Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 4, April, 1886

The Holy See nowadays disposes of five honorary Orders of Knighthood: that of Christ, referred to above, and consisting of only one class, "Cavalieri;" that of St. Gregory the Great, founded by Gregory XVI., in 1831, and containing three classes: those of Grand Cross, Commander and Knight; the Golden Spur, created by Pius IV. in 1559, also known as the Order of St. Sylvester, and in two grades: Commanders and Knights, styled auratæ militiæ equites; the Order of Pius, established by the late Pontiff, with two classes; and, lastly, the Holy Sepulchre, conferred by the Patriarch of Jerusalem by delegation of the Pope, but also sometimes by the Holy Father himself.

Low-Necked Dresses

[The venerable editor of the New York Freeman's Journal has the following article on "Vicious Customs and Costumes," which we recommend to some ladies who appear partially dressed at some of our balls, "sociables," etc. The remarks are as applicable to fashionable society in Boston, and elsewhere, as they are in New York and other cities.]

The hours for social pleasures were never so late as at present. People do not think of showing themselves at any "evening" entertainment until midnight. The strain of this kind of thing on young people who have necessary duties to perform the next day, tends to lower vitality and shorten life. In London – from which city nearly all the fashions unsuitable to our climate and life come – there is a large "leisure class" who can sleep into the afternoon without shirking any urgent demands. Here, where even the richest men have to work, these late hours are preposterous. But they are English – and, rather than not be English, the young man of to-day prefers listless days and a frequent resort to brandy and soda – English, too! – and other stimulants, to keep him up to his work.

Another fashion, which has become so rampant as to need a general and continued objection to it, is that of wearing low-necked gowns. A little more firmness in defying the demands of fashion would, perhaps, save some woman's life. But it is very hard for a woman to be firm on a question of fashion. Queen Victoria insists on low-necked gowns; therefore all the American world of fashion insists that the Queen's mandate shall be followed. At a dinner or dance, the sight is sometimes appalling; for what can be more shocking than the apparent attempt of decent women, old and young, lean and fat, to show their shoulder blades? Like Katisha, in the "Mikado," they seem to think that the possession of a "beautiful left shoulder blade" will atone for all other defects. The boxes at the opera, and all the places where fashionable people sit, offer a startling picture of how immodest modest women can be when fashion demands it. A writer in a recent New York Evening Telegram says:

"When one goes to the opera and sweeps the tiers of boxes with an opera-glass for a moment, the question comes: Is it proper to look? Upon careful examination and scientific computation, it is pretty certain that of the ladies at the opera in any five boxes adjoining one another, not less than one out of every three is three-quarters naked above the waist – that is, of the square inches of surface, from the waist up, three-quarters are exposed to the view and to the air. While this is true of opera-goers, of those who go to balls it is far worse. The percentage of semi-nude figures increases until fully ninety-five per cent. is reached."

This picture is not exaggerated. The other night, at the opera of "Lohengrin," given by the American Opera Company, the dresses on the stage are described as modesty itself, compared with those in the audience. The "lady" who appears half undressed at a fashionable assembly, goes to church the next morning demurely and modestly, to think gently during the sermon of the vices of her neighbors, without once reproaching herself for an immodesty which is worse than Pagan, and which, when attempted by other than respectable women, is regarded as a shameless incentive to evil thoughts and evil deeds.

Probably, if there were any women in New York of sufficient firmness and social influence to stop this ape-like imitation of usages which, aside from their grave evils, are out of keeping with the habits of life made necessary in a climate which is not at all English, the custom might be relinquished. But there is none such; and the only pause that can be given to a whirl of fashion which perilously touches hell will be number of other deaths from late hours, mental and physical lassitude, and consequent heart and lung afflictions.

What is good in English usages may be imitated with advantage. But Americans will never be thoroughly independent of England until they arrange their habits to suit a climate whose caprices are so sudden and unexpected as to deal death to the unwary.

It is regrettable that the craze for low-necked dresses should be allowed to sweep away women who are bound by their "social duties" to appear in a costume which must have been invented by one of those females whose name is unmentionable here – from whom the women who imitate them turn in horror.

