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Cornell University 
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 The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924029433731 
 
_„._ Cornell University Library 
 
 BX4705.M25 M16 
 
 Father Tom : jjfe and lectures of Rev. T 
 
 olin 
 
 3 1924 029 433 731 
 
REV. THOMAS P. McLOUGHLIN 
 FATHER TOM 
 
FATHER TOM 
 
 LIFE AND LECTURES 
 
 OF 
 
 REV. THOMAS P. McLOUGHLIN 
 
 BY 
 
 PETER P. McLOUGHLIN 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 Xibz Ifcnicltet&ocftet press 
 1919 
 
i3x 
 
 ^i 106 
 
 M^^- 
 
 M 1 ip 
 
 Copyright, igip 
 
 BY 
 
 PETER P. McLOUGHLIN 
 
 
 Ube Iftnicftctbocftet iprcBS, 'Mew JJorft 
 
JENNIE AND NONIE 
 The Devoted and Loving Sisters of Father Tom 
 
 WHO WERE its INSPIRATION AND WHO GENEROUSLY AIDED IN ITS 
 
 preparation and publication 
 This Volume is Affectionately Dedicated 
 
INTRODUCTORY 
 
 The preparation of this memoir of my reverend brother, 
 Thomas P. McLoughlin, a priest of the New York diocese, 
 has been a labor of love to me. It was undertaken in the 
 belief that a lasting record should be made of the life and 
 service of one who typified in his personality the ' ' Soggarth 
 Aroon, " whose cordial manner brought sunshine into 
 many lives and whose loyalty and sincerity won for him 
 countless friends among all classes of every community 
 in which he exercised the functions of his sacred ministry. 
 
 With his fellow priests Father Tom was a popular favor- 
 ite, and he counted scores of sincere friends among the 
 clergy in different parts of the country. Ties of affection, 
 formed in boyhood and young manhood, remained un- 
 broken until the end of his life. One of his close associates 
 during seminary days in Rome, and whose whole hearted 
 friendship and genial companionship he enjoyed in later 
 Hfe, was Reverend James B. Curry, for many years pastor 
 of St. James and now pastor of the Church of the Holy 
 Name, New York. How simple and yet how touching 
 and tender is Father Curry's tribute to Father Tom: 
 
 "My memory easily carries me back to the evening of 
 October 19, 1878, when I met Tom McLoughlin for the 
 first time in my life. It was on the day of my arrival in 
 the North American College; he had reached there the 
 day ahead. It was in the refectory of our country house 
 in Monte Porzio, where the North American College had 
 established its summer house that year. The main ar- 
 
vi Introductory 
 
 tide of food for our supper that night was rice done in oil, 
 not indeed a savory dish, but well calculated to fill within 
 us the vacuum that nature so wisely abhors. He looked 
 at me, and I looked at him ; then we both looked at our 
 plates, then again at each other; then a wirming snule 
 spread over his handsome face, and from that hour to 
 the day of his death we were close friends. 
 
 "There was some attractive power about him that made 
 friends for him all through his years. I readily fell under 
 the sway of the speU of his charming personality, and I 
 was weU contented to remain under its influence all the 
 years that I knew and loved him. He was a bright ray 
 of sunshine wherever he went or whatever he did. 
 
 ' ' In prayer, his handsome face would be illumined with 
 the light of Heaven, and his communing with God, the 
 Sacred Heart, and our Blessed Mother was always an 
 inspiration to us when we felt impelled to imitate his 
 earnestness in prayer. Nothing pleased him more than 
 to have been appointed by the Rector to assist me in 
 sacristy work. Close as all seminarians are to our Lord 
 in the Eucharist, the sacristy work brought us stUl closer 
 to the tabernacle and to its Divine Prisoner, and many a 
 day whilst the boys were enjoying their recreation hour 
 in the college garden, Tom McLoughlin worked zealously 
 at the altar close to the Holy Eucharist which he loved 
 so well. 
 
 ' ' He was indeed very pious, yet of the happiest disposi- 
 tion, just bubbling over with laughing good natiare. His 
 whereabouts on our walks during the intervals of rest 
 was easily discovered, for where the boys were in the 
 thickest group and the laughing was merriest, there Tom 
 McLoughlin was the solar center. He had an infinite 
 fund of comic stories which he told in his own inimitable 
 manner for he was a perfect mimic, in speech and gesture, 
 of the characters which he introduced into his stories. 
 
Introductory vii 
 
 "He was a good, faithful, hardworking student, always 
 doing conscientiously his task of study that prepared his 
 mind to do the splendid work that he performed in his 
 priestly life afterwards. In his leisure moments he 
 delved much into the pages of literature on subjects 
 outside of his theological and philosophical studies, so 
 that, gathering fruit from every field of learning, he 
 might the better equip himself for his priestly work. 
 
 "His voice was a charm in itself, a rich, high baritone, 
 full and sweetly expressive. In later life Father Tom 
 was inclined almost entirely to the classics, but in his 
 yotmger days as a seminarian, and even in the days of 
 his young priesthood, he very frequently sang the less 
 dignified comics among which McCarthy's Mare was quite 
 a favorite. He never refused an invitation to sing for 
 us, and many a mile we traveled during vacation time, 
 singing blithely as we went along, under the musical 
 leadership of our prize songbird, Father Tom. I never 
 heard anyone who could sing Moore's melodies as sweetly 
 and as effectively as my friend: it was a treat to listen 
 to him. Sometimes in his lectures on Irish music, instead 
 of singing, he would recite the dear old Irish songs and 
 Irish poems: his recitations were just as musical as his 
 singing; in all my experience I never knew priest or lay- 
 man who possessed this double power of expression to 
 the degree wherewith Father Tom was gifted. Of course 
 he was well aware of his gifts, but this knowledge never 
 once injured his good nature and never made him con- 
 descending when he was asked to sing. Like the sweet 
 voiced songsters of the free air, he sang for everybody; 
 he was so full of music, he had to sing. 
 
 "Of his priesthood what can I say? He is best known 
 to the people of the different parishes which he served 
 so faithfully. The poor, the sick, the wajrward, they 
 knew him best of all, their 'dear Father Tom' as they 
 
viii Introductory 
 
 used to call him. He was a priest in the truest, fullest 
 sense of the word. He had a big warm heart that beat 
 with intensest sympathy where human woe and sorrow 
 and need called for a friend. The good people of St. 
 Stephen's in East 28th Street, St. Patrick's, Newburgh, 
 St. Rose's, Cannon Street, Transfiguration, Mott Street, 
 St. Malachy's, West 49th Street, of which he was the 
 distinguished founder and first pastor, and lastly New 
 Rochelle, all loved the ground he walked on. To all 
 he was priest and father, brother and friend. Though 
 friendly and famiHar, he never once forgot the dignity of 
 his holy priesthood, nor did they who came in contact 
 with him ever forget that he was God's good priest. He 
 was strong of soul and possessed of a manhood that adhered 
 loyally to principle no matter what the consequences 
 might be. 
 
 "As a friend he was loyal to the death. From the day 
 of our first meeting in Monte Porzio in 1878 to the day 
 of his death, we were friends, close friends. To me he was 
 an ideal and an inspiration. Even yet as I travel along 
 in my priestly life, fondest memories of him steal into 
 my very soul to inspire, encourage, and console me. Al- 
 though his blessed ashes rest in the little cemetery of New 
 Rochelle, it seems to me that he still fives, and that we 
 are still close together, helping one another in mutual 
 prayer. Just a few days prior to his death, we were to- 
 gether in his room. We spoke of many incidents of the 
 past days in which we were intimately concerned. Weak 
 as he was, he laughed and joked in the same old good- 
 natured manner that was characteristic of him. As he 
 talked and laughed, on that occasion, aU the affection of 
 the old days beamed from his eyes, and his face was all 
 alight with his usual happy smile. I never again looked 
 upon his face, not even in death. Although each day I 
 remember him in the Morning Sacrifice, I have never 
 
Introductory ix 
 
 knelt at the side of his grave. To me he still lives. The 
 veil impenetrable to human vision still hangs between 
 us, but some day it will be drawn by the hand of God, 
 when, with the aid of my friend's prayers and with the 
 grace of God, I shall be united in inseparable companion- 
 ship in Heaven with dear Father Tom." 
 
 As far as it was possible to do so the various phases of 
 Father Tom's active career have been portrayed in his 
 own words. From an immense mass of material, in the 
 form of diaries, letters, and newspaper articles, the most 
 interesting and characteristic incidents of twenty-nine 
 useful years in the priesthood have been selected and 
 assigned to their appropriate place in this story of his 
 busy life. 
 
 Some very dear and valued friends of Father Tom at 
 first held the opinion that his musical lectures, if published, 
 might be lacking in interest because of the absence of his 
 melodious voice which added such charm even to his 
 spoken words. Upon reading them over, however, and 
 observing the amount of historical material they contain, 
 relating to the ballads of England, Ireland, Scotland, Italy, 
 and the songs of Holy Mother Church, it is thought that 
 they will prove interesting and valuable to students of 
 music — hence they are included in this volume. 
 
 Grateful acknowledgment is made of extracts taken 
 from the Fordham Monthly, the Catholic Youth, Donahue's 
 Magazine of Boston, the New York Herald, Men and 
 Women, and the Catholic World. 
 
 P. P. McL. 
 
 February 17, 1919. 
 

 CONTENTS 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I.- 
 
 -Boyhood Days ..... 
 
 I 
 
 II.- 
 
 -New Rochelle 
 
 8 
 
 III.- 
 
 -At Fordham . ... 
 
 20 
 
 IV.- 
 
 -In Rome . . . 
 
 • 25 
 
 V.- 
 
 -Young Father Tom 
 
 • 59 
 
 VI.- 
 
 -Transfiguration 
 
 • 77 
 
 VII.- 
 
 -In Darkest Chinatown 
 
 87 
 
 VIII.- 
 
 -The Singing Priest 
 
 104 
 
 IX.- 
 
 —Happy Days 
 
 121 
 
 X.- 
 
 —The Traveler 
 
 . 141 
 
 XI.- 
 
 —Twenty-Five Years a Priest 
 
 177 
 
 XII.- 
 
 —All Is Vanity 
 
 Lectures 
 
 191 
 
 L- 
 
 —Archbishop Hughes 
 
 219 
 
 II.- 
 
 —Ireland the Home of Music and Song 239 
 
 III.- 
 
 —Foster's Negro Melodies . 
 
 262 
 
 IV.- 
 
 —Ballads of Merrie England 
 
 278 
 
 V.- 
 
 —Songs of the Scottish Highlands 
 
 . 296 
 
 VI.- 
 
 —Melodies and Songs of Ireland 
 
 • 307 
 
 VII.- 
 
 —Songs of Sunny Italy 
 
 ■ 322 
 
 VIII.- 
 
 —Gounod's Sacred Songs 
 
 • 340 
 
 IX. 
 
 —Smiles and Tears of Erin 
 
 • 354 
 
 X.- 
 
 —Melodies of Mother Church 
 
 • 373 
 
 
 Index . . . . 
 
 • 397 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PACE 
 
 Rev. Thomas P McLoughlin . . Frontispiece 
 
 Father Tom 
 
 Rev. Thomas McLoughlin .... 8 
 
 Founder of the Church of the Blessed Sacrament, New 
 Rochelle, N. Y. 
 
 Facsimile of Archbishop Hughes's Letter . 12 
 
 Right Reverend Monsignor Patrick F. McSweeny 18 
 
 The Fordham Student, 1877 . 22 
 
 In Rome . . 52 
 
 From a photograph taken in Rome, November 21, 1878 
 
 Shanlis House, Ardee, County Louth, Ireland 62 
 
 Father Tom at Yonkers in 1890 . . .78 
 
 The Church of the Transfiguration, Mott and 
 
 Park Sts., N. Y. City 94 
 
 Father Tom and his Brothers . . 114 
 
 Facsimile of Archbishop Farley's Letter . 122 
 
 The Chapel of St. Sebastian, Fort Slocum, New 
 
 York ........ 130 
 
 Father Tom and a First Communion Class at the 
 
 Hume School ....... 134 
 
xiv Illustrations 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Church of the Blessed Sacrament, New 
 
 RocHELLE ....... 178 
 
 The Blessed Sacrament School, New Rochelle . 188 
 
 The Monument in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, 
 
 New Rochelle . . . . . .216 
 
FATHER TOM 
 
FATHER TOM 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 BOYHOOD DAYS 
 
 Smiles and tears; hopes and fears; triumphs and dis- 
 appointments. These sentiments and emotions, variable 
 as sunshine and shadow, enter into the life of everyone, 
 but they were singularly manifested in the career of Rev. 
 Thomas Patrick McLoughlin, the subject of this sketch, 
 compiled by one who brings to the task a wealth of loving 
 remembrance of an exceptionally lovable character. 
 
 Bom in the old city of Brooklyn, on September 17, 1859, 
 the son of John McLoughlin and Mary Frances McS weeny, 
 Tom McLoughlin came naturally by his love of the land 
 of Erin, her folklore and her songs, as his parents were of 
 Irish nativity. His father was eighteen years old when 
 he left the home of his boyhood in Ardee, County Louth, 
 while his mother could boast that she first saw the light in 
 ' ' Cork's own town ' ' and was, therefore, one of ' ' God's own 
 people. " 
 
 Priests there had been on both sides of the house. Two 
 granduncles and four uncles on his mother's side and his 
 great-granduncle, Rev. John Heely, Pastor of Louth and 
 Dunleer, and his uncle on his father's side were priests 
 whose services to the cause of the Catholic Church in 
 Ireland, France, and America were distinguished for true 
 piety, unstinted sacrifice, and heroic devotion to duty. 
 
^ Father Tom 
 
 On the maternal side his granduncle, Rev. Patrick Mc- 
 Sweeny, was president of the Irish College in Paris for forty 
 years and was decorated with the Cross of the Legion of 
 Honor by the French Government for eminent services 
 in the cause of education. Another grandtmcle, Rev. 
 Timothy Harnett, was parish priest of Duagh, County 
 Kerry, Ireland. Four uncles, Patrick, Edward, John 
 O'Callaghan, and Francis McSweeny all were graduates 
 of the Propaganda in Rome. John O'Callaghan and 
 Francis, who died in the early days of their priesthood, 
 were noted for their saintliness of disposition and eager- 
 ness for work among God's poor. Dr. Edward Mc- 
 Sweeny, after serving as curate in New York City and 
 pastor of St. Mary's, Poughkeepsie, became, as a matter of 
 choice, professor of theology at Mt. St. Mary's, Emmits- 
 burg, where he spent his useful life in training young men 
 for the priesthood and where his memory is cherished as a 
 gifted instructor, a considerate and kindly companion and 
 friend, and a valiant defender of the truths of the Catholic 
 religion. 
 
 Rt. Rev. Monsignor Patrick McSweeny, pastor of St. 
 Brigid's, New York, who died February 24, 1907, was a 
 priest of the New York diocese who was conspicuous for 
 his zeal in the cause of Christian education, a consistent 
 advocate of real temperance and a prominent example of 
 the dignity of the priesthood. While Dr. Patrick Mc- 
 Sweeny was pastor of St. Peter's in Poughkeepsie he 
 effected an arrangement with the school board by which 
 the schools of that parish were supported by the city. 
 The Sisters of Charity and other Catholic teachers were 
 accepted by the board on the nomination of the pastor. 
 His right was acknowledged to reject school books which 
 he thought might be hurtful to the faith or morals of the 
 children. Under this so-called "Poughkeepsie Plan" 
 catechism was taught and instruction given every day at 
 
Boyhood Days 3 
 
 suitable hours and the children were entirely under the 
 influence of the church. This arrangement lasted for a 
 full quarter of a century. 
 
