The sharp contrast of human things is illustrated by one of the newspaper cuttings preserved as a record of Judge Carton's funeral. Printed on the back of it, and filling exactly the same space, an account was given of the congratulations offered by the solicitors in the Land Commission Court to Mr. Justice Dodd on his appointment to a seat in the High Court of Justice. Two shall be in the field: one shall be taken and one shall be left" (Matthew xxiv. 40). One man beginning his career as a judge; another, ending his earthly career for ever. How well it was ended, how honourable that career had been from first to last, was testified by the great number of judges, barristers, solicitors, priests, and other citizens of Dublin who accompanied Judge Carton's remains to their resting-place in Glasnevin. But more consoling and more gratifying to those who loved him was the large band of orphans that joined the funeral procession as it passed St. Vincent's Orphanage near Glasnevin : for these represented the hidden works of zeal and charity by which the deceased Judge had sanctified his strenuous life. Surely it was well with him when, a judge no longer, he presented himself to be judged before the tribunal of that supreme Judge who has said, "Whatever you do to the least of these little ones, you do it to Me." Et orphano tu eris adjutor. M. R. MADONNA AD NIVES EACH crystal of the winter's snow Is prismal in its rainbow light: So, Lady of the heavenly snows, Though all the virtues shine in thee, ELEANOR C. DONNELLY. "O MEMORY, FOND MEMORY!" HAT a happy thought, and a truly Catholic thought, WHAT has inspired Mrs. Hinkson in the compilation of her beautiful and consoling book of anniversaries ! * It makes its appearance rightly, not in the hue of mourning, but in bridal or birthday garb. What, indeed, within the reach of human nature, can be more cheering and ennobling than the loving remembrance of our blessed ones who have gone before us cum signo fidei, et dormiunt in somno pacis? There was an instance lately of the great difference in this regard between our Protestant friends and ourselves. I never miss the admirable "Literary Letter" of an esteemed friend, which appears week by week over the initials C. K. S. One such letter, after praising from a literary point of view Mrs. Hinkson's Book of Memory, said it was rather saddening on account of its subject. Such an idea would not, it seems to me, occur to a Catholic. Perhaps it would be too much to say that we Catholics "enjoy' going to funerals, as C. K. S. playfully said of the Irish and Scotch, when he noticed how few English friends along with himself stood by the grave of dear Lionel Johnson. But, assuredly, Catholics very cheerfully pay the last marks of respect to the neighbour, and it seems to be a Catholic turn of mind which has survived in the Highlands and in Welsh Wales, as well as in Ireland, where people certainly do flock together for the wake or the burial. Perhaps it requires something of a Catholic instinct to be very willing to remember what is undeniably true. Yet" things are what they are: things will be what they will be: why then should we deceive ourselves?" Partings there have been; other partings there must be; and our own departure cannot long be delayed. It is the happiness of Catholics that, without always having at their command the language of Henry Montagu, Earl of Manchester, they are familiar with such thoughts as his, and even thoughts rising far beyond his. "He too narrowly pincheth his own joys who resteth satisfied with what is present. Man is a future creature; the eye of his soul looks beyond this life. What more heavenly than the thought of immortality? What so necessary as the thought of death? A Book of Memory: The Birthday Book of the Blessed Dead. By Katharine Tynan. London: Hodder & Stoughton. It was the saying of Socrates, When death approacheth thou growest more divine." And if more divine, surely more joyful, our hearts being lifted up and truly "enlarged." Some years ago, when getting into or out of a fever, I took a fancy to hear Louis Veuillot's epitaph, and passages of Gerontius. It seemed to some one a strange fancy, and perhaps was misunderstood. I did not think that I was dying, and I did not at all want to die. But I found it easier than usual to relish thoughts which are at all times beautiful, noble, and consoling. I hope I may quote here the lines written in view of his own death by Louis Veuillot, as not everyone may know where to lay his hand upon them : Placez à mon côté ma plume, Sur mon cœur le Christ, mon orgueil, Après la dernière prière, Dites entre vous: "Il