their day be sped,
Those grand memorials of the dead,
To nerve the heart, as clarions shrill
In war the charging squadron's thrill,

And keep alight the patriot fires
That bid us emulate our sires.

But, sad to tell, though martyrs' blood
Sweeps through our veins, their hardihood
Within our hearts, 'mid Erin's woes,
Their hardihood not always glows.

Awake, ye sluggards, dare and do!
Our ruins point to lessons true:
In word and act and steadfast soul
Be Erin's good your aim and goal,
And learn in spots where heroes trod
To love your country and your God.

MICHAEL J. WATSON, S.J.

Melbourne, Australia.

A CLINICAL BAPTISM

THE REV. RICHARD W. ALEXANDER tells the following story in an American publication called the Missionary. As Father Sherman, S.J., and others named towards the end are real persons, the incident is put forward as having really occurred.

"Talking about apostolates," said a Massachusetts priest to me some time ago, "let me tell you of an experience of mine. I was called out one night at 10 o'clock by one of our hotels to the bedside of an actress. They said she was unconscious and dying, and that she might be a Catholic, for she had a rosary on her dressing table. I went hastily with the holy oils. I found a girl of about twenty-two, lying pale and helpless on her bed. Her eyes were closed, and her long, dark hair, disordered on the pillow, framed a singularly sweet, innocent face. One of the hotel maids was busied about her, and it was not hard to know what faith shone in her honest, charitable eyes. Stepping reverently aside she said in a hushed voice to some of the troupe that were in the small room:

"It's the priest.'