 On the prohibition or total abstinence question, Dr. 
 McSweeny had very decided views. A renowned advocate 
 of total abstinence delivered a lecture to the men of St. 
 Brigid's, and in his peroration, with enthusiastic fervor, 
 urged them all to come forward and take the total ab- 
 stinence pledge for life. Not a man moved from his place, 
 but Dr. McSweeny, with his ready Irish wit, relieved the 
 tense situation by rising and saying to the men : 
 
 We all cannot be perfect. I will ask you men to stand up 
 and I will divide this room off into several benches. Those 
 who feel that they are strong enough with God's grace, to take 
 a pledge to abstain from liquor for life will come up and sit on 
 the first bench. Those who can promise to abstain from liquor 
 during the holy season of Lent will take their places on the 
 second bench. Those who will promise not to drink in a 
 saloon can sit on the third bench, and those who will promise 
 not to treat another man to a drink can sit on the fourth 
 bench. 
 
 All the benches, except the first, were rapidly filled and 
 the eloquent temperance lecturer was more than satisfied 
 with the result of his evening's work. 
 
 Dr. McSweeny was a deep thinker and a profound stu- 
 dent of the conditions existing among the poor of the 
 tenements in his parish. His sermons, as well as his con- 
 versation, were remarkable for their simplicity and solid- 
 ity; and the manner in which he brought out the truth 
 hidden in the heart of the average man would frequently 
 cause his hearers to say : ' ' Why, I often thought of that but 
 never heard it expressed before, " which, after all, is true 
 eloquence — to say something which everybody thinks 
 about but is either too timid or has not the power to 
 
4 Father Tom 
 
 express. Dr. McSweeny founded two scholarships in 
 St. Francis Xavier's College, New York; founded a burse 
 in his beloved Propaganda in Rome to educate forever a 
 priest for the diocese of Mobile, Alabama, and a scholar- 
 ship at Dunwoodie Seminary, in each of which institutions 
 zealous young students are to-day reaping the benefit of 
 his foresight and undying interest in Catholic education. 
 
 With this splendid heritage it is not surprising that Tom 
 McLoughlin, as a boy, displayed qualities which stamped 
 him as having a genuine vocation for the priesthood. 
 This early inclination towards a religious Hf e was carefully 
 fostered by his good mother who, amid struggles that 
 would have broken down any but a stout heart, brought 
 up her family of eleven children in the fear and love of 
 God. A woman of frail physique, but of indomitable 
 courage and will, she spent herself in the care and guidance 
 of her children, instilling into their young minds principles 
 of honesty and integrity in word and deed which lingered 
 with them long years after she had passed to her eternal 
 reward. She realized the ideal of the true Catholic mother 
 whose household is her kingdom, whose children are her 
 soldiers, whose battles are with the world and its wicked- 
 ness. It is not in the lecture hall, at the bar, or in the 
 pulpit that the Catholic mother exercises her influence, 
 but in the sanctity of her home. She does not go abroad 
 like men and in public places give vent to her opinion, but 
 at her cheerful fireside she gently but firmly instils into 
 the minds of her children the moral principles which shall 
 guide them through life. It is the good mother who forms 
 the character of the men and women of the future, teach- 
 ing them to be honorable, good, and true. No man, 
 however far he may wander from his early surroimdings, 
 can forget the teachings received at his mother's knee. 
 They follow him through life as bright stars of hope and 
 love whose light is undimmed by age. They are the in- 
 
Boyhood Days 5 
 
 visible reins which direct his course in the paths of recti- 
 tude and virtue. This truly noble mother taught her 
 children to trust in God in everything they did ; that the 
 fear of the Lord was the beginning of wisdom ; to be loyal 
 to one another; to envy no one; that pride would have a 
 fall ; to be honest in word and deed ; never, above anything 
 else to tell a lie ; that you could not pay a bill by putting it 
 behind the clock; that poverty was no disgrace; that 
 sickness we must expect ; that death was the common lot 
 of all mankind, and that the only real disgrace in life was 
 brought about by bad conduct. This Catholic mother 
 was the inspiration of Tom McLoughlin's boyhood and 
 his guiding star in after years. The lessons which she so 
 simply taught could not be misimderstood and were never 
 forgotten. While still a lad young Tom came for a time 
 imder the direction and guidance of another sterling 
 Catholic woman in the person of his grandmother Jane Mc- 
 Loughlin, who lived with her son. Rev. Thomas McLough- 
 lin, pastor of New Rochelle. The love which young Tom 
 had for his sweet, gentle, and kindly grandmother was deep 
 and abiding. She seemed to be an instrument in the 
 hands of God to guide his footsteps towards the altar, 
 even as a boy, and her prayers for his success and persever- 
 ance in his vocation were earnest and constant. Like all 
 young boys he was fond of sweet things and during the 
 time he spent in New Rochelle he never wanted for any- 
 thing in that line that his good grandmother could make or 
 procure for him. She was, however, a sensible, prudent, 
 and sincerely religious woman who never spoiled either 
 her favorite grandson or any other children, relatives or 
 otherwise, who from time to time came under her direc- 
 tion and care. It was in the little parish school on Drake's 
 Lane, New Rochelle, that young Tom first learned the cate- 
 chism and to read, write, and cipher under the instruction 
 of the beloved Sister Marguerite of the Sisters of Charity. 
 
6 Father Tom 
 
 When about ten years of age Tom was sent to the pa- 
 rochial school attached to the church of St. John the 
 Evangelist in South Brooklyn, where the teachers were 
 brothers of the Franciscan order. His friendship for the 
 brothers as well as theirs in return lasted throughout his 
 life. Let one of his early teachers, the modest and pious 
 Brother Isidore, speak of his days in the primary grades 
 of old St. John's school. 
 
 I well remember the happy day when a devoted father 
 brought his two beautiful children, namely, young Thomas 
 McLoughlin and John to our school. The moment I saw the 
 boys I was highly impressed by their demeanor. They seemed 
 to be boys who were well brought up by zealous Christian 
 parents. I was not disappointed, for the longer I had those 
 two boys in my charge the very sunshine seemed to gleam 
 through the window because of them. I don't believe I ever 
 had reason to correct them, chastise them in any way for their 
 faults, for want of study, or general deportment, for they were 
 all that young Christian gentlemen should be. I came to the 
 conclusion that the parents of these boys must be of the most 
 beautiful type. Their father was a devoted and loving parent. 
 He would inquire occasionally how his boys were getting 
 along. And then the mother — her virtue was reflected in the 
 conduct of her children. You could see what she was, you 
 could infer it from every action of her children in our school 
 at that time. Young Tom and John progressed rapidly and 
 went through school with honor. I never heard a teacher 
 speak in any way than in the highest manner of the virtues of 
 our angelic young Thomas. He was conservative with his 
 affections — he was to such an extent conservative that he 
 didn't mix with everybody — he knew his place, and while he 
 was entertaining and interesting to his classmates, yet I never 
 saw him boisterous or acting in any way unbecoming a Chris- 
 tian gentleman. It was certainly an evidence of something 
 that was grand and bright for his future life. I saw it. And 
 I was happy all along during that time, since 1871, and I have 
 
Boyhood Days 7 
 
 never forgotten the impression that he made on my mind dur- 
 ing my jurisdiction over him. 
 
 While at St. John's, young Tom displayed some of the 
 talent which was afterwards to make him famous. In the 
 annual exhibitions arranged by the good brothers he 
 always had a leading part, and frequently sang simple little 
 songs. He was remarked for his evenness of temper and 
 amiability, being a favorite with all the lads of his own 
 age. On one occasion during a summer vacation he was 
 assisting his father in painting a fence around the house 
 and some boys of the neighborhood came along and spying 
 him with an old hat on and a dilapidated suit of clothes 
 shouted : ' ' Look at the old hat on Tom, ' ' and turning 
 around to them and taking off the hat he said, ' ' Yes, look 
 at it, isn't it the funniest old hat you ever saw. " They 
 couldn't say anything to that and seeing that their jibes 
 did not annoy him they slunk away. One Sunday he was 
 at Mass with one of his young brothers and was saying his 
 prayers in a rather loud tone and the younger brother said, 
 "Don't pray so loud.^' "Why," said Tom, "if I don't 
 pray loud how is our Lord going to hear me. " 
 
 For a short time young Tom attended St. Francis' Col- 
 lege, Brooklyn, under the direction of the Franciscan 
 brothers and afterwards, for still another short term, was a 
 pupil at St. Francis Xavier's College in i6th street. New 
 York, in each college forming acquaintances and making 
 friends, whose affection for him grew stronger as the years 
 passed by. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 NEW ROCHELLE 
 
 Nestling on the sloping hills of old Westchester 
 County lies beautiful New Rochelle, with its rocky shore 
 line and its verdure-clad banks, rising from wave-worn 
 rocks to distant hills. The picturesque islands in the 
 waters of the Sound, the variegated trees which adorn its 
 hills and valleys, the moss-grown stone walls generations 
 old, the romantic drives through leafy groves, foimd on 
 every hand, make New Rochelle a mighty park of rare 
 natural beauty. In 1683 to the shores of this pretty 
 hamlet, lined with cedars and evergreens, came the 
 Huguenots from La Rochelle, France. The Huguenots 
 landed at Bonnefoi Point, now Hudson Park, one of the 
 most delightful spots along the shores of Long Island 
 Sound. These good people, industrious and home loving, 
 came to America in search of political and religious 
 freedom, and found an abiding place amid most charming 
 surroundings. In more recent times its accessibility — 
 seventeen miles from New York City — ^its wealth of farm 
 land, wood land, and stream, its shaded streets, its well- 
 kept lawns, its pure water, its miles of water front with 
 numerous safe harbors have attracted to New Rochelle 
 thousands of New York people who realized the need 
 of bringing up their children far away from the noise, the 
 smoke, and the manifold dangers of the big city. New 
 Rochelle, liberally endowed by nature, has lost none of its 
 
 8 
 
REV. THOMAS McLOUGHLIN 
 FOUNDER OF THE CHURCH OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT, NEW ROCHELLE, N 
 
New Rochelle 9 
 
 charm by the building of comfortable homes on its hill- 
 sides and they have in no way marred the superb nattiral 
 beauty of this old Huguenot village. 
 
 In 1853 Bishop John Hughes, afterwards famous as the 
 lion-hearted Archbishop of New York, assigned Rev. 
 Thomas McLoughlin, uncle of young Tom, to minister to 
 the spiritual wants of the many Irish Catholic families, 
 who, driven by famine and persecution from their native 
 land, had, like the Huguenots of old, sought a refuge in 
 this fair land, where they could worship God according to 
 the dictates of their conscience and where their hearts 
 could be free, and found it in beautiful New Rochelle. 
 As this good pioneer priest laid deep and lasting the 
 foundations of the Church in this section of Westchester 
 County, and as it was through his kindly interest, advice, 
 and material help that young Tom went forward to the 
 priesthood, it is but just to his memory that a brief ac- 
 count of his labors for the salvation of souls should be 
 given. Thomas McLoughUn was bom in Shanlis, Ardee, 
 County Louth, Ireland, the son of Patrick McLoughlin 
 and Jane Heely, on November 21, 1826, and was baptised 
 on the 26th of the same month by Rev. John Levins, P. P. 
 His father was a farmer, as was his grandfather, Thomas, 
 and his great-grandfather, John, all formerly of the parish 
 of Collon. When yotmg he was sent to a National school, 
 and at the age of fourteen went to the College of Navan, 
 County Meath, where he studied five years. His father 
 was a man of strong character and earnest religious feeling. 
 Patrick's brother Peter came to America in 1826. The 
 affection existing between these two Irish brothers is best 
 illustrated by a few lines from two letters. One dated 
 Shanlis, April 15, 1828 says: 
 
 Do nothing from yourself; always put your trust in God. 
 Never forget God and your holy religion and also your relig- 
 
10 Father Tom 
 
 ious duties as I understand there is little thought about religion 
 in America, but hope you will not forget my advice to you in this 
 principle for as the Scripture tells us "What does it avail a man 
 to gain the whole world and lose his own soul. " If things do 
 not go to your wishes or the climate does not agree with your 
 health do not have any hesitation in coming home to me as I 
 believe you know that there is not that person in this world so 
 welcome to me as you will be. 
 
 I remain, dear Peter, until death, 
 
 Your loving and affectionate brother, 
 
 Patrick. 
 
 The other dated, "New York, September i, 1829" says: 
 
 This is the best country in the world. There is no want; 
 there is room and a living for all but you may depend they 
 must work for it. The greater part of business in New York 
 is done on borrowed capital, and it is very difficult to know how 
 the people stand it. There are many doing a large business 
 who, if their accounts were wound up, would be thousands of 
 dollars in debt. Notwithstanding you or I not communicat- 
 ing in the long lapse of two years you and I well know that the 
 same brotherly love that always was will ever be until death. 
 Remember me to Jane and little Thomas, 
 
 Your affectionate brother, 
 
 Peter. 
 
 Peter McLoughlin met with success in New York, was 
 a member of the Board of Governors of the City Alms 
 House, and was one of the right hand men of Bishop 
 Hughes, in his work of building up the church in New York. 
 It was he who sent to Ireland for young Thomas in 1845. 
 Coming to America in that year, Thomas entered St. 
 John's College, Fordham, which was then under the presi- 
 dency of Rev. John Harley, and subsequently of Rev. 
 James Roosevelt Bayley, afterwards Bishop of Newark, 
 and later Archbishop of Baltimore. When the Jesuits 
 
New Rochelle n 
 
 took charge of Fordham College and Seminary he con- 
 tinued his studies with them and went through a one 
 year's course of philosophy and three years of theology. 
 He was ordained a priest by Bishop Hughes on the first of 
 August, 1 85 1. His first mission was attending Calvary 
 Cemetery during the sickness of Father Conroy, the then 
 chaplain. After three months, on the first of November, 
 1851, he was appointed assistant at St. Joseph's Church, 
 Sixth Avenue, New York, under Father McCarron. 
 There he labored for two years when he was appointed 
 pastor of New Rochelle and its outside missions. In 
 designating him to this charge the good Bishop wrote : 
 
 New York, October 25, 1853. 
 Rev'd dear Sir: 
 
 I have thought it expedient for the interests of religion in 
 
 this Diocese to appoint you pastor of New Rochelle and the 
 
 out missions depending on it. Please hasten with as little 
 
 delay as possible to your charge. I will soon send you an 
 
 assistant priest. 
 
 Yours faithfully in Xt. 
 
 ^ J. Abp. of N. York. 
 
 Rev'd. Thomas McLoughlin, 
 St. Joseph's, N. Y. 
 
