the policy which the Popes have pursued fearlessly against Arians, Protestants and Modernists. There is nothing subtle or compliant about it; and because of it the Church stands where she does to-day, erect and definite, while the Protestant Bishops are wrangling over Kikuyu. Once more God raised up a great Pope to guide the Church in an hour of need; and the hand of Giuseppe Sarto, but lately grown cold, has handed on intact the heritage of apostolic tradition, and the wide wisdom and the saving philosophy of the Church of Christ. The Pope's simplicity admitted only one touchstone of judgment-the divine intention revealed in the written word and the inherited leanings of Catholicism; and he had no doubts of the issue, for who can fight against God? Ruskin saw this truth when he wrote as follows: "The human effort and sorrow going on perpetually from age to age, waves rolling for ever, and winds moaning for ever, and faithful hearts trusting and sickening for ever, and brave lives dashed away about the rattling beach like weeds for ever. And still at the helm of every lonely boat through starless night and hopeless dawn, His hand who spread the fisher's net over the dust of the Sidonian palaces, and gave into the fisher's hand the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven."

The late Pope's attitude was not merely negative; he was by no means constantly or completely employed in curbing new tendencies and ambitions by a rigid non possumus. He, too, was an innovator. His Decree on Daily Communion is still fresh in our memories. The effects of that Decree are palpable. From all quarters comes testimony of a great awakening of Catholic life as a result of the simple expedient of partaking frequently of the Bread of Life. With that sure instinct which sprang from his essential humility and his union with God, Pius X. saw the exact means of increasing devotion. He laboured to restore all things in Christ; and God has blessed his labours with a wonderful increase.

It would be impossible here to examine in detail the reforms inaugurated by the late Pope-his substitution of Gregorian plain chant for the theatrical music often heard in churches, his reorganisation of the Roman Curia, his steps taken for the codification of Canon Law, his foundation of the Biblical Commission, his curricula for seminary studies-the outcome. no doubt, of his experience as a parish priest and as a hardworking Bishop in touch with the actual problems of the day. In every one of his reforms there is visible the same far

seeing energy and fearless resolve to restore all things in Christ.

Pius X. never sought popularity; but he was a popular Pope. And his popularity came in all probability from the fact that he had been poor and that he always retained true poverty of spirit. Amid the splendours of the Vatican he would speak of the days when as little Giuseppe Sarto he went barefoot to school along the streets of Riese. And to the end he was remarkable for two things-for his simple needs, and for his love of the poor. He had little liking for the pomp and ceremonial which hedged him about as Pope. One of his first acts was to reduce the number of the Swiss Guard. He could not understand why so many servants were kept to minister to his comforts. "What do I want with seven cooks to make me a bowl of soup," he would say. It had long been a custom for the Pope to dine alone. But Pius X. invited to his table even unknown priests. He was remonstrated with gently for this departure from court rule, and he replied: “If Urban VIII. had the right to make such a rule, Pius X. has an equal right to abolish it." There was another custom of great antiquity that none but kings and Cardinals should seat themselves in the Pope's presence. The Pope did not always observe it. He tried to treat as many as possible of those who came near him simply as friends. In his own person he was willing to waive all rights except the right of living like a humble servant of Christ.

Giuseppe Sarto was of humble origin. During early boyhood and manhood, when the mind is most receptive and sensitive, his amusements and opportunities were limited by the rule of poverty. He knew the suffering of the poor from the inside. In looking at that genial face one knew that beneath the splendid vestments, behind the power and pomp, there beat the kind heart of a poor man. As a parish priest he had worked for the poor; as Patriarch of Venice he was beloved by his subjects for his simplicity and benevolence ; and as Pope he did not change. And because there was about the man the large breadth of human kindness any favour he bestowed was touched with an added charm.

Though there have been in earlier ages warlike Popes who rode at the head of their troops to battle, the influence of the Holy See during the many bloody conflicts which have swept Europe since the days of Constantine has been thrown habitually on the side of peace. Rome, even at the height

of its temporal power, has striven to rule men's minds by sweet reasonableness rather than by coercion. Her sanction has relied not so much on the strong arm of civil power as on the moral pressure of her disapproval. And the late Pope laboured till his last breath to uphold the long traditions of his office. When he was nearing his end those who watched weeping by his bedside heard him say: "In ancient times, the Pope, with a word, might have stayed the slaughter. Now I am impotent." It was a bitter cry. The cry of one who knew that Christ's kingdom is not advanced by bitterness, or burnings, or massacres, or by any worldly means, but by forbearance, and patience, and charity. And again: "Now I begin to think the end is approaching. The Almighty in His inexhaustible goodness wishes to spare me the horrors which Europe is undergoing." They were almost his last words. When the great heart of Pius X. stopped beating it was full of pity and sorrow for the suffering and of gratitude to God.