sommeille ; J'espère en Jésus. Sur la terre Such as these are surely the thoughts of all to whom Catholic teaching is familiar. We are far removed in mind from those of whom St. Paul speaks, qui spem non habent. It is not as if we had no instinctive fear of going out into the dark, and taking our flight we know not whither. But to us the darkness is not complete, for the veil has been lifted a little, and a little light has been allowed to shine upon the valley of the shadow of death, along which we know that One will go with us who is both a rod of guidance and a staff of support. It is not as if we did not stand in wholesome awe of God's searching judgments. But we remember that blessed book written for them that fear the Lord and think on His name (Mal. iii. 16). Such a book, such a list, will assuredly not fail to include us, and to bring us forward to the hand of Him who delights to purify the sons of Levi, and to refine them as gold and as silver. We are quite alive to what refining must mean for poor and lowly creatures, in whom is found so much dross. But we know also how that refining purification is continued and completed when we have passed the borders of eternity, and how even whilst it lasts the faithful soul that has "thought on the name of the Lord" enjoys such bliss as this world can never afford. Says one of the greatest of our Irish Bishops, "J. K. L.": "The happiness of such as are detained in purgatory, though incomplete and joined with suffering, is greater than any to be found on earth."* Adown the grooves of all these happy and high considerations the mind is sent by Mrs. Hinkson's book of The Blessed Dead. She has so arranged it, that we may each write down the names specially dear to ourselves, and even our own quotations in addition to hers. But her quotations are delightfully chosen, which is only to say that they are worthy of one who is a poet and a Catholic, a devoted daughter and wife, mother and friend. For each day of every month in the year she gives us to read a text of Holy Scripture, a short poetic passage, and then a couple of lines of poetry or prose quite packed with meaning. It will not be wonderful if on such and such an anniversary, having a special meaning for ourselves alone, the chosen words seem to have been fitted in by a Providence that foresaw. The compiler says for herself that as she was putting together the materials for her book it happened to her to lose an extremely dear friend and her own father, but that being steeped in these "most beautiful thoughts of the most beautiful souls concerning Death" she was enabled to lift up her heart, and not to look upon death as a desolation. And I am sure that this book will give not only "to one," but to many, another bereaved heart the calm and the hopeful joy in the face of death which it has given to the compiler," and already to some fortunate readers too. In the pages of this Book of Memory there is, of course, no mere sameness, but a considerable variety of view, corresponding to the very various positions of those who are taken and those who are left. There are parting addresses, just as touching, though they could not be so brief, as the two words which one may read on a slab in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, "Deare Childe"! Of many such addresses let two_or three be given here. It is a saint who writes thus : This pledge of your joint love to heaven now fled, * Life, by Fitzpatrick, vol. ii., p. 305. And an ordinary poet very worthily writes thus: O God, to Thee I yield The gift Thou givest, most precious, most divine! I must resign His little feet That wont to be so fleet, I muse. Oh, joy to think On what soft brink Of flood he plucks the daffodus, On what empurpled hills He stands, Thy kiss all fresh upon his brow, It was another poet who thus expressed an entirely lawful human feeling :.. And very poetic was the man of men to whom we owe the lines: Sheep without a shepherd when snow shuts out the sky. Yet all such thoughts must be for us only the first and passing thoughts. Quickly we remember the Light of the World who said, "He that followeth Me shall have the light of life," and we remember with Christina Rossetti that our beloved ones who are gone are "the new-begotten from the dead, whom the great birthday bore." We easily have courage to apply to them and to our own selves the words : Glory touched glory on each blessed head, Hands locked dear hands never to sunder more. Hence we are able to make our own even the words of the merry Chancellor of England, who went to death altogether out of due course, as men would judge: I cannot mistrust my |