Columbus and Ireland

One of the speakers at the dinner of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick in this city referred to the Irish missionaries in Iceland and to the member of the crew of the Pinta3– ship in which Columbus sailed from Palos – who was born in Ireland. This is astounding information.

Thirty-three years ago the learned Digby wrote in his "Road of Travelers," Compitum., Book I, page 380, as follows: "When the Northmen first landed in Iceland they found there Irish books, Mass-bells and other objects which had been left behind by earlier visitors, called Papas. These Papæ, fathers, were the Clerici of Dicuil, the Irish Monk, who wrote in the year 823, a treatise, 'De Mensura Orbis Teriæ.'"

The late Dr. O'Callaghan of New York, called attention to the native of Ireland, being among the crew of the Pinta, about fifteen years ago. The book referred to by him is entitled, "Collecion de los Viages y des Cumplimientos, Madrid, la imprenta real ano de 1825." (Collection of Voyages and Duties Discharged, Madrid, royal printing office, year of 1825.)

The crew list of the Pinta la tripulacion can be seen at Madrid, bearing the ancient Connaught patronymic of Eyre, as follows: —

"Guillermo Ires, natural de Galway, Irelanda," no "de" or "en" before the word Irelanda.

Eyre Court is not far from famed Ballinasloe, in the County Galway, and Eyre Square, visitors to the capital of the west of Ireland know, is the principal one in the town of Galway.

The Eyre family is "as old as the hills of Connaught," and were as intimate with Spain as we are with Cuba to-day, before Columbus was born. Up to and after the death of Elizabeth of England all the Catholic gentry of the "ould stock" were educated in Spain and Portugal.

Yours, etc.,

R. F. Farrell

New York, March 19.

Miss Mulholland's Poems: "Vagrant Verses."

Rosa Mulholland is a name well known to the readers of Catholic fiction. She is one of the most graceful, pure and tender writers we have. Hundreds of thousands of Catholic young people owe her some of the most pleasant hours that brighten happy youth. Her sweet fancy has revelled in the sunshine of melodious poesy, as well as in the green fields of fresh and charming prose. Her new book, "Vagrant Verses," is a real bosom companion, a jewel of dear books. Its prevailing tone is soothing tenderness, touched, as is usual with Irish singers, with sadness – but this is not the despairing sadness so prevalent to-day among those beyond the fold of Peter. What has been said of her splendid sister of song, Kate Tynan, may be as truly said of Miss Mulholland, – she cannot be all sad. In her darkest hour you have always a streak of dawn in the east. Her poetry is more domestic and tranquil than that of the "Thrush of Glenna Smoil," whose magnificent strains in "Louise," "Joan," "Vivia Perpetua," and so many others, recall to our minds those words of the immortal lay:

"Binn sin, a toin Dhaire an Chairn!Ni chualas, an árd 's an m-bith,Ceol budh binne na dho guth,Acas thu fa bun do nid.""Sweet thy song, blackbird of th' oak grove of Charn!Heard I never in all the vast wide worldSong than thine more sweet – voice of song supreme!Sitting thy nest beneath, singing thy song divine."

It is a great blessing to Erin in these hard, wrangling times, when so much that is good and sweet threatens to disappear, to have two such noble singers raising their melodious voices to appease the angry passions of men. Nor should he be forgotten, who has been the maccenas of these gifted and noble daughters of holy church – Rev. Fr. Matthew Russell, S. J., himself a sweet and true poet. Nor can I close this short notice without the feeble tribute of a word to one so dear to these three, and so dear to us all, Rev. Joseph Farrell, now with God – whose sweet wisdom is fertile in many hearts.

J. Keegan.

Seeing the Old Year Out: A True Story

Scene, four young fellows were seated together in the dining-room drinking "the old year out" in a punch of Patrick Hallahan's best brew.

"Well, here's to the good old year of '82," said Patrick, raising his glass high above his head, "may the incoming year be as kind to us."

"Amen to that," said Phil, his brother.

"And so say all of us," chimed in Denis Walker and Arthur Floyd.

Up went the clouds of smoke in fanciful, weird wreathes to the white ceiling; up went the glasses with the "nectar of the gods!" to the healthy lips of these four friends, tried and true, again and again, until the huge, lanky-legged clock in the hall chaunted in deep monotone the hour of twelve.