 The outside missions referred to were Mamaroneck, 
 Portchester, White Plains, Tuckahoe, City Island, Rye, 
 Pelhamville, and Harrison. In the bitter cold of winter 
 and the intense heat of summer, this sturdy pioneer priest 
 ministered to the religious needs of the good people of 
 these various settlements, never sparing himself. Leaving 
 New Rochelle at six o'clock, Sunday morning, he would 
 drive to Mamaroneck or one of the other towns several 
 miles away, hear confessions, say Mass, and after attend- 
 ing to other parish details would return to New Rochelle, 
 
12 Father Tom 
 
 where Mass was said at ten thirty. This mission extended 
 from Westchester and Mount Vernon, N. Y., to Stamford, 
 Conn., and from the East River to Yonkers. After ten 
 months he resigned the churches at Portchester and White 
 Plains to his assistant, Rev. Martin Bowling. Later he 
 resigned Tuckahoe and Mamaroneck, where he built 
 churches, to resident priests, and finally resident priests 
 were assigned to Rye, City Island, Pelhamville, and Harri- 
 son. Then his work for some years was confined to New 
 Rochelle, where after enlarging and improving his church 
 on Drake Avenue, he finally found it too small and not 
 sufficiently centrally located. He then purchased the site 
 of the present church of the Blessed Sacrament at Centre 
 Avenue and Beauchamp Place. He took down the old 
 brick church on Drake Avenue and rebuilt it for a school, 
 as it is now seen alongside the new marble church which is 
 one of the most beautiful in the country. This church was 
 erected some years after the destruction of the wooden 
 one by lightning on June 24, 1890. This was done after 
 the parish had been divided and under great and trying 
 difficulties; still he succeeded, and the beautiful church 
 now stands a monument to his pluck and perseverance 
 and is an ornament and pride of the city of New Rochelle. 
 Even in the early years of his priesthood Father Mc- 
 Loughlin was distinguished for his love of justice and fair 
 play for every man, black or white. In a short catechism 
 which he compiled for his children the answer to the ques- 
 tion, "Who is my neighbor?" was "Mankind — of what- 
 ever country, color, race, or religion. " This indicated his 
 natural love of justice and the brotherhood of man, made 
 him an Abolitionist before the War, and a Union man 
 during the War, and always a strong and zealous advocate 
 of the rights of the laboring classes. He was a strong 
 advocate of religious education. He wanted Catholic 
 education for Catholics, and for everyone else the religious 
 

 O 
 
 ^^^^-^ 'i-^ *!!^^' 
 
 ^t.A^-<-^ 
 
 C^a^^. J^ 4^,^-L62, ^^;?-,.a_ ^.^^^ ^ 
 
 FACSIMILE OF ARCHBISHOP HUGHES'S LETTER 
 
New Rochelle 13 
 
 education that parents desired. He was consistent. 
 While he protested vigorously against CathoHc children 
 being compelled to read the Protestant Bible in the Public 
 Schools yet he advocated the retention of that Bible for 
 Protestant children, and when it was taken away from 
 them he was the only one to protest, and he addressed a 
 letter to the Protestant parents begging them to vote to 
 have the Bible brought back. He held that mere secular 
 education would never make the best citizens, nor even 
 good citizens; that religion was absolutely necessary for 
 everyone; for the Catholic, the CathoHc religion first, 
 and second and alone, above all and at any and every and 
 all sacrifice. In bold letters on the front walls of his little 
 school on Centre Avenue he had printed the striking 
 sentence, "Education without religion — the loss of the 
 soul — the ruin of the Republic. " 
 
 Father McLoughlin was an earnest advocate of the doc- 
 trine of the single tax. In an article written by him on 
 this subject he said : 
 
 ' ' With my life long friend. Dr. McGlynn, and such dis- 
 tinguished prelates as Bishop Nulty of Meath and Car- 
 dinal Manning, as well as many other Bishops, priests, and 
 laymen of the Catholic Church I hold that the single tax 
 would practically abolish involuntary poverty, and with 
 it the temptations and sins poverty too often brings. It 
 would secure for every man an opportunity to labor as 
 well as the proceeds or worth of his labor. It would make 
 him at last a free man, not dependent upon any man nor 
 begging of any man permission to labor. It would do 
 justice in giving back to man what God created for him 
 and gave him to live on and by, but what cruel, unjust 
 American law has taken away from him and given over to 
 the sole use and benefit of the miscalled owners, thus 
 depriving him of the means of life. Under the single tax 
 men would not be unwilling to marry for fear of not being 
 
H Father Tom 
 
 able to support a wife and rear a large family. The 
 family would be thus multiplied and strengthened instead 
 of as now lessened and weakened. A man would love to be 
 in his home, for he could then have a home, and with his 
 children instead of in the whisky shop or even in the 
 club. He would be sure of moderate comfort and have 
 little or no fear for the future. He woiild not envy any- 
 one, rich by superior talents or strength of mind or body. 
 The arrogance of the rich and the corresponding obsequi- 
 ousness of the poor, growing apace among us, would wane 
 and soon cease altogether. Equality would make great 
 and good progress and a man would at last be 'A man for 
 a' that. ' I believe that the single tax, in conjunction 
 with the mighty power of the CathoUc religion, on the 
 spiritual side, which has such care for man, watching over 
 him and ministering to him from the cradle to the grave, 
 and even after death following him by her prayers and 
 sacrifices, would bring on a little, yea, a big millennium, 
 a little Heaven on earth, a foretaste of the eternal Heaven 
 hereafter. " 
 
 In 1 901 old Father Tom celebrated his golden jubilee 
 in the priesthood and the occasion was the cause of general 
 rejoicing on the part of the people of all denominations in 
 New Rochelle. 
 
 Resident pastors having been, from time to time, ap- 
 pointed in the surrounding towns, the later years of Father 
 McLoughlin's labors were confined to his parish work in 
 the Blessed Sacrament in New Rochelle. Here he labored 
 zealously in the cause of Christ until his sudden death, on 
 December 9, 1902. As he lived he died. The hardy 
 pioneer, who had weathered the storms of severe winters, 
 who feared neither cold nor rain nor sleet when duty called 
 him to the bedside of the dying, was stricken at the foot of 
 God's altar as he was about to begin the Holy Sacrifice 
 and, being carried to the vestry, breathed his last, clothed 
 
New Rochelle 15 
 
 in the sacred vestments of his holy ofifice, upon which there 
 was not a stain after fifty -one years of tireless service in 
 God's vineyard. 
 
 While Father McLoughlin was not called upon to go to 
 the front during the Civil War he did his share of service in 
 attending the sick, wounded, and dying soldiers who were 
 sent from the battlefields to the government hospital on 
 David's Island, in the waters of the Sound opposite New 
 Rochelle. 
 
 De Camp General Hospital, 
 David's Island, New York Harbor, 
 
 February 28, 1864. 
 
 Sir: 
 
 I transmit herewith a request from officers and patients in 
 this hospital, who are Roman Catholics, asking that they be 
 permitted the use of the United States chapel on this island 
 for the performance of Catholic service by a priest of their own 
 faith. 
 
 I desire your counsel and instructions to rightly dispose of 
 the application so that, as far as is consistent with the welfare 
 of the hospital and the service, all patients of whatever relig- 
 ious sect, may feel that in all necessary things they are equal 
 in the consideration of the Medical Department. 
 
 Will you give me as soon as may be, your views and direc- 
 tions in respect to any arrangements necessary to be made as to 
 time and place of their religious services. 
 
 Very respectfully, 
 (signed) Warren Webster, 
 To Ass't. Surgeon, U. S. A. 
 
 Surgeon C. McDougall, In charge. 
 
 U. S. A. Medical Dept. of the East, 
 458 Broome St., New York. 
 
 This request was finally referred to Chaplain Lowry on 
 David's Island with instructions to grant permission for 
 Catholic services in the chapel at such hours as would not 
 interfere with the religious services conducted by him. 
 
1 6 Father Tom 
 
 De Camp General Hospital, 
 David's Island, N. Y., 
 March 2, 1864. 
 
 Respectfully referred to the Rev. Mr. McLoughlin, who is 
 granted the use of the chapel of this hospital for the perform- 
 ance of Catholic service, as requested by the petitioners, viz., 
 at 8 o'clock A. M. Sundays, 4 o'clock on week days and at any 
 other time when the chapel is not otherwise occupied. Special 
 application for its use in the latter case being made by him to 
 
 the surgeon in charge. 
 
 Warren Webster, 
 Ass't. Surgeon, U. S. A. 
 In charge. 
 
 After this permission had been granted. Father Mc- 
 LoughUn celebrated the Holy Sacrifice every Stonday in 
 the Government chapel on David's Island for the benefit 
 of the Catholic soldiers stationed there, attended the sick 
 soldiers and administered the last rites to the dying, not 
 only during the continuance of the war but for many years 
 afterwards. 
 
 Dr. Edward McSweeny, the learned professor of Mt. St. 
 Mary's, said of old Father Tom : ' ' 'Tis not everyone who 
 had the frank independence of the pastor of the Blessed 
 Sacrament. And if worldly honors passed him by, there- 
 fore, how infinitely more enjoyable was the testimony of 
 his own big heart, that he had never kept silence when 
 justice seemed to demand his voice, or iniquity his scorn. " 
 
 A tablet over his grave, which is just within the shadow 
 of the tower of the church of the Blessed Sacrament, stuns 
 up his work in these words : 
 
 In Memoriam 
 REV. THOMAS McLOUGHLIN 
 
 Founder of the church of the Blessed Sacrament. Fifty 
 
 years pastor of this parish. A faithful priest. A true 
 
 patriot. An ardent defender of the rights of the 
 
 people. God rest his soul. 
 
New Rochelle 17 
 
 Here is the sincere tribute paid to old Father Tom by 
 the learned and eloquent rector of Holy Trinity, Mamaro- 
 neck, Rev. Isidore Meister, in 19 12, when speaking at 
 the unveiling of the tablet to his memory. 
 
 In looking for a scriptural mould in which to cast the 
 character of the great and noble man whom we honor to-day, 
 almost instinctively there comes before our mental vision the 
 words of inspiration "Blessed is the man that is found without 
 blemish, and hath not gone after gold, neither hath put his 
 trust in riches nor in treasure. Who is he, and we will praise 
 him. For wonderful things hath he done in his life." (Eccles. 
 XXX., 18.) 
 
 This stately pile, this worthy fane, this architectural gem of 
 purest marble, so emblematic of his virgin soul, as well as the 
 solidity of his character, will in the onflow of the years point its 
 graceful spire heavenward; while within the hallowed walls 
 will be continued by consecrated hands the supernatural forces 
 set in motion and energized by his strong personality, the 
 priceless, the salvific, the divine work of the redemption. 
 Nothing short of a measure in the hands of God can form a 
 just estimate of the man whom we feel proud to honor — the 
 saintly Father Thomas McLoughlin. 
 
 This is not all, for from this holy place, as from a common 
 center, there radiated to the neighboring towns, the same super- 
 natural and moral forces. Here he lighted the fires of holy 
 sacrifice, built shrine and temple to the living God, and thus 
 stood at the source of what are now centers of religious life 
 and activity. 
 
 It would bring us too far afield to consider him as the first 
 citizen of this town for half a century. The extent and impor- 
 tance of this moral infiuence in the up-building of New Rochelle, 
 it is difficult, if not impossible, to estimate. Indeed it is a 
 favorable sign of the times when one man, single handed, can 
 effect such a vast amount of good for the well-being of a com- 
 munity. It needs must be conceded that this young, though 
 historic city, stands on a proud eminence as one of the most 
 
1 8 Father Tom 
 
 orderly, most moral and law-abiding cities of the nation, as well 
 as one of the most healthy. In guiding its infant steps, in the 
 formation of its youthful character, in the making of this ideal 
 home center, his was the powerful, the vitalizing force that 
 contributed largely to its present enviable position. 
 
 And finally in view of his luminous example, of his charity, 
 wide as our humanity itself, his unswerving devotion to duty, 
 his long and eventful life it behooves us here, standing over his 
 blessed remains, to consecrate ourselves anew to all that he 
 stood for, — the Apostolic priest, the true friend, and the loyal 
 citizen. 
 
 As young Tom was a delicate lad he spent much time in 
 New Rochelle and here doubtless his vocation was nur- 
 tured by learning the serving of Mass, and being con- 
 stantly in the company of one of God's anointed. Here, 
 too, he had the delightful experience of meeting, from time 
 to time, a coterie of learned priests who gathered under 
 the evergreen trees in front of the old residence in Drake's 
 Lane and often indulged in theological discussions. 
 Among these priests were Father Thomas Farrell of St. 
 Joseph's, New York, a pioneer in Catholic Church work 
 among the colored people; Father Sylvester Malone of SS. 
 Peter and Paul's, Brooklyn, whose sturdy Americanism 
 made him a national figure ; Dr. McGlynn of St. Stephen's, 
 New York, the zealous advocate of the cause of the 
 poor and oppressed laboring classes; Dr. BurtseU of the 
 Epiphany, New York, the eminent theologian and ecclesi- 
 astical lawyer, and Dr. Patrick McSweeny of St. Brigid's, 
 New York. Young Tom evidently "Hstened in " on some 
 of these intellectual discussions, and imbibed much of the 
 splendid spirit of religious zeal, as well as pure patriotism, 
 which filled the hearts and minds of these earnest priests 
 back in the days when the Church was not as powerful or 
 as highly respected, by those outside its pale, as it is to-day. 
 
^ 
 
 HIGHT REVEREND MONSICNOR PATRICK F. McSWEENY 
 
New Rochelle 19 
 
 Of the inspiration and guidance he received from mingHng 
 with these men, Father Tom said : 
 
 " At an early age I had mastered the Latin of the Mass 
 and served Mass for all these priests on several occa- 
 sions. As I look back now over the years one thing that 
 impressed me was the dignified way in which every one of 
 them celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass. They 
 never seemed in a hurry and I remarked this particularly 
 at the Introibo and the Kyrie Eleison. I dare say 
 that the priest who says Mass in twenty minutes has just 
 as much faith, devotion, and piety as one who takes 
 thirty minutes, but I am only recalling my early impres- 
 sions of these men of strong faith and their great reverence 
 for the Mass and all that pertained to religious worship. 
 They were all strong Union men and admirers of Abraham 
 Lincoln. They were all loyal citizens of the United States 
 and intensely loyal, at the same time, to their magnificent 
 clerical leader. Archbishop Hughes. " 
 
 While he was receiving these impressions along reUgious 
 and patriotic lines his good uncle taught him, as well, the 
 need of moderation in eating and drinking and to love 
 nature and the delights of country life. Frequently when 
 driving along the lovely country roads in the vicinity, he 
 would test the young lad's knowledge of the various trees 
 abounding in that section, and young Tom early learned 
 to distingmsh maple, poplar, beech, locust, elm, chestnut, 
 and hickory. 
 