In the late Pope the world has lost its leading citizen, and this both because of the position he held and because of his personal excellence. To have risen from the humblest station to the highest, not through the influence of powerful or interested friends, but by acknowledged worth, is to have filled the measure of worldly success. To take rank and honours so simply that none grudge them, to wield great power strongly and uncompromisingly, and yet make no personal enemy, to keep, in the press of anxious business, a heart sensitive to the noblest feelings of pity and compassion, to have an eye clear for the differences between right and wrong and a will set upon the highest good in spite of temptations and selfish counsels, to be so accommodating to others (while abating no jot of principle) as to cause no embarrassment because of high station or uncommon ability, to look to God consistently as the friend and father of men and the only arbiter of action-this, it may truly be said, is to have mastered the art of living. But with us Catholics Pius X. was in more intimate relationship; he typified the universal fatherhood of God. His views, his health, his successes, his reverses, struck home to us with a poignancy and interest unknown to others, because he stood for so much in that movement of things which we hold supreme. Because he was Pope he had our loyalty; because he was a saint he had our admiration; because he was a kind-hearted father to his people he had our love. He has died in a dark hour when

we could least have spared him. But he has restored many things in Christ. His successor will find Catholics better instructed in their religion than they were, more fervent in prayer and more frequent in the use of the Sacraments, more alive to the urgency of their vocation and the strength of their discipline. He will find the whole world better because of the life of Giuseppe Sarto.

SONG OF GALWAY

THE bog is brown and mellow, O!
Bleached in the shaking sedge.
The rush is growing yellow, O!
About the water's edge.

The ocean's breaking on the land
In fretted bars of foam, O!
Pressed by its masses up the strand
To the threshold of our home, O!
To our little patch of loam, O!

The sea is kind and cruel, O!

Its steals away our sons.

It brings us wrack for fuel, O!

And takes our dearest ones.

The weed comes drifting up the shore

The mack'rel to the bay, O!

But though the ocean swells our store
It takes its toll away, O!
It takes a life each day, O!

AGNES BLUNDELL.

A FRENCH FAIR

By KATHARINE TYNAN.

HE night is August's and of August's fairest. A magnificent moon is flooding with light the sand-dunes and

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the sea, leaving one side of the steep, narrow streets in blackest shadow, while on the other side it reveals all that is to be revealed. Down in the town smartly-dressed crowds are swarming to the Casino and the fireworks. To-day has been the Battle of Flowers, and the spirit of the thing is in the air. Down one illuminated side-walk goes a small ringletted boy pushing a mail-cart sparsely decorated with garlands. There is the evil smell peculiar to the place coming up from the quays and meeting you at corners of streets. All the waters of Cologne would not quench it. But to the artist it recalls an old delight, the delight of waking to it the morning after the return from school and realising that he was once again amid ships and by the sea.

As one climbs the streets to the hill "the very houses seem asleep," the tall, silent houses with their air of hidden adventure, of history. The spirit of place there puts her finger to her lip. By another steeper, handsomer street the tram trails, a serpent of light, to the fair. There is a flowing of waters down the gutters beside which we walk, but the music is drowned by the shrill blare of the steam merry-go-round, by many bands, and raucous human voices shouting the different attractions of the fair. Up there under the trees in their Summer mystery of darkness, under the moon and stars and the shadow of the great cathedral, the fair blares and glares, a little human hive of noise and glitter.

A steady stream of people pour through the entrance. It is not a fashionable crowd; the fashionable crowd is down on the quay-side streaming away to the Casino. Here are many family parties-papa, mamma, and baby, little French boys with curls and baggy pantaloons, little French girls with small frilly skirts standing out like lamp-shades, fishermen and their sweethearts, dames de la halle with their wide-spreading caps, sailors, gendarmes, douaniers, comely middle-class Frenchwomen, English tourists staring about them, English schoolboys escorting their young sisters; everywhere the ubiquitous