The four rose as one man, and joined hands across the table.

"A happy new year," they said, in one and the same breath, and they ushered the poor, innocent yearling in to the tune of "For he's a jolly good fellow – for he's a jolly good fellow, and so say all of us."

"Stop," said Patrick, "what's that?"

The dining-room was but a pace from the hall door, and Patrick had heard quite distinctly a thud, as of something heavy falling down.

In a second he was out into the darkness, and nearly stumbled over an inert mass of humanity. It was a man – or the remains of one.

"He looks bad, Phil," said Patrick, "run for Dr. Naughten while I put him on the sofa." Phil threw his warm Inverness cape about him and seized his hat and was off in a trice; meanwhile the three men, left with the unconscious fourth, laid their burden down upon the sofa, loosened his neckerchief and collar, but no sign of life was there.

"Drink," said Arthur, "that cursed drink." The other men shook their heads in silent acquiescence. It seemed an age before the doctor, who lived only a few doors off, came upon the scene, not in the best of humors either, for he, too, had been making the night merry after the fashion of these four friends.

The doctor felt his pulse. "I'm no use here," said he. "The fellow's been dead this half-hour."

"Dead?" echoed the friends. "Dead?"

"Yes."

"But," said Patrick, "we heard the fall only a few minutes ago."

"Likely enough," said the doctor, "he had got as far as your door, propped himself up against the corner, and then went completely off into his last long sleep."

"Impossible!" they all exclaimed. "A man to die standing up!"

"Possible," retorted the doctor, "and in this case, as you say you heard the fall, most certain. Good evening, gentlemen, there is nothing more for me to do," and the doctor hurried away.

So this poor wretch of a fellow-man had been "seeing the old year out," but the old year was made of tougher stuff than he, and had seen him out.

They went for the police, who came with the stretcher (ah! what tales that rough canvas bed could tell, if it had the gift of tongue!), the body was taken away, and the four friends sat around the table again, but they raised the glass no more to their lips, though the punch-bowl was steaming still – their eyes turned fearfully to the sofa where death so lately lay in state, and for a few minutes a dreadful silence reigned.

"Oh! that awful drink, what harm it is working. I'll not taste another drop these six months." This from Patrick Hallahan.

"Nor I," said Phil.

"Nor I," said Denis.

"Nor I," said Arthur.

"Agreed," they all said, "and let us see if we cannot keep our word."

"And now let's break up, for I'm feeling sick at heart," were Patrick's words, and they separated.

They met six months after at the same place, and they had kept their word, though they never spoke of it to each other. They had been out to dinner parties, to "at homes," to balls and routs, for they were well-to-do, wealthy men of business, but they succumbed never once. They simply said, "No, thank you," when the wine was passed on, the grog went round. They still entertained, as was their wont, and gave their guests the best of their wine cellar, but they abstained themselves. One of them employed more than one hundred workmen. These men noticed a change in their master; he was more gentle with them in a way, quite as severe in the matter of time-keeping and of hard work, but he took an interest in their welfare, asked after their homes. One of them who brought him his luncheon from an eating-house near at hand, remarked that "the master never used the corkscrew now," and that "the bottom of his master's tumbler was never stained." The ninety-nine other men knew this ninety-nine seconds after. "If the governor, who works harder than any of us, can do without his liquor, dang it all, I can." Jack Furniss gave this forth to two pals, and these three entered quietly into a compact, upon fine of 1 d., to take no beer for a week; they took no beer for four weeks, for six months. Men are after all like sheep who follow their superior, the shepherd's dog; the dog leads this way or that way, and the flock follows. The dog (Jack Furniss was foreman to his master, a kind of shepherd's dog to the rest) led the way to pure spring water, and the whole flock – save the traditional black sheep – followed, not all at once, but little by little.

Now let us back to the shepherd and his three friends, who are met together six months after that awful death. The cloth is laid for four; sherry and claret shine upon the table, the champagne is underneath the sideboard in an iced pail – lemon, sugar, the silver ladle in the family punch-bowl.