 It was thus that Tom McLoughlin became associated 
 with New Rochelle in his boyhood days. Here he formed 
 many friendships among the children of those rugged 
 pioneers, both Catholic and Protestant, who laid the 
 foundations of the material prosperity of the town, and 
 they followed the course of his subsequent career with 
 sincere interest and pride. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 AT FORDHAM 
 
 In 1874, Tom McLoughlin was entered as a student at 
 Fordham College where, under the direction of the Jesuits, 
 he studied and prayed that God might direct his footsteps 
 in the path that He wished him to go. Regarding his days 
 at Fordham and the impress he made on his fellow students 
 and teachers let one of his classmates and a cherished 
 friend speak. Rev. Cornelius Clifford, the distinguished 
 scholar and lecturer, in an article in the Fordham Monthly 
 said: 
 
 It was in September, 1877, surely more than a long gener- 
 ation ago, as generations are reckoned in that strange compost 
 of fact and fancy and fetichism of which the school world is so 
 largely made up, that I first met Tom McLoughlin and began 
 a friendship which I have ever since looked upon as one of the 
 most precious assets of my life. I had come from the mock 
 specialisms and the high-sounding futilities of the City College 
 as it was in General Webb's day, and I was straightway intro- 
 duced to a world whose atmosphere, one felt, was tonic with 
 benevolent contempt for nearly everything that that municipal 
 nursery of higher knowledge symbolized. It was when dealing 
 with my new masters in their academic capacity that I realized 
 the change most keenly ; but — and the fact is worth noting by 
 critics and historians of the "Jesuit Method" — ^my school- 
 fellows, too, were not without a certain touch of mechancetS in 
 bringing home to my bewildered understanding the same dis- 
 quieting sense of altered values in things. 
 
 20 
 
At Fordham 21 
 
 It was at such a crisis that Tom McLoughlin became my 
 friend. I had been introduced to him by Father Gockeln, 
 who was Rector in those days; and I can recall very distinctly 
 even now the impression of awesomeness that took hold of me 
 as I heard the great man say that he would procure me a fidus 
 Achates to save me from getting lost about the place. The 
 fidus Achates, who was found, after due search and summons, 
 turned out to be a handsome, kindly-faced, fair-haired boy 
 of great charm of manner, enhanced by a voice that was one of 
 the most delightful I had ever heard from a human being. 
 Tom's immediate charge, delivered to him from over the steel 
 rims of Father Gockeln's spectacles, which were habitually 
 worn far down on his nose whenever he addressed us boys, was 
 to the effect that I should be taken over to Father Racicot's 
 office, there to be examined as to my fitness for entering Father 
 George Kenny's class. 
 
 Fordham, I am told, has branched out and widened the 
 cords of its tents in many modern directions since those days, 
 and in the process of its inevitable expansion it has dropped, 
 if not the reality, at least the style and title of many a scho- 
 lastic tradition that proved its descent from a great pedagogic 
 past. America, no doubt, could not be expected to care for 
 these things of which it understood neither the history nor the 
 significance; and so the old school distinctions of Rhetoric, 
 Belles Lettres, and the rest, have dropped out of usage; but 
 the class for which I was booked after the brief interview with 
 Father Racicot, to whom my new-found friend had conducted 
 me, was the wonderful little band of Rhetoric known then as 
 the class of '79- 
 
 I thought them wonderful then; and I think them quite 
 wonderful still, as I look back upon them in their shadowy, 
 yet genuine, unity, even to-day. They numbered a baker's 
 dozen or so of the most miscellaneous and disparately endowed 
 aspirants after knowledge and piety it has ever been my good 
 fortune to know. If they could be spoken of seriously as a 
 unit — and they certainly could be — it was due to the veritable 
 esprit de corps breathed into them by their master, the late 
 Father George Kenny, S. J. I have known school-boy nature 
 
22 Father Tom 
 
 in many moods and in many lands, but I have never known a 
 more responsive discipleship — responsive, I mean, in the sense 
 that makes the real worth of the Jesuit system, the responsive- 
 ness of the heart, and of just so much of the head as that alway^s 
 problematical organ is capable of — than the discipleship into 
 the sweep of which I was caught up literally from the first day. 
 I think it scarcely an exaggeration to say that the class wor- 
 shiped its master ; and I have had a haunting conviction ever 
 since that the master in his turn genuinely worshiped his 
 class. We thought him omniscient, and we thought him, too, 
 the very soul of honor. I had many an opportunity in after 
 life of gauging that first article of our belief ; for Father Kenny's 
 modesty was of the sort that takes refuge in candor, and he 
 would often laugh over the solemn trivialities of our afternoon 
 "prelections" in Sophocles; but no amount of self-depreciation 
 on his part could ever shake that second article of my belief. 
 He was a gentleman to his finger tips and the soul of courtesy 
 in dealing with his boys. What wonder, if the boys on their 
 side made a kind of religion of their courtesy, too? 
 
 I can scarcely recall whether we had anj^hing as definite as a 
 class organization. My impression is that we never resorted 
 to anything of the kind ; but Tom McLoughlin was the accepted 
 leader and spokesman of us all, as he was also our coryphseus 
 and representative in the delightful Class-Specimens — do they 
 still obtain, I wonder, or have they gone with the fine old 
 Fordham pedantries that were? — in the informal entertain- 
 ments and in the more ambitious efforts of the Dramatic 
 Society over which dear Mr. Scully — "honest John" was his 
 singularly appropriate nickname among the actors — presided 
 so efficiently in those days. The old stage and green-room, on 
 the back scenes and walls of which it was our ambition to 
 perpetuate our names in awful paint, stood at the east end of 
 the Study Hall in what was then known as The First Division 
 Building. It was a huge unfinished structure of no particular 
 school of architecture, but it made up in inward roominess and 
 utility what it lacked in outward grace. Many of the rehear- 
 sals for these performances and plays were held in the dormi- 
 tory over the classroom corridor, because the Study Hall was 
 
THE FORDHAM STUDENT, 1877 
 
At Fordham 23 
 
 not always free; and Tom McLoughlin, I remember, had an 
 extraordinarily persuasive way in convincing either Mr. Scully 
 or Father Kenny, that a glass of wine and a piece of cake were 
 needed to revive the drooping energies of the rehearsers. 
 
 In a rambling string of buildings, half wood and half brick, 
 since pulled down, I am told, a certain Brother Bradley kept a 
 college shop or store in which anything from a lead pencil to an 
 indigestible pie or bottle of " pop " could be purchased for cash. 
 The good brother was often accused — quite unjustly, I am 
 sure — of small departures from that strict integrity of trade to 
 which modem society is thought to be patiently creeping up ; 
 and at one time he was indiscreet enough to boast in the hearing 
 of my friend Tom, that no one could ever succeed in passing 
 bad money over his peep-hole of a counter. Father Nicholas 
 Hanrahan, sweet and shy and comically red-headed, heard 
 of the injudicious boast, and gave Tom McLoughlin nearly 
 a dollar in bad silver to do with as he would. Almost the 
 entire class of Rhetoric were invited to a treat that afternoon, 
 and the unsuspected coin was pushed across the board and 
 swept into the Brother's mysterious till. All the laughter was 
 naturally in our favor; but the Brother's turn for shrewder 
 merriment came later on in the month when Tom and others 
 found themselves burdened with an amount of spurious coin, 
 that no one in the college could be induced to accept and least 
 of all Brother Bradley. What final disposition was made of 
 this coin or how Father Hanrahan or Brother Bradley com- 
 pounded their consciences with the net result to all concerned, 
 I have never heard. Those were the days of the famous 
 Brother Mace, and his assistant Mr. Simon, who were among 
 Tom's most loyal friends and admirers. His taste for music na- 
 turally endeared him to them, and it was then that our little 
 college world began to wake up to the possibilities that lay in 
 Tom McLoughlin's wonderful voice. 
 
 The real secret of Tom McLoughlin's popularity was, no 
 doubt, the indescribable thing that we call personal charm. 
 Fordham may have encouraged its development; but not a 
 little of its vitality came, I have always thought, from that 
 curious combination of inherited gifts which tempered his 
 
24 Father Tom 
 
 lighter graces with a deep and most religious seriousness, and 
 which made him ultimately the noble type of priest that he 
 became. His mother was a McSweeny and his father was the 
 brother of one of the sturdiest and most earnest priests that 
 ever fought to break down the strong anti-Catholic prejudice 
 that prevailed in the small towns of this country half a century 
 ago. While a true McLoughhn in the outward heartiness of 
 his manner, in his inexhaustible good humor, and his wonderful 
 powers of mimicry, he was a McSweeny in his chivalrous de- 
 fense of failing causes, in his fine sense of loyalty, and in his 
 devotion to the more spiritual side of his creed. 
 
 While active in the Dramatic Society, as noted by Father 
 Clifford, and frequently taking part in the performances held 
 during the school year, Tom McLoughlin made splendid pro- 
 gress in his studies at Fordham and won several honors. In 
 May, 1877, he was chosen as one of the class orators. He 
 prepared and delivered an essay on " Pius IX. and the States 
 of the Church," and received the highest praise from his 
 teachers and friends for his intelligent presentation of the 
 subject. On June 26th, 1878, he was awarded the first prize, 
 a silver medal, for Belle Lettres. At the same commencement 
 exercises he received as a prize for excellence in elocution, a 
 work by John O'Kane Murray on the Prose and Poetry of 
 Ireland. Many pages in this book show pencil notes in Tom 
 McLoughlin's handwriting which indicate that even at that 
 early age he had begun to take a deep interest in the literature 
 and poetry of the land of his fathers. His days at Fordham 
 were full of interesting events and he always looked back upon 
 them as among the happiest of his life. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 IN ROME 
 
 In the fall of 1878, Tom McLoughlin entered the North 
 American College in Rome as a student. Sailing from 
 New York, September 21st, he arrived in the Eternal City 
 on October nth. His feelings and thoughts during his 
 first few days in Rome are told in his own words : 
 
 We arrived at about one o'clock P.M. I thought it was 
 a grand old city as I approached it, I saw many domes, but 
 among them I failed to distinguish St. Peter's. This dis- 
 appointed me somewhat though for all I know I may have 
 seen it and not known it. We got a stage at the depot to 
 take us to the New York Hotel. When we had dinner, 
 we felt refreshed after our journey. Rome made a very 
 small impression on me at first, the buildings were so old- 
 looking and dilapidated, the streets so narrow and such 
 specimens of real poverty on all sides. We went to the 
 American College, which is a very fine building. All the 
 students and faculty, including Dr. Hostelot, were at the 
 Villa at Monte Portio. The Boston students met their 
 Vicar General just as we were leaving the college, and he 
 told us to change our hotel to the Minerva situated just 
 opposite Cardinal McCloskey's titular church. He told 
 us that Bishop Healy of Portland was stopping there. 
 Father Metcalf, the Vicar General of Boston, is an old 
 Vice Rector of the American College and I must say was 
 very kind indeed to all of us. 
 
 25 
 
26 Father Tom 
 
 "To-day, October 12, 1878, has been the day of my life. 
 I have had one of my greatest desires fulfilled. I have 
 knelt at the tomb of the apostles ! I have trod upon the 
 sacred floors of the church of St. Peter. We arrived at the 
 grand plaza in front of the church and, as I came inside of 
 the grand porticoes and the magnificent dome of the 
 church of St. Peter, I felt a thrill go through me which did 
 not cease for a long time. We walked up the great stair- 
 case, saw the obelisk, the beautiful fountains and the 
 statues which you see represented in the pictures, and at 
 length my impatient desire was gratified. I was inside of 
 St. Peter's. I involuntarily fell on my knees and the 
 words of the royal prophet came to my mind, ' Lord, it is 
 good to be here. ' I was struck with awe at the grandeur 
 of this gorgeous temple and I felt faith as I never did before. 
 How can visitors to this shrine say they have been dis- 
 appointed? When I entered St. Paul's in London I was 
 not at all impressed by the place, bare walls, everything 
 musty and nothing but space; but here in St. Peter's, ah! 
 how different ! You feel that you are in God's holy temple 
 where He Himself is truly present. We walked towards 
 two little marble angels holding up a font of holy water 
 and, when we reached them, we found that they were about 
 eight feet high. We walked on and saluted the toe of St. 
 Peter and thence proceeded to the tomb of the apostles ; the 
 tomb where repose the relics of SS. Peter and Paul and there 
 I fell on my knees and prayed as I had seldom prayed 
 before. Oh! how earnestly I prayed for you aU, how I 
 thanked God for permitting me to visit this shrine of 
 shrines, this heart and foimdation of the Catholic religion, 
 how I thanked the Sacred Heart for leading me to Rome 
 and calling me to the sacred vocation of the priesthood. 
 Ah, if any of you who read this ever visit Rome and St. 
 Peter's and feel otherwise than I did, I will wonder. Oh! 
 if God grants the petitions I made to him at this sacred 
 
In Rome 2^ 
 
 shrine, and I felt my prayer would be answered as I prayed, 
 then shall my earthly happiness be complete ! From the 
 tomb of the apostles we passed to the chair of St. Peter, 
 saw all the wonderful mosaics, chapels, etc. , and then went 
 to visit a tomb, where the remains of one reposes who is 
 dear to me and to you all. I visited the tomb of our 
 beloved Pius IX. Here I could not keep back my tears as 
 I thought of that remarkable saint and all he had suffered 
 and how patiently he bore all the indignities heaped upon 
 him. You will get more minute descriptions of St. Peter's 
 at some future date. From the church we went to the 
 Coliseum, ancient Forum, Trajan's Column and Arch of 
 Constantine. We visited the picture gallery and Sistine 
 Chapel, saw the original Raphael Madonna, of which 
 there is a copy in the church of the Blessed Sacrament, 
 and also the Last Judgment by Raphael." 
 
 Thus Tom McLoughlin started on his six years' cotu-se 
 of study for the priesthood. Among those who were his 
 classmates in seminary days, who learned to love him and 
 became his steadfast friends through life, were Rev. James 
 F. Crowley, Rev. Thomas J. Lynch, Right Rev. Francis 
 H. Wall, Rev. James B. Curry, Rev. Thomas S. Duhigg, 
 Most Rev. William H. O'Connell, Cardinal Archbishop 
 of Boston, and Most Rev. Edward Hanna, Archbishop of 
 San Francisco. The same gentleness of manner and 
 geniality of disposition, which won him friends as a boy 
 and at Fordham, were evidenced during his long years in 
 the American College. Father Crowley, his close friend, 
 in speaking of his life in Rome said : 
 
 I think the seminary is a very good place to judge a man's 
 character; it is not everybody that can please everyone else, 
 because it requires a very peculiar temperament and a very 
 agreeable disposition to do so. I know there are a very few 
 people that can please everybody they come in contact with, 
 
28 Father Tom 
 
 but I want to say that after five years of very close friendship 
 and relation with Tom McLoughlin I feel that I am in a 
 position to say that, of all the students, there was not one who 
 did not claim him as a very close, a very good, and a very kind 
 friend. He seemed to have that sweet disposition, that gentle- 
 ness, and that winsomeness which drew his fellow students to 
 him and held them as friends. 
 
 Some of Father Tom's experiences in Rome are best 
 illustrated by a few extracts from interesting letters 
 written at various times during his long sojourn in the city 
 which he described as ' ' the head and center of Holy Mother 
 Church, where the heart of the Catholic Church beats 
 and sends out the Ufe blood into all its members, and 
 from whence issue those vivifying streams of grace and 
 truth undefiled which make us loving children of so good a 
 Mother." 
 
 Describing a visit to the Coliseum he wrote : 
 
 "I remember well, one Holy Thursday evening, the 
 rector gave us permission to visit the repositoiies of 
 the Blessed Sacrament in the city. Delighted with the 
 opportunity we satisfied our consciences at two or three 
 churches, and then, by mutual consent, we resolved to 
 steal over and see the Coliseum by moonlight. We passed 
 around the foot of the Capitoline Hill, pasttheprison where 
 St. Peter was confined, and in a few .minutes found our- 
 selves among the ruins of the Forum. On all sides were 
 the majestic columns of pagan temples standing like senti- 
 nels to keep watch over the remains of ancient Roman 
 grandeur, and preaching to men the lesson that great 
 progress and proficiency in the sciences and arts are not 
 the signs of kingdoms that will last forever, but that the 
 works of men must perish and decay, whilst the handiwork 
 of the Creator remains till time shall be no more. 
 
 "We walked along the Via Sacra, where Horace and 
 
In Rome 29 
 
 Cicero and Julius Caesar were wont to walk, and marveled 
 at the immense blocks or paving stones over two feet 
 square. As we ascended the hill we saw before us the 
 Church of St. Frances of Rome, which rests upon part 
 of the site of the Basilica of Constantine. Passing on 
 imder the Arch of Titus we went down the gentle slope and 
 found otirselves in full view of the most magnificent rmn 
 that exists to-day, the Roman Coliseum, the monument 
 that testifies to the great civilization of the Romans, 
 the silent witness to the persecution of the Christians, the 
 ruin whose sacred wall the devout pilgrim kisses with 
 reverence because of the blood shed there for the love of 
 Christ. 
 
 "The great amphitheater was begun by the Emperor 
 Vespasian, in the year 72 of the Christian era, under 
 the direction of a Christian architect, Gaudentius, and 
 by the labor of the captive Jews. The outward walls 
 are one series of Roman arches, which, on one side, are in a 
 state of great preservation. We approached nearer, 
 passed the remains of the fountain where the gladiators 
 washed, and entered the hallowed precincts. All was 
 dark and lonesome and quiet. We awaited, and in a few 
 moments the queen of night arose, in all her silvery splen- 
 dor, and cast her pale light through the arches of the holy 
 place. In an instant ghostly shadows sprang up every- 
 where and brought the moldering beauties of the architec- 
 ture into bold relief. Words fail to express the solemnity, 
 grandeur, magnificence of the scene; words fail to tell of 
 the multitude of thoughts that flashed through my mind 
 during those few precious moments we spent in so holy a 
 place. The place seemed repeopled with the Romans of 
 old — I imagined I saw the mighty populace gazing down 
 into the arena, I saw the gladiators in mortal combat, 
 watched in breathless silence the clashing of the weapons, 
 until I saw one of the combatants fall mortally wounded, 
 
30 Father Tom 
 
 and the cheers from thousands of throats rend the skies, 
 while the words of the poet came back to me as I watched 
 the poor fellow dying on the sands : 
 
 Butchered to make a Roman holiday. 
 
 '"Tis the poet who can appreciate the beauty of such 
 a scene as that I have tried to describe. The spectres of 
 the gladiators vanished, and in another moment the scene 
 was changed — the crowds upon the seats were the same, 
 the patricians or nobles occupied the lower or front tiers, 
 above them were the middle class, and above them again 
 the rabble. In the grand balcony, towards the east, the 
 Emperor Diocletian, surrounded by his senators and his 
 vestal virgins. I hear the edict read proclaiming the 
 opening of the royal games, several preliminary contests 
 take place, and then the cry of the rabble impatient for 
 blood, 'The Christians to the lion !' I see a modest youth 
 led into the center of the arena — the beloved Pancratius — 
 he stands there with folded arms and downcast eyes, truly 
 a sight for men and angels. The voice of the Prsetor 
 sounds forth, 'Pancratius, you are accused of being a 
 Christian ; our Emperor is merciful, and if you but consent 
 to offer incense to the gods your life will be spared.' The 
 answer of the youth : 'Sire, I worship one true and living 
 God alone, I believe Jesus of Nazareth to be His only 
 begotten Son, and rather than deny this faith I willingly 
 give up my life, I despise and spit on your false gods. ' 
 The Emperor and his vestals scowl upon the handsome 
 youth, whose heroism they deem fanaticism. Hark! 
 What is that? Again! It is the roar of the Numidian 
 lion, let loose from his cage, where he has been kept with- 
 out food for four days. The famished beast leaps into 
 the arena, gazes upon the slender youth, who stands 
 unmoved. Pancratius spreads his arms in the form of a 
 cross and cries out, 'Jesus receive my soul!' 'Tis, as it 
 
In Rome 31 
 
 were, the watchword for the lion, he crouches, with one 
 savage bound he springs, and his jaws close on the youth's 
 throat; the brave lad falls lifeless on the sand, and the 
 courts of heaven burst forth into hymns of praise and 
 thanksgiving that God has given to men such wondrous 
 fortitude and zeal, while the vast multitude shudders, 
 and even the bold vestals shade their eyes from such a 
 terrible sight. 
 
 "Nor is this aU — while within the sacred walls of the 
 Coliseum, gazing on the light of the moon as it rises to the 
 second tier of arches, my mind wanders back hundreds of 
 years again, and I think of the gentle virgin, St. Agnes, who 
 lived at the same time as Pancratius. I see her a noble 
 Roman girl, who, at the age of thirteen, consecrated her 
 virginity to God. I see her conversing with familiarity 
 with the poor, blind, beggar girl Cecilia. I see her brought 
 before the iniquitous judges, and the charge preferred 
 against her is that she is a Christian, and the answer, 
 'Yes, I am espoused to Jesus Christ.' I hear the judges 
 threaten to condemn her to the brothel. 'Jesus Christ 
 will shield me.' The sword of the executioner finally 
 sends her soul to the crown that awaits it. 
 
 "As I watch the moon rising higher I reflect within 
 myself, oh, noble, kingly race; oh happy emperors, that 
 were the means of giving us such noble examples and 
 glorious patrons ; oh, soil of the Coliseum, stained with the 
 blood of hundreds like Pancratius and Agnes. I venerate 
 you; I kiss the sacred earth and am unworthy to tread 
 such holy ground; oh, noblest ruin of God's blessed earth, 
 you, first of all, make us feel that Rome is the City of the 
 Soul." 
 
 "Rome, Feb. 15, 1879. 
 
 "You'll be surprised if I tell you that since I came here 
 I took quite a fancy to practising and now I can play 
 
32 Father Tom 
 
 almost any air by ear and not with one finger either but 
 with a good accompaniment, I'll surprise you in six years' 
 time ! You have a good disposition, somewhat like my own 
 and consequently a big heart, i.e., a, loving heart. Perhaps 
 it would be better for some of us if we had not so much 
 heart. A big heart is a gift of God and the way to appreci- 
 ate it is to give it entirely to God and then there will be no 
 danger of its leading you away from the love of God to a 
 too ardent love of creatures. Keep before your mind the 
 words of the saintly A Kempis 'Love Him (Jesus Christ) 
 and retain Him as your friend who when all forsake He will 
 not abandon you nor suffer you to perish in the end.' And 
 speaking of this let me advise you to read a little every 
 day from The Imitation of Christ. You will find sentences 
 all through it which will be applicable to yourself, and 
 the reading of it will give you all the spiritual consolation 
 you need. " 
 
 "Villa Americano, Palestrina, 
 October i6, 1879. 
 
 ' ' Palestrina, the ancient city of Prseneste of the Greeks, 
 is a very old town. It is built on the side of a hill, and its 
 streets are like so many steps of stairs, mounting higher and 
 higher till you get halfway up the mountain. It contains 
 about five thousand inhabitants, and has its Cathedral 
 Church with a Cardinal and resident Bishop. The Ca- 
 thedral, however, is the poorest and meanest church in 
 the city. Travelers complain that the people are wild, 
 barbarous, and savage and, unlike the residents of other 
 Italian towns, are wanting in politeness and courtesy 
 towards strangers. We, however, being now considered 
 as quasi citizens, do not experience any of their roughness. 
 It is true that whenever we pass the gate, we are besieged 
 by an army of children who hang on to us and shout, 
 'Daci un medaglia' 'daci un biocco,' 'daci una corouseUa,' 
 
In Rome 33 
 
 'dami un santo,' 'dami un imaginetto, ' etc. {Gimme a 
 medal, gimme a penny, gimme a little pair of beads, gimme 
 a saint (picture), gimme an image, etc.). If you gave them 
 fifty apiece they would be just as bad the next day. 
 Prsneste was in fact, one of the most noted places outside 
 of Rome, both for its wars, its being the summer residence 
 of Augustus, Nero, Tiberius, and other celebrated Roman 
 emperors, and the grandeur of its buildings, especially the 
 Temple of Fortune. 
 
 "In the year 12 17 it was destroyed, nothing being spared 
 but the cathedral which still stands. In the ancient 
 Barberini Palace is seen an immense mosaic which is con- 
 sidered one of the finest in Italy. It was foimd midst the 
 ruins of the Temple of Forttme and represents in rich colors 
 the joy of the people and beasts in the annual inundation of 
 the Nile. It is like a dictionary of the manners and cus- 
 toms of the people of the Egypt of its time. Priests, 
 priestesses, warriors, fishermen, shepherds, huntsmen, etc., 
 are all represented together with curious animals, plants, 
 temples, and houses. I might quote from Virgil, Horace, 
 Juvenal, and Ovid who sound the praises of Praeneste in 
 their poems, but this will do. Away above the town on 
 the top of the mountain is the little hamlet of Castel de 
 San Pietro. St. Peter is said to have lived and preached 
 here for three years. In the church of St. Rocco there is 
 a beautiful statue of the saint by Bernini. From a table- 
 land outside the hamlet a fine view of the surroimding 
 mountains and Campagna may be had. Rome, with its 
 single solitary dome is seen away in the distance and, by 
 the way, it is only at a distance that you can appreciate 
 the magnitude and grandeur of the world's cathedral. 
 But I must come to a close. The chestnut season has set 
 in and our favorite recreation is to build fires and roast nuts 
 
 and eat them." 
 3 
 
34 Father Tom 
 
 "Rome, December 14, 1879. 
 
 "I never felt more cold in all my life than during the 
 past ten days. The frost has been excessive and, a rare 
 occurrence in Rome, it snowed for two hours a few days ago. 
 The fountains in the city look beautiful, covered with ice, 
 and gazed at by wondering crowds. The snow fell so 
 heavily at Naples that trains were stopped and in the 
 north of Italy the weather is so severe that the mails are 
 delayed and all traffic is impeded. I am sitting in my cold, 
 cold room, my hands almost numb whilst I write, a cold 
 stone floor, cold white walls ; no fires in Rome, no carpets, 
 doctors say here that carpets and fires are unhealthy. 
 
 ' ' The twenty -fifth anniversary of the proclamation of the 
 dogma of the Immaculate Conception was celebrated here 
 in all the churches with great rejoicing. The Gesu and the 
 Santi Apostoli were magnificent. In the former there 
 were about five thousand candles lit at the last vespers. 
 All the church, even the dome, was one blaze of light. Rich 
 draperies of gold cloth, red, white and blue silk were hung 
 all around the church and the effect was all that could be 
 desired. " 
 
 "L'HuMiLTA, Rome, 
 Dec. 26, 1879. 
 
 "My second Christmas in a foreign land is counted 
 among the things that were. Many a time did my thoughts 
 revert, during the day, to the old familiar scenes of child- 
 hood yet without a single pang of grief or sorrow. I felt 
 that I loved you all the more and knowing that you 
 enjoyed yourselves and thought of me, made me feel all 
 the more light-hearted. Before going to sleep on Christ- 
 mas eve I hummed to myself all of the Alma Redemp- 
 toris and the Adeste Fideles, and the next morning I 
 arose with the others at half -past three and repaired to 
 the sacristy. Vested in rich silver-cloth copes Crowley 
 
In Rome 35 
 
 and I chanted the beautiful Christmas Antiphons Chris- 
 tus natus est, Gloria in Excelsis Deo, Quern vidistis pastores, 
 and gave the intonations of the psalms throughout the 
 singing of matins and lauds. This was the first time 
 I had the privilege of wearing any of the sacerdotal vest- 
 ments and, if I were not in second year philosophy, I 
 would be inclined to think that 'the time was near at hand. ' 
 The Monsignor sang Mass and after that we sang lauds, 
 then I served McElhinney's second Mass, then breakfasted 
 and then got ready for the ten o'clock pontifical Mass. 
 Bishop Mashbeouf of Colorado (is lame and carries a 
 stick) pontificated and at the Mass I was thurifer. We 
 finished fixing up things after Mass at 12 :i5 and then went 
 to dinner. Think of it! from four o'clock till twelve 
 fifteen and attending to the church the whole time. After 
 dinner we walked to the Janiculum, the place where St. 
 Peter was crucified and saw the tombs of Hugh O'Neill 
 and Roderic O'Donnell, the Irish chieftains. Solemn 
 benediction, supper, and "mix" after supper for two hours. 
 Lots of singing. O'Malley asked me to sing "The Tide." 
 I never sang a serious song since I came here (for the 
 fellows) and they were mightily surprised when they heard 
 me hold forth in this style. My voice was in pretty good 
 trim and at the end I was congratulated on all sides. ' ' 
 
 "L'HuMiLTA, Rome, 
 "Dec. 30, 1879. 
 
 "I spent a very happy Christmas notwithstanding the 
 fact that the last letters I received were on the 20th. 
 Nearly everyone received a letter on Christmas day or 
 thereabouts with Merry Christmas cards enclosed and 
 felt jolly over it. I was disappointed but bore it bravely, 
 thinking that one of my weekly correspondents would 
 write, but now the 30th has come and no Merry Christmas 
 from home. I received one present in the shape of a little 
 
36 Father Tom 
 
 picture and an Agnus Dei from one of my companions, 
 Crowley, and the many sincere greetings which I received 
 from some of my friends here were as so many more gifts. 
 I cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear of the new bell 
 on the church, and I want all the particulars about it. 
 You, my dear Grandma, hope to Hve to hear it ring the 
 Angelus. I hope for more: I hope that both Uncle and 
 you may hear it ringing to call the people of New Rochelle 
 to attend the first high Mass of a certain young priest who 
 will, with the help of God, celebrate it in September, 1884. 
 Let this be also your earnest prayer, and our joint hopes 
 may be realized." 
 
 "American College, Rome, 
 "Jan. I, 1880. 
 
 "How quickly time flies! What is time! A mystery 
 which philosophers have tried to explain but fail in their 
 attempts; which I myself can partially understand yet 
 which I cannot explain to another. You may say it is 
 a successive order whose component parts are beginning, 
 diu"ation and end. Am I any the wiser ? 
 
 " Jan. 2nd. The bell for Benediction rang when I got this 
 far last night and it is well it did, for, glancing at the page 
 I'm writing on, I daresay you would have had a good 
 philosophical disputation or rather elucidation before I 
 finished. 
 
 "For relaxation of mind I read during the holidays 
 Rory O'Moore. I was delighted with it. It is elevating 
 in its tone and shows forth the noble generous hearted 
 characteristics of the Irish peasant. " 
 
 " Villa Generale, Palestrina, 
 "Sept. 2, 1880. 
 
 "By the time you receive this I shall have celebrated 
 my twenty-first birthday and shall be a voting citizen 
 
In Rome 37 
 
 of the United States of America. When I look back upon 
 my past life it is like a dream, so short does it seem since 
 the day I returned home from the Sisters' school after 
 learning my first lesson. I remember the day well; it 
 seems but yesterday and now behold the change! In 
 about three years I shall — please God — be a priest. I 
 feel myself still a boy and I hate to think that one so young 
 should be raised to such a dignity and take upon himself 
 such weighty responsibilities, but by His grace we can 
 accomplish all things. I have just finished my course of 
 philosophy and satisfied myself with the results of the con- 
 cursus, and now I am a theologian and will in all probabil- 
 ity receive tonsure and minor orders this year. My own 
 conscience and my confessor, who knows me as I do myself, 
 assure me that I am on the right path, so I go straight for- 
 ward with confidence. There is not a day passes on which 
 I do not remember you at least three times in my prayers 
 and I hope that God will hear me and that all my loved 
 ones at home will live to see that happy day than which 
 earth can give me no happier. Need I ask you to pray for 
 me in return? No, I am sure you never forget Tom, 
 so let me now tell you something about our country life. 
 You will read this letter probably on my birthday so just 
 imagine I am with you describing everything in my own 
 familiar way cceur-d-cceur. 
 
 "Although we are out here in the country just one month 
 to-day as yet we have made no excursions, so that I cannot 
 give you any lengthy account of my travels. I will go to 
 Genazzano in a couple of weeks to visit the shrine of 'Oiu- 
 Lady of Good Counsel,' call on Padre Mullen, and also go 
 on a horse-back excursion to Frascati about fourteen miles 
 distant, to the Propaganda Villa to see Frank. If I feel like 
 it I may make other excursions — but, chi lo sa? The festas 
 of the different country towns around us tend to make 
 the time pass quickly and pleasantly. On the eve of the 
 
38 Father Tom 
 
 Jesta of St. Agapito we had the usual procession through 
 the town of Palestrina. The relics of the saint were borne 
 by four deacons preceded by the canons, the CoUegio 
 Americano, the seminarians, the Franciscans and Capu- 
 chins, and various religious societies of the town bearing 
 banners, crucifixes, religious devices, and candles. The 
 band headed the procession and played excellently. As 
 the relics were borne along the people all knelt by their 
 doors and blessed themselves. The Bishop walked along 
 in cope and mitre and the Cardinal (De Luca) came last in 
 his red silk robes and gave his blessing to the people as they 
 knelt. After walking through the principal streets we 
 came to the convent of the 'Sepulte Vive' (buried alive). 
 They are a congregation of nuns who live strict, severe 
 lives of mortification and prayer and never see the face 
 of a fellow human being after they enter, not even the face 
 of the priest who hears their confession and gives them 
 Communion. They receive Holy Communion through a 
 little hole in the wall, four inches square, so that the priest 
 sees only their mouth, chin, and part of their nose, their 
 eyes being covered. They know nothing of what is going 
 on in the world and spend their life in preparing themselves 
 for Heaven. It certainly requires an extraordinary 
 amount of grace, to adopt such a vocation. Benediction 
 of the relics was given to the nuns and the walls of their 
 little chapel fairly shook with the loud notes of the band. 
 After Benediction in the cathedral we went home and 
 were awakened on the following morning about four 
 o'clock by the incessant volley of mortars — by which cele- 
 bration Italians always open their festas — just as they 
 close them with fireworks. At ten o'clock we went out 
 to the town and there all was bustle and life. The con- 
 tadine women were all out in their fine dresses and each 
 seemed to vie with the other in a display of bright colors. 
 The large silk handkerchiefs which they all wear over their 
 
In Rome 39 
 
 shoulders were really as varied and as pretty as could be — 
 scarcely any two being alike. The square and the streets 
 in the vicinity of the cathedral were filled with men selling 
 baskets, tin cans, pigs, fowl, jewelry, shoes, hats, lace, 
 tubs, knives and forks, pots, fruits, buttons, filberts, 
 which correspond to our peanuts and are eaten by every- 
 body, and Lord knows what they were not selling. All 
 were peaceable and full of smiles and not a drunken man or 
 a fight could be seen ; though perhaps to see two women 
 talking about the weather and crops a foreigner might 
 think they were on the point of eating each other — their 
 gestures are so extravagant. 
 
 "Solemn Pontifical Mass was celebrated coram cardinale 
 (I being mitre bearer) and at different parts of the Mass 
 the band made the old cathedral ring with some fine 
 selections. Really this country brass band would excel 
 some of our fine regimental bands in America. The talent 
 is in them and it must out. The cathedral was, after the 
 custom of the Italians, gaudily decked with drapery of red, 
 gold, blue, yellow, green, and white ; and the choir, aided by 
 some Roman singers all together made up a grand cele- 
 bration. In the afternoon the public lottery or "tom- 
 bola," took place and the crowd was immense; the highest 
 prize being about $150, no small sum for a poor peasant. 
 In the evening we witnessed the fireworks from the room 
 of our landlord's house and I can say that the peasants are 
 experts at this sort of work. In America I have rarely 
 seen pieces to beat those of Palestrina. On the following 
 day the races were held and consisted of six races, there 
 being two in each race, and three in the last. A curious 
 feature of the races was that they were run up an inclined 
 plane. The winner received twenty dollars and I suppose 
 was robbed before he reached home. All this will give 
 you an idea of an Italian village festa and it is beautiful 
 to see how the religious and political is blended together. " 
 
40 Father Tom 
 
 "Rome, May 28, 1881. 
 
 ' ' Seminary life is so entirely different from college life. 
 In college your studies and an odd speech was all that 
 troubled you. When examinations were coming on, the 
 lectures were suspended and the matter repeated. In the 
 seminary, however, you are burdened with several duties. 
 First you have to keep a constant watch on the spiritual 
 man and try to become more and more perfect. You must 
 learn the art of 'Following Christ,' you must learn what 
 mental prayer is, what spiritual examen is, what spiritual 
 reading is. You must gradually shake off the 'old man ' 
 and all his works and with St. Paul 'put on Our Lord 
 Jesus Christ. ' This is our principal duty. Then we must 
 learn all that pertains to the ceremonies which will be 
 necessary in the ministry of the sacraments and the offer- 
 ing of the great sacrifice. Next we must study our theol- 
 ogy and other matters which will attach our hearts to the 
 great work we have in hand and which will enable us to 
 refute the enemies of our holy religion. We must have a 
 continued watch on our health. The cHmate of Rome is 
 dangerous for both strong and weak constitutions and a 
 slight cold, if not cared for immediately, turns into pneu- 
 monia or pernicious fever and carries you off in a few 
 days like one of our companions was carried off just two 
 days before I received your letter. In addition to this 
 work, I have the good (bad) fortune to be assistant 
 sacristan and I lose both study time and recreation (at 
 times for example, Sundays, festivals, Holy Week and the 
 like) whilst attending to my duties there. I protested 
 against being placed there but was given to imderstand 
 that the true ecclesiastical spirit is to let the will of the 
 superior be your will. In the Propaganda we study dog- 
 matic and moral theology, canon law and liturgy. Then 
 twice a week we must sweep, clean our lamps, and dust. 
 Every day we must make our bed. We must prepare for 
 
In Rome 41 
 
 four classes every day and some days for six and even 
 seven. " 
 
 "Villa Generale, Palestrina, 
 "October 17, 1881. 
 
 V After three years' patient waiting and study I am at 
 length to receive a reward, and I am sure it will give you all 
 great pleasure to hear it. Last week I was called to pre- 
 pare for the reception of holy tonsure and minor orders, 
 these being the first solid steps I shall have made towards 
 the priesthood. I shall make my retreat, having this 
 before my eyes, and about the 15th of November I will 
 pass my examination. Somewhere around November 
 31st I shall receive tonsure and then I shall receive minor 
 orders perhaps in St. John Lateran's, on my patron saint's 
 day (St. Thomas). If you knew how anxiously I have 
 looked forward to this calling and how I feared lest it 
 should be deferred even longer you would appreciate my 
 happiness at this moment. Pray for me that I may do 
 God's holy will. The time is flying very fast and I can 
 scarcely believe that I have little more than two years and 
 a half to remain in Rome. 
 
 "North American College, Rome, 
 ".March 8, 1882. 
 
 "I was present on last Saturday at the ordination of 
 Father Frank (Rev. Francis McS weeny) in the Basilica of 
 St. John Lateran and watched with earnest eyes and a 
 beating heart during the whole ceremony, the one who 
 since we were children together has always been as a brother 
 to me. With what increased joy must not his sainted 
 father and mother have looked down on that grand sight, 
 the fourth son dedicating himself to Almighty God. With 
 what joy must not his brother Gaily have looked down on 
 one who will be a worthy successor to him. How much 
 would not his only sister, who has ever been a mother to 
 him, have enjoyed the scene which I was permitted to look 
 
42 Father Tom 
 
 upon. I think, however, that I made up for all the 
 family by the hearty embrace which I gave him, whilst 
 the vestments were still on; and whilst the sacred oil 
 was scarce taken from his hands. I was the first to receive 
 his first priestly blessing and I was the first on the day 
 following to serve his Mass. He looked every inch of him 
 a priest, as clad in rich purple vestments he commenced 
 the Introibo and all through the Mass he seemed very 
 collected although his flushed cheeks betrayed the emo- 
 tions within. He is now looking forward anxiously to his 
 arrival home and the giving of his blessing to all. He will 
 not go till about May and probably will not arrive home 
 till August. Father McSweeny!!! It will be easier for 
 you to realize it than it is for me, for he is just as young 
 looking and bojdsh as ever, though there is a good amount 
 of McSweeny seriousness and earnestness about him. He 
 will make an excellent and worthy priest and I hope he will 
 live for many years to do good work on the mission. 
 
 "There was a grand requiem celebrated in the church of 
 St. Ignatius on last Tuesday, for the repose of the soul of 
 Pius IX. The little picture which I enclose is one of his 
 tomb out in the Basilica of San Lorenze. What an humble 
 sepulchre for so great a man and one which was designed 
 by himself. ' ' 
 
 "Rome, April 12, 1882. 
 
 "The hard and penitential season of Lent and Holy 
 Week is now over and our minds and hearts are filled with 
 paschal joys. Lent in Rome is much stricter than in 
 America, because the fast you keep is one string of privi- 
 leges and dispensations. To give you an example, at 
 supper nothing is allowed but bread, vegetables, or fruit, 
 and the vegetables must not be cooked in butter or meat 
 grease. You, in America, can sit down to your eggs, 
 cheese, milk, etc. 
 
In Rome 43 
 
 "I felt very tired after the fasting, hard sacristy work, 
 and singing of Holy Week, but my health still seems 
 to keep at the same unwavering level. I hope it may 
 continue so." 
 
 " Palazzo Americano, Grotta Ferrata, Italy, 
 "September 17, 1882. 
 
 "Last Monday, twenty-two of us arose at half -past 
 four, made our meditation, heard Mass, ate breakfast, and 
 started on a donk excursion. Twenty-two numbers were 
 thrown into a hat, and we drew for choice of animals. I 
 advised some of the inexperienced, the night before, to 
 pick out "mouse-colored donks" or "long-eared donks" 
 if they wanted to have fun. My niunber was twenty. 
 Well, they followed my advice, and the result was that 
 those who had first choice, chose the poorest asses in the 
 lot and we, who were last, got the best. I guess they will 
 never come to me for advice again — or at least they will 
 never again choose a mouse-colored or a long-eared donk. 
 They had the fun that I promised them, however, for they 
 got more exercise in kicking and beating the beasts and in 
 shouting at them than any of the rest of the party. They 
 do not wish for any more fun. After an hour's riding we 
 came to a beautiful mountain road leading up, through the 
 woods, to Rocca di Papa, a town of about three thousand 
 souls, and built on the side of a very steep hill. The 
 principal street runs straight up and, though the pavement 
 is good, there are cuts made in the stones every few inches 
 to prevent one from slipping. While the crowd went on 
 past Hannibal's Camp, whence this famous general recon- 
 noitered Rome, three of us remained in Rocca, to order the 
 dinner, then we followed the others to Rocca di Monte 
 Cavo, and there spent an hour or so looking at the ruin 
 of the old temple of Jupiter, the Passionist monastery, 
 with its old-fashioned cracked organ and its lay brother 
 
44 Father Tom 
 
 who served us out some well-watered vinegar without any 
 pickles in it. From the monastery there is a magnificent 
 view of the beautiful lakes of Albano and Nemi, all the 
 neighboring towns, the rich vine-clad hills and the richer 
 valleys, the broad, bleak Campagna, the blue Mediterra- 
 nean, Rome in all its glory — the rugged Sabines and Mount 
 Soracte standing like a solitary giant all alone in the 
 distance. . . . 
 
 ' ' Dinner over, we mounted our fiery steeds — and presto ! 
 what a change ! Turn an ass's nose towards home, and he 
 seems no longer the dumb stupid animal he was before, 
 but is transformed into a lively young species of African 
 horse. He wants to run and kick and jump; and I let 
 mine have all the fun he wished. Instead of going straight 
 home we visited the town of Marino — Lake Albano — and 
 went halfway to Castel Gandolfo the summer home (?) 
 of the Popes. We arrived home about six o'clock, well 
 pleased with our excursion. One of the seminarians fell 
 five times from his animal and three or four others fell once. 
 No bones broken. " 
 
 " Palazzo Americano, Grotta Pkbrata, 
 "October 7, 1882. 
 
 "You doubtless know that this year on the 4th of Octo- 
 ber was celebrated the seventh centenary of the death, or 
 rather entrance into life, of St. Francis of Assisi. Hearing 
 a camerata of the Propagandists say that they were going 
 to Assisi to attend the great festival, I immediately said : 
 'Just the thing for me,' took down the names of those who 
 wished to go and received permission of the Rector to visit 
 Assisi, Perugia, and Orvieto (andTerni, if we wished). A 
 band of fourteen of us, in charge of a priest and two dea- 
 cons, started out on Monday, October 2d, and after a 
 journey of about one hundred and fifty miles of rail, 
 arrived in the city of Perugia. The foundation of the 
 city dates back before the Christian era and is famous in 
 
In Rome 45 
 
 history for many battles, the most celebrated of which were 
 fought under Fort Braccio in the 15th Century. It can 
 now boast of being one of the cleanest cities in Italy, and of 
 having given to the church one of the most learned Popes 
 that ever sat in St. Peter's chair, Leo XIII. Leo was 
 Bishop of Perugia for thirty-three years, and was so 
 attached to the place that he still holds the title of Bishop 
 of Perugia. He was beloved by all classes and they con- 
 sider it a great honor in Perugia to have their former 
 bishop made Pope. Perugia like all Italian cities is built 
 on the side of a mountain and contains about twenty thou- 
 sand inhabitants. Its people are active, courteous, clean, 
 and not much on church-going. It possesses a fine royal 
 palace with beautiful gardens overlooking the city, and 
 several handsome public buildings. We first visited the 
 cathedral or duomo as they call it here, and it was a pretty 
 fair specimen of Gothic architecture half transformed into 
 the Roman style, and, I must say, I do not like the mingling 
 of the two. If the church is to be Gothic let it be entirely 
 so, but do not try to make a combination, for it mars the 
 beauty and S5rmmetry of any church. The chapels are 
 filled with paintings of the Umbrian school, amongst which 
 are some fine ones by Perugino, Fra Braunacci, Florentino, 
 and others. At one end of the church is a rich sanctuary 
 or shrine, known as the 'Santo Anello' — or Holy ring — 
 because in a magnificent shrine and reliquary therein is 
 preserved a ring of onyx, which, tradition tells us, was the 
 wedding ring of the Blessed Virgin. I bought a facsimile 
 of this ring (touched to the original) and will bring it home. 
 Outside the cathedral is a large bronze statue of Pope 
 Julius III. who is represented blessing the people. I was 
 anxious to see the statue because it takes quite a prominent 
 part in a novel of Hawthorne called the Marble Faun or 
 Transformation — If you come across it, read it, for you will 
 find in it beautiful descriptions of Rome and Tuscany. We 
 
46 Father Tom 
 
 next saw St. Augustine's which is filled with paintings by 
 Perugino and others. After that we went to the great 
 Etruscan museum, and spent an interesting half hour in 
 looking at all the curiosities, a repetition of which you may 
 have by visiting the new museum in Central Park. Then 
 we visited the large art gallery of the city and saw hun- 
 dreds of paintings of the 13th to the 17th centuries, 
 amongst which were many by Fra Angelico. Next to St. 
 Peter's, a church filled with rich paintings, precious mar- 
 bles, one of the grandest tabernacles I ever saw, and the 
 grandest carved-wood choir I ever expect to look upon — 
 designed by Raphael and executed by Stefano da Bergamo. 
 The subject of each stall is different, and the inimitable 
 grace and exquisite fancy of the designer seemed to be 
 inexhaustible. 
 