They sat down, and after the soup, when the fish was put on the table, Patrick Hallahan passed the sherry to Arthur, Arthur passed it to Phil, and Phil handed it to Denis. Curiously, yet true enough, the decanter came back in the same state as it started.

Then these four plain men of business rose like one man, and joined hands across the table. Not a word was spoken, but that grip of the hand spoke all they had to say to one another.

It is said they were satisfied with themselves and with one another, so satisfied that they had no wish to go from their word, even though the time of keeping it had gone by.

Afterwards they acknowledged one to the other over their cigars – for if they drank nothing strong they smoked very strong, and, be it said, very good tobacco – they acknowledged that their life had been brighter, lighter than before, their mental vision clearer, their home happier; and many a fellow-creature round about them could have added that their lives had been made brighter and lighter, and their mental vision clearer, and their homes happier, by the example and kindness of these four friends.

There is an anecdote told of a certain priest who once happened to be riding a spirited young horse along a road in Ireland. His reverence whilst thus engaged was met by two gentlemen who had lately been raised to the magistracy of the county, and being in a good humor, they thought they would amuse themselves by quizzing him. "How comes it, good Father," said one of them, "that you are mounted on such a fine horse? Your predecessors, the Apostles, I understand, always performed their journeys on asses." – "That's easily explained," answered his reverence; "the fact is, that the Government has of late been making magistrates of the asses, and therefore I should not consider it respectful to travel about on the back of one of the fraternity."

Juvenile Department

THE FLOWERS' ELECTIONAn election is now being held,For the flowers are all mad for a queen;The "speeching" and voting go on,And cause a most terrible scene.One tulip, a smart little flirt,Screams loudly and long for the rose;But a wee, giddy, columbine budDoes flippantly interpose.Nextly a cauliflower speaks,For his cousin the cabbage he votes;At which e'en a butterfly grinsAs onwardly he lazily floats.A full-blown and strong-minded flowerVotes loud for republic and peace!Or else for a strawberry plant,Who's her grandmother's brother's aunt's niece.Next marigold speaks to the crowd,Who is known to be forward and pert;But a nettle makes stinging remarks,Till the speaker declares himself hurt!And then to rampage they begin;Sweet William is scragging a rose;Sweet-pea in a neighborly way,Is pulling young marigold's nose!Such a noise and confusion ensuesThat a snail faints away on the wall;And never as yet have I heardWhat the end of it was after all.Maud Egerton Hine, a child of less than eight years old.

"Doing anything now, Bill?" "Oh, yes, I'm busy all the time." – "Ah! Glad to hear it. What are you doing?" – "Looking for a job."

THE LITTLE FRENCH GIRL OF ST. SULPICE

When I was in Paris, a year or two before the terrible war broke out, I often went to the church of St. Sulpice. A grand old place is St. Sulpice, not so majestic outwardly as Notre Dame, but far more interesting to me. Its painted chapels, its noble altar with the royal seat in front, its chairs full of kneeling people, from the splendid dame to the bonnetless peasant, its gorgeously dressed priests, its magnificent organ, – everything about it charmed and interested me.

One day I saw a little girl asleep at the foot of a statue. The calm, white, marble face seemed to look down in pity on the child, whose beauty startled me. Her white cape-bonnet had fallen from her head, and curls, lustrous as gold, and quite as yellow, fell over neck and cheeks. What long, dark lashes she had! Her complexion seemed blended roses and lilies. But her dress was very shabby. The most beautiful feet will get soiled if they go shoeless, and this child seemed one of the very poorest of the poor.

There came a grand burst of organ music, with which a thousand voices joined, and the child awoke. She lifted her head, and the great brown eyes seemed to drink in the melody. Then, seeing that we were watching her, she held out a little palm. The mute appeal was not resisted; I gave her my last franc.

She followed us out of the church. On the stone steps we could see the fountains playing. Omnibuses decorated with gay little flags, horses decked out with ribbons, merry groups passing, the red sunshine, the distant beauty of the green park, with its gravelled walks and flowery borders, made a picture that I shall never forget. The child touched my dress.

"I must sing for you, madame," she said, holding up the franc.

Then she stood back a little, let her pretty arms drop, and sang in a sweet contralto, a little French air. Her voice was charming.