 ' ' On our way home we visited the Church of St. Dominic, 
 one of the largest in the city. When we entered we found 
 a crowd of people there listening to a sermon on the rosary. 
 A great altar was erected in the center of the church, and 
 on a high pedestal behind it stood a large statue of the 
 Blessed Virgin — dressed up in beautiful silk and gold — 
 with a rich girdle around her waist, whilst in her right 
 hand she upheld her divine Son. I think I spoke to you 
 before of the devotion of the Italians to the Madonna — it is 
 something wonderful, and puzzles not only Protestants 
 visiting the country — but even good Catholics. If you 
 venture to say a word against the Madonna, they fire up 
 and defend her just as though she were their own earthly 
 mother. On Wednesday morning at half-past four we 
 said adieu to Perugia." 
 
 "Palazzo Americano, Grotta Ferrata, 
 "October 14, 1882. 
 
 "We arrived at Assisi station about half -past five on 
 Wednesday morning, the feast of St. Francis, and the 
 
In Rome 47 
 
 seventh centenary of his death, and an hour's walk brought 
 us to this old historic town. Having secured rooms we 
 breakfasted and then proceeded to the great church of St. 
 Francis, where Pontifical Mass was celebrated. The church 
 of St. Francis — attached to a very large monastery of the 
 same name, and which may be styled the mother house of 
 the Franciscans — is a fine mezzo-Gothic mezzo-Roman 
 structure. One thing it is remarkable for is that there 
 are three churches one built on top of the other and 
 which offer a grand and singular appearance to one coming 
 toward the town. In the lowest or subterranean church 
 is the tomb of St. Francis — a large marble mausoleum 
 containing the rough travertine blocks of the original 
 tomb — at which I had the pleasure of receiving Holy 
 Communion and of serving Mass. The second church 
 may be styled the church, inasmuch as in it Mass is daily 
 celebrated and all the feste are held. Its walls and 
 ceilings are covered with beautiful frescoes, representing 
 events in the life of Our Lord, Our Lady, and St. Francis. 
 The great church, which may be called the third story, is a 
 plain but still very imposing piece of Gothic architecture 
 and, besides numerous frescoes, contains some fine stained 
 glass windows. The High Mass was celebrated by 
 Cardinal Parocchi and the church was crowded. Our 
 parish priest (from Rome) who is Secretary-general of 
 the order brought us into the sanctuary, and seated us on 
 the side altar steps; the Propaganda students also were 
 there. The singing was superb, a great portion of it 
 being without organ accompaniment. The chorus singing 
 was the finest I ever heard. There was a panegyric of 
 the saint preached, but the noise and murmuring in the 
 church was so great and the acoustic properties of the 
 building so poor, that it was impossible to understand a 
 word of the sermon. We visited the tomb of St. Clare in a 
 church which bears her name and the Cathedral of St. 
 
4^ Father Tom 
 
 Rtifino — in front of which stands the new statue of St. 
 Francis, the latest work of the great sculptor Dupre. It is 
 much admired by art critics. In the convent of St. Dami- 
 ano are preserved many relics of St. Clare, amongst others 
 being the monstrance in which the Blessed Sacrament was 
 kept and which St. Clare used when she repulsed the 
 Saracens who were scaling the walls of the convent — at 
 the sight of the Blessed Sacrament they fell back defeated 
 and confused. The central piazza of the city was filled 
 with people buying and selling. Three bands of mudc 
 served to enliven them — and make the time pass. At one 
 end of the square was a woman playing a duet on a bass- 
 drum and a pair of cymbals — and inviting all to come and 
 see the great wonder of the age — live Indians fighting with 
 live bears. All the principal streets were filled with lamps 
 and festoons and at night presented a fine appearance. 
 They had a great display of fireworks in the upper part of 
 the town. I was shaved by an Italian barber and Lord 
 deliver me from ever being obliged to be shaved by an 
 Italian or any other man again. They scrape away with a 
 dull razor for twenty minutes, hacking you to pieces, then 
 they bring over a basin of water, hold it under your chin 
 and wash your face with their hands, and then give you a 
 towel to dry yourself with. Next time I go on an exciur- 
 sion I will carry my own razor, for I could not stand such 
 barbarity again. We left the town of Assisi on Thursday 
 morning, and after an hour's walk we arrived at the 
 station, and fifteen minutes more brought us to the httle 
 town of Santa Maria degli Angeli in which is a large church 
 built over the little Gothic chapel in which St. Francis 
 founded his order, and which chapel is called Portiuncula. 
 A plenary indulgence may be gained on the 2d of August 
 by visiting this chapel and praying for the intention of our 
 Holy Father, the Pope. The rough walls of this old chapel 
 are still standing and the place is held in great veneration 
 
In Rome 49 
 
 by the people. In another part of the church is the room 
 in which St. Francis lived, and on the altar we saw, in a 
 reliquary, the cord which he was accustomed to wear. In 
 the garden they show you a bed of thomless roses similar 
 to the one at Subiaco and they tell the same story of St. 
 Francis which is told of St. Benedict. After dinner we bade 
 good-bye to Assisi and Santa Maria and took the train for 
 Orte. I had a chat with Prince Massimo of Rome whilst 
 waiting for the departure of the train. We arrived at 
 Orte about six o'clock in the evening and there we changed 
 cars for Orvieto. " 
 
 " American College, Rome, 
 "Nov. 5, 1882. 
 
 " My own dearest Grandma! 
 
 "How negligent and ungrateful I have been! At least 
 you must think so. I received your welcome postal 
 order two weeks ago and I send you my heartfelt thanks 
 for it. When I received it we were all confusion in the 
 country packing up and preparing for our return to Rome, 
 so that I could not find time to write to you there. When 
 we came to Rome we were all upset, moving from one part 
 of the house to the other. The next day after our arrival 
 our retreat commenced and for the last ten days I have 
 donenothingbut pray, meditate, and think, knowing that if 
 a thing is worth while doing at all it is worth while doing 
 well. I abstained from everything that might distract 
 me during the last ten days and, as a consequence, it is only 
 now you are receiving a response in answer to your gift, 
 which was just the same as a good letter though if the 
 truth must be told I would far prefer to receive even a 
 few lines in your own handwriting once more during my 
 stay in Rome. My time is getting shorter and shorter 
 and the nearer it comes to an end the more do I feel my 
 heart cling to you and all those at home who love me so 
 much ; the more do I dread lest I may never again see you 
 
50 Father Tom 
 
 and the harder do I pray to the Sacred Heart of Jesus to 
 spare you till my return. Many have written to me 
 congratulating me on my successes but I feel confident 
 before God that nothing is due to myself, for my talents 
 are by no means brilliant, but that I owe it all to the 
 prayers offered up for me by you and all those who have 
 my success at heart. 'Beati qui non expectant quoniam 
 non disappointabuntur ' is a seminary joke but a true 
 saying. Do not expect much from me for you will not get 
 much, and I know my abilities far better than those about 
 me. Nor is it out of humility I say all this but because 
 I know it to be the truth. I will have those masses said 
 for you next week if I can get permission to go out in town. 
 I want you to say a special prayer for my intention from 
 now imtil Christmas and let your prayers be directed 
 especially to the Sacred Heart and the Holy Ghost. Ask 
 Uncle also to make a memento for this same intention 
 as it is of the greatest importance and after Christmas 
 I will tell you if my petition has been answered. " 
 
 " American College, Rome, 
 "Jan. 7, 1883. 
 
 "You have heard no doubt of my elevation to the 
 subdeaconate and I am sure, if you understand thoroughly 
 what the taking of this order implies, you must know how 
 happy I feel and rejoice with me in what I may call my 
 marriage, for I am wedded for life and carry 'wife ' (brevi- 
 ary) under my arm just like an old parish priest. I find 
 the greatest pleasure in the recitation of the divine office 
 and this new duty makes the time go by faster than ever. 
 I was on ceremonies as subdeacon yesterday in the church 
 attached to the convent of the Sacred Heart at solemn 
 Benediction, and I need not say how much I wished my 
 beloved mother could have been there to see me. As 
 the time draws nearer an end I long more and more to see 
 
In Rome 51 
 
 you all again, and frequently in my dreams I am at home 
 once more and am heartily welcomed by those to whom 
 'my heart untraveled ever fondly turns.' By the way 
 I have a relative here, a very distant cousin by marriage, 
 but a cousin for all that. His name is Tom Lynch and 
 my granduncle was married to his grandaunt. He was 
 exceedingly homesick and I am training him, however, 
 into that holy indifference and hard heartedness so char- 
 acteristic of Roman students and priests and before long 
 he will almost have forgotten that he ever had a home. " 
 
 " American College, Rome, 
 " March 26, 1883. 
 
 "The time is coming nearer and nearer and you must 
 redouble your prayers. I think of you always diiring Mass, 
 during my visits to the Blessed Sacrament, and to all the 
 shrines of the saints and my prayers are always for the 
 same intention. As Sister Marguerite said in her letter to 
 me, 'Surely God cannot refuse to grant such earnest and 
 faithful petitions.' For our Lord Himself has told us: 
 'If you ask the Father anything in My name He will give 
 it to you,' and again 'Ask and you shall receive.' 
 
 "To-day I visited St. Peter's and listened to the grand 
 singing of the vespers and at the end of it I was permitted 
 to look upon the numberless relics of the church, amongst 
 which was a large portion of the true cross, part of the cord 
 of St. Joseph, some of the Blessed Virgin's hair, and the 
 true veil of Veronica on which our blessed Lord left the 
 print of His sacred face. Oh, how rich and holy a place is 
 Rome and how privileged I am to be here. " 
 
 "American College, Rome, 
 "March 25, 1883. 
 
 " Easter Sunday. 
 
 "We have just passed through decidedly the coldest 
 winter I have spent in Rome. All the fountains through- 
 
52 Father Tom 
 
 out the city were frozen ajid we had snow several times — 
 just enough to whiten the dry ground. On Thursday 
 afternoon it was too cold to go to the ViUas so we went to 
 the Great Stove, and what is this you will ask ? WeU, it is 
 nothing less than St. Peter's — for its walls are so thick that 
 it retains the same temperature all the year round, so that 
 in winter when the air outside is freezing cold St. Peter's is 
 warm and pleasant and in the summer when wax would 
 almost melt outside St. Peter's is delightfully cool. It 
 seems a curious use to put St. Peter's to, does it not, to go 
 there to warm yourself. We christened it 'The Stove.' 
 On Good Friday, I ascended the Scala Sancta or Holy 
 Stairs on my knees to gain the indulgence. This is the 
 same stairs which our Lord ascended and descended in 
 Pilate's house and on Good Friday it is crowded with 
 people. Protestants stand there and look on with pity 
 and contempt at the poor ignorant idolaters (?) as they 
 perform this penace, but many who come to laugh remain 
 to pray and go away edified. " 
 
 " American College, Rome, 
 "May 21, 1883. 
 
 " 'Dominus Vobiscum' — 'The Lord be with you' — 
 seems a very simple thing to say and yet it was only last 
 Saturday that I said it for the first time with the power 
 and the right to say it in the name of the church. Satur- 
 day, May 19th, was another happy day for me — ^for on this 
 day I was made a member of the hierarchy of the church 
 by being ordained deacon. The reception of this order did 
 not make as sensible an impression on me as did that of 
 subdeaconship — because after all, that was the deciding 
 step of my life. 
 
 "Nevertheless it was with feelings of great joy that I 
 felt the hand of the venerable Cardinal pressed upon my 
 head, and heard him say — 'Accipe Spiritimi Sancttim — ad 
 
IN ROME 
 
 FROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN IN ROME, NOV. 21, 1878 
 
In Rome 53 
 
 robar et ad resistendum diabolo et tentationibus ejus 
 in Nomine Domini. ' But I will pass over this, as like- 
 wise the giving of the power to sing the gospel, preach, 
 baptize, the imposing of the stole and dalmatic, and I will 
 bring you in spirit to our little church that same evening. 
 The students are all assembled for May devotions, the 
 organ is softly playing, and all eyes are cast upon a young 
 deacon, vested in surplice and stole, who ascends the 
 altar steps. With trembling hands he spreads a linen 
 corporal upon the altar, with a key he opens the taber- 
 nacle; and then with a heart which he almost hears 
 beating with emotion, and, at the thought of his own 
 unworthiness to be allowed such a privilege, he takes 
 the Blessed Sacrament (enclosed in the lunula) in his 
 hands, places it in the monstrance, and elevates it to 
 the throne prepared for it. If you were there your happi- 
 ness would, doubtless, exceed his, but his was very great. 
 I told you in another letter of the powers a deacon receives, 
 so let this suffice. Now but one step remains to be taken — 
 the grandest step of all — and please God it will take place 
 on June 7, 1884 — a little over a year from now. 
 
 ' ' I had the pleasure of serving the first Mass of my dear 
 friends Father Crowley yesterday and that of Father 
 Curry this morning. They both said Mass at the tomb of 
 the apostles in St. Peter's. " 
 
 "American College, Rome, 
 "July 30, 1883. 
 
 "You know how my time is employed and that 'I must 
 be about my father's business.' My time is short now. 
 A few months more and I hope to be in the midst of hard 
 work; hence the necessity of my acquiring all the learning 
 and piety possible to be better prepared for so hazardous 
 an imdertaking as that of taking charge of the spiritual 
 welfare of those far older and maybe wiser than myself. 
 
54 Father Tom 
 
 But with God's grace we can move mountains and every- 
 thing is rendered easy. It is a lucky thing for me that I 
 have Uncle at home; for his example will be ever a constant 
 reminder to me of what a true priest should be and aided 
 by his advice, as well as by the example and advice of my 
 other reverend uncles, I have no fear but that I will get 
 along. We depart for the country to-morrow there to take 
 our long needed rest and to get ready for our last six 
 months on the home stretch. About a month ago I had 
 the happiness of attending a theological disputation in the 
 Vatican and of looking at the Pope for three hours. You 
 never tire looking at him and his every motion was 
 watched, whether he smiled or looked serious, took snuff, 
 crossed his legs, or asked the time. When all was over he 
 congratulated the participants and gave them gold medals. 
 He also spoke for a few minutes in Latin and then gave all 
 present the apostolic benediction. Crowds rushed around 
 him vainly endeavoring to kiss his ring, but the guards 
 drove them back so we had to be content to look upon 
 him. 
 
 "The feast of Sts. Peter and Paul is Rome's greatest 
 holiday. The peasants for miles around make pilgrim- 
 ages ; soldiers and priests, monks and students, princes and 
 plebeians, mingle in the crowd. The statue of St. Peter is 
 decked out "with the several vestments, a gold tiara is 
 placed on his head and a ring on his finger. The cardinal 
 arch-priest of the Basilica sings the vespers, and the people 
 watch for the well-known words of the hymn, 'O Felix 
 Roma, ' ' O happy Rome, who is the happy possessor of 
 two such glorious martyrs, ' and it is like a foretaste of 
 heaven to hear that grand chorus of several hundred 
 voices and the peals from two grand organs echo through 
 the arches. 
 
 We push aside the heavy curtains and pass out through 
 the grand vestibule, and when we reach the open air we 
 
In Rome 55 
 
 hear on all sides the sweet bells ringing out the Angelus, for 
 in Rome, the Angelus is always rung at sunset, from hun- 
 dreds of churches and convents, and the melodious sounds 
 bring back to our minds the words of the poet which so 
 beautifully expresses the feeling of the pilgrim in Rome, 
 which makes us feel that Rome is the city of the soul, 
 because it is by excellence the city of the Mother of God. " 
 
 "American College, Rome, 
 
 "December 8, 1883. 
 
 "A merry, merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to 
 each and every one of you ! For the sixth and last time 
 do I send you this joyful greeting from the Eternal City, 
 filled with the delicious hope that this time next year I shall 
 be with you and salute you cceur-d-asur heart to heart, 
 and hand to hand. How quickly the time flies by! Six 
 Christmases in Rome ! It seems impossible, but as I said 
 once before we count by years here and not by days. The 
 time has come for me, however, when I can no longer count 
 the years, for now only six months are left, six long months ! 
 God's blessing be with you all during this happy season 
 and grant you speedy answer to your prayers. 
 
 "Tom Lynch and I served Archbishop Corrigan's Mass 
 every morning last week and had several pleasant chats 
 with him. He is a very aimable person and a perfect 
 gentleman. To-day he will pontificate at High Mass and 
 I will be his deacon and at vespers I will sing Cherubini's 
 Ave Maria. The bishops are nearly through their work 
 now and most of them will start for home in a few days. 
 They are feasted and entertained on all sides and have 
 cardinals, dukes, princes, and such people calHng on them 
 from morning till night. 
 
 "I defended a thesis on the Eucharist in Sacraments class 
 the other day and had for my opponent nothing less than 
 a live Chinee named Kin, a regular 'MeHcan man." 
 
56 Father Tom 
 
 "American College, Rome, 
 "February i6, 1884. 
 
 "Time is flying faster and faster every day and I have 
 yet a great deal to do. Lent is near at hand and I will 
 not be able to do much studying after Easter, for then 
 I must begin to learn ceremonies and make my purchases. 
 I am glad you give such encouraging news of Grandma's 
 health. Oh ! you must try hard to keep her alive till my 
 return. It would take away half of the pleasure of my 
 return home if I had to visit New Rochelle and find the 
 old room vacant. Surely, absence makes the heart grow 
 fonder, and the longer the absence and the greater the 
 distance from the object beloved, the fonder does the heart 
 become. Poor Grandma ! She knows better than anyone 
 how I long to see her and embrace her before she dies, and 
 I feel confident that her faith and her desires will preserve 
 her till my return. June 7th will be the day of my ordin- 
 ation, but I cannot tell precisely as yet when I can start 
 for home or when I will arrive. This will all depend on our 
 new Rector whosoever he may be. I suppose you heard of 
 the sad death of Monsignor Hostelot our late Rector. He 
 was sick with pernicious fever, pneumonia, and pleurisy all 
 January and died of paralysis of the heart on February ist. 
 I suppose none of my relations at all will be here for my 
 ordination. I thought Uncle would come but he tells me 
 it is almost certain he will not. I need not say how anx- 
 iously I look forward to the happy day, and not one day 
 alone, but I think of the day of my first High Mass in New 
 Rochelle, when I will have my Uncle assisting me, and my 
 own brothers serving the Mass, and Father and Mother 
 and Grandma and all present in the church to receive 
 my blessing." 
 
 " American College, Rome, 
 "May 10, 1884. 
 
 "Poor darling Grandma is gone and I can do nothing 
 
 but weep and pray for the happy repose of her soul. The 
 
In Rome 57 
 
 cablegram which arrived last night at eleven p.m. was 
 handed to me at breakfast this morning, and I knew with- 
 out breaking the seal what was contained therein. ' Grand- 
 ma rested in peace. ' It is only beside the grave of a dead 
 friend that we know how much we loved him and though 
 I knew all along that my heart loved Grandma after Father 
 and Mother still it was not until the cruel blow was struck 
 that I felt the deep undsang love, which is stronger than 
 death, fill my heart and give itself expression in my tears. 
 My heartfelt sjmipathy of course is with all of you, but 
 especially with those to whom she was bound by stronger 
 ties than those of grandmother, for she was mother to 
 Papa, to Uncle, and to Auntie, with them therefore do I 
 first condole and offer them consolation in their grief by 
 presenting to them, as I just now did to Uncle, the con- 
 sideration of her truly saintly life ; and not least amongst 
 the actions of her life, for which you should feel thankful, 
 is her having been the instrument made use of by God 
 in making known to me my vocation and in making me 
 persevere in it. It was under her care in New Rochelle 
 during so many years of my childhood that I first received 
 that earnest desire to be a priest and a firm piupose, if it 
 was God's will, to be one. This was the prayer of her life, 
 and but for her constant prayer and watchfulness, I doubt 
 if I would have persevered. My constant prayer was 
 that she might live to see me ordained, but God in His all- 
 wise Providence has decreed otherwise. His holy will 
 be done. I was well prepared for the sad news by your 
 letters ever since last summer, and I was hoping against 
 hope, for though Uncle's letters and Father's were cheerful 
 and gave me courage, the others could not conceal the truth 
 from me. I remarked in my letter to Uncle her having 
 died within the octave of the feast of St. Joseph to whom 
 she was so devoted. She died likewise in the month of 
 Mary and on a Friday, the day consecrated to the Sacred 
 
58 Father Tom 
 
 Heart, so she was certainly favored by Jesus, Mary, and 
 Joseph as to the time of her death. Another thing is that 
 the day before her death we celebrated the feast of St. 
 Michael the Archangel whom the church tells us has the 
 charge of conducting the souls of the just before the Judge. 
 But I feel sure she is in heaven and is happy in the enjoy- 
 ment of her God, that God whom she always served so 
 lovingly and so faithfully, and from her peaceful home she 
 will look down on us and pray for us that we may imitate 
 her in her practice of virtue and may meet her in heaven, 
 there I trust she will see me a priest forever. Her month's 
 mind will be celebrated at the tomb of the apostles in St. 
 Peter's on Jime 9th by her loving but most unworthy 
 grandson." 
 
 The long looked for day at length arrived, and on 
 June 7, 1884, in the church of St. John Lateran, Thomas 
 Patrick McLoughlin was ordained a priest, the Cardinal 
 Vicar of Rome, His Eminence Raphael Cardinal Monaco 
 LaValetta, officiating. Although this was the most event- 
 ful day in his Uf e no record is found in any of his diaries or 
 letters telling of his emotions as he was pronounced to be 
 "a priest forever according to the order of Melchisedec. " 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 YOUNG FATHER TOM 
 
 Leaving Rome on June 19, 1884, full of hope and 
 enthusiastic zeal for his life's work, Father Tom visited 
 some of the principal cities in Italy and Germany. His 
 diary thus simply tells of his first day's travel. 
 
 "After a pleasant ride from ten a.m. to seven p.m. 
 I arrived in Ancona. During a great part of the journey 
 I was alone and consquently had plenty of time to think on 
 the past and picture the probable future. Said my Office 
 on board the train. After a good night's rest at Ancona 
 started on to Loreto. I said Mass in the Holy House of 
 Loreto where 'The word was made flesh,' and I must say I 
 really felt the presence of God in this holy place. I 
 thought of Mary's 'fiat' and my own unworthy 'fiat' 
 which caused the same Son of God to become incarnate 
 once more on the altar. I was happy indeed. After Mass 
 I visited the shrine, kissed the sacred walls, knelt where 
 Mary knelt, said an Ave Maria and prayed for everybody. 
 The marble exterior with its bas-reliefs is beautiful, and I 
 marveled at the grooves marked in the stone by the bare 
 knees of pious pilgrims who came with simple faith to wor- 
 ship at a shrine which, since the fifteenth century, has been 
 hallowed as sacred to our Blessed Lady. The tradition is 
 that the cottage at Nazareth, in which the Holy Family 
 lived, was conveyed from Palestine to Italy by angels and 
 after being in three different places nearby the village of 
 
 59 
 
6o Father Tom 
 
 Loreto, was finally deposited by the angels on the hill on 
 which it now stands. I visited the palace of the Popes 
 now in the hands of the government and then enrolled 
 myself in the association of the Holy House. Have just 
 returned to Ancona. From my window I have a grand 
 view of the Adriatic and am trying to recuperate under the 
 influence of its saline breezes. Rimini ! ' Nella fatal' di 
 Rimini' of course comes into my head and I hum it. 
 To-day is Friday and, if I wish, I may eat meat but I prefer 
 to live 'da buona Catolico, ' and buy cheese. We passed 
 the Republic of San Marino, the only independent country 
 allowed to exist in Italy, and it is tolerated on aocoimt of 
 its antiquity. It has its own money, soldiers, etc., and 
 consists of a small town of about seven thousand souls 
 perched on top of a mountain. " 
 
 In succession. Father Tom visited Bologna, Venice the 
 beautiful, where he said Mass in the church of St. Mark, 
 MUan, Lucerne, Strasbourg, Aix-la-ChapeUe, Brussels, 
 London and then : 
 
 "Old Ireland at last! The sun shone brightly and a 
 stiff westerly breeze blew as we entered the lovely harbor 
 of Kingstown. Ireland, to me, looked charming and it was 
 with delight I set foot on her soil. What a pleasure to be 
 in a truly Catholic country, a country whose love for the 
 true faith can never be excelled. I love dear old Ireland 
 more and more. " 
 
 After leaving Dublin, Father Tom visited his father's 
 native place, Ardee, County Louth, about forty miles 
 north of the capital city. With feelings of tenderest 
 emotion he beheld Shanlis farm and the house in which 
 his beloved grandmother spent her happiest days ; stood in 
 the room in which his father and uncle were bom, roamed 
 the fields o'er which they trod as boys, and walked along 
 by the brook that coursed its way through the farm. With 
 much interest did he look over a little summer-house 
 
Young Father Tom 6i 
 
 which was said, by the present occupant of ShanHs farm, 
 to have been built by his father, and he could not keep 
 back the tears as he slipped one of the stones into his 
 pocket to take back home as a souvenir of the happy, care- 
 free boyhood days of his father of which he never tired 
 telling his children. But let him tell the story: 
 
 "I arrived in Dunleer about three o'clock on the 12th of 
 July and found a car at the station waiting for me. Father 
 Rogers had kindly sent it. A pleasant ride brought me 
 along a fine country road to Ardee. On the way I said 
 httle but thought a great deal. I knew that my father 
 had gone by this same road often and that it would dehght 
 him to ride on it once more. I knew that he had often 
 seen the Mullacurrie tree with its spreading branches which 
 can be seen from all parts of the surroimding coimtry. I 
 knew, likewise, that he had seen the great stone thrown by 
 Finn McCool in the contest of the giants and that he had 
 often, perhaps, attended the races at Mullacurrie. Father 
 Rogers received me very kindly and I went immediately to 
 dinner where I met Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J. I had 
 many pleasant talks and walks with this learned man 
 during my stay in Ardee and enjoyed his simple conver- 
 sation very much. He was in Ardee giving a retreat to 
 the nuns. 
 
 " We drove to Shanlis house, the old McLoughlin home- 
 stead. The stone wall erected by Grandma still exists 
 to prevent the car and horse from tumbling over on the 
 road. Everywhere I went I heard the family, especially 
 Grandma, spoken of with great respect and friendship. 
 They always mentioned Grandma as a most charitable and 
 kind woman and all were very sorry to hear of her death. 
 The old house is much the same as when the family lived 
 there. The old clock still stands in the corner (made 
 by John Parker and formerly belonged to Grandma's uncle 
 Father Heely). The old cupboard still stands there. On 
 
62 Father Tom 
 
 the front of the parlor is the window where John Devin 
 stood answering the Hail Marys for Grandma. The two 
 bedrooms at the end of the house have been made into 
 one and even now they make but one small room. The 
 ' cosey ' still hangs on the wall of the sitting-room. The 
 kitchen fireplace is still the same, the hob and pot hooks, 
 the flitches of bacon are all there just as in the old times. 
 The little dairy at the other end of the house contained 
 several pans of milk and cream. The house is newly 
 thatched and whitewashed. The garden much the same. 
 In the garden I plucked some raspberries and gooseberries 
 and currants. It gave me great pleasure to go through 
 the old house and yet I felt sad when I thought of the days 
 long before when Grandma lived within the walls and made 
 so many hearts happy. 
 
 "Next we started off through Mandestown cross, and 
 on through County Meath to Bogtown where we visited 
 Mr. Matt Sheridan and his family. He is a capital fellow, 
 honest and big-hearted, as sincere a friend to-day to my 
 father as he was on that day years ago when they parted, a 
 day which he says he shall remember till his death. He 
 spoke of him with great affection and kindness and sent 
 all sorts of good wishes to him. The family seems to have 
 been beloved by all who knew them and they all delighted 
 in showing their genuine hospitality to the son of their old 
 friends. I took dinner with ' Matt ' and gave my blessing 
 to all his family and they received it with great devotion 
 (as did likewise Mr. Devin's family). Matt showed me 
 his farm and his horses and gave me three blackthorns 
 to talce home. 
 
 "Another day I took a walk with Father Russell out 
 to the 'Jumping church.' We then visited the beautiful 
 little chapel of Ballapousta with its stained glass windows 
 and beautifully carved altar. I sat in Grandma's old pew 
 in the gallery, the pew now occupied by Phil CaUan, their 
 
Young Father Tom 63 
 
 successor on the farm. Next we went to Mrs. Coleman's 
 at Beltrasna. Coleman is a wealthy judge, I believe, and 
 his family is one of the aristocratic families of Louth. 
 Here again I met the genuine hospitality only on a larger 
 and grander scale, as far as the external show went, but no 
 greater in the spirit with which it was given. Mrs. Cole- 
 man is a charming Irish lady and has a large family of 
 beautiful children, healthy, ruddy, and full of fun. I never 
 heard such silvery laughter as I heard in that house. It 
 was the merriest dinner I was ever at, all sorts of dishes 
 and wines and plenty of music after dinner by Mrs. Cole- 
 man, her sister, and son. I also helped them, though I 
 labored under a cold. 
 
 "We drove to Anagassan strand; the tide was out and 
 the fishermen were at work. We drove up near to the 
 point but did not have time to go to Cradle Rock or Green 
 Bank. Sunday I said Mass in the workhouse and then 
 said the last Mass in Ballapousta for the repose of Grand- 
 ma and Grandpa McLoughlin. 'Tis needless to say I was 
 much affected during the Mass. The people