"Why do you beg?" I asked.

"I do not beg, madame, I sing;" and her cheek flushed.

"Where do you live, my dear?"

"Rue St. Père."

"Near Hôtel St. Père?"

"Not far from that, madame. My father makes wooden images; perhaps you pass his window. At least I call him my father."

I had often passed his window, filled with a melancholy collection of well-carved animals, boxes, heads, quite yellow by exposure. Nothing seemed ever to be sold.

One day I went in to ask the price of a stag's head. The poor man, broken down by sickness, sat whittling in the corner. His face was like saffron, while his thin hair was black as jet. A heavy curtain was hung across the shop. Presently the rings that supported it rattled a little; the curtain opened midway, revealing a bit of French home life. A cradle of an antique pattern, a woman ironing at a table, a tiny stove, two windows full of flowers, everything poverty-stricken but clean. As I was paying for the stag's head in came my little one of St. Sulpice. She knew me, but with only a nod and a smile passed into the other part of the room.

"That is your little girl, I suppose," I said.

"Oh, no; I care for her; that is all. Her mother is dead; she is no kin to me, but one cannot see a little one suffer. Besides, she does very well with her voice; she will work her way in the world. We do not suffer; we have bread." Nevertheless I knew by his voice and the aspect of things that they did suffer sometimes, so I often made little expeditions that way, and spent for carved wood every franc I could spare.

Now comes the wonderful part of my story. I had been at home six months when the French war broke out. While reading the dreadful tidings, and seeing with my mind's eye those fairy-like palaces, over which I had wandered so often, sacked and destroyed, I thought of the little girl of St. Sulpice, and wondered what had become of her. Where were the wooden hounds with their life-like eyes, the stags' heads so beautifully carved, the long, French faces with the dust lying in their grotesque goatees? Where were the sick old man, the tidy little mother, the large, rosy baby?

One day, only a very few weeks ago, while walking down Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington, a splendid carriage drove past, and I caught a glimpse of a face that set my heart beating. I turned to look, and, strange to tell, the child was also turning to look at me. Could this be the little French girl of St. Sulpice? Impossible.

On the following day I was called into my sitting-room to see some one who wanted a donation.

"They're always a beggin', Miss Alice," said my maid. "There was three men with papers yesterday, and now come these flipflappers."

The "flipflappers" were two Sisters of Charity. One of them, the youngest, with large, loving, dark eyes, and one of the finest faces I ever saw, won me at sight. She was soliciting money she said for an Old Folks' Home. "You are not an American," I said.

"Oh, no; I am only five months from Paris. This is my sister, who can talk only French."

An hour passed during which I had told all about my St. Sulpice child.

The women looked at each other.

"It seems like Marie," said one.

"It certainly does seem like Marie," responded the other.

"And who was Marie?"

"Marie was with a wood-carver. Marie's mamma was an Englishwoman. Her husband brought her to Paris. They both died when Marie was a little one. Marie used to sing, and she lived in rue St. Père."

"It must be my St. Sulpice girl!" I said, excitedly.

"During the troubles," continued the woman, "the old wood-carver died. His wife, whose sister was a nun, went to one of the charity homes. She, alas! was shot, and soon after her baby pined and died. The sisters took care of Marie for awhile, she was so beautiful. No, madame, it is not to be denied that they would have liked it if Marie could have grown up in their midst, and become one of the holy order, but the war forbade that. Some of the sisters escaped to England, and Marie went with them. In London, Marie sang a little now and then, for we were much reduced.

"One day she was listened to by a lady living in some villa. She had the child brought in, and kept saying to herself, 'It is a wonderful likeness!' Then she called her husband and all the family, and they each one said that it was a wonderful likeness.

"Well, madame, they found the child was one of them, the child of a sister who had married imprudently and gone off, and after that we had little to do with Marie. But we came over to America in the same ship, and the little lady was very kind to us. Her friends have given largely to this fund since she has been here. Will madame contribute?"

On condition that they found where the child lived, I gave them what I could spare, and they went away grateful.

Only the next day a grand equipage stopped at my door. There were two men in splendid livery on the box, and a tiger behind, who sat with his arms folded like a statue of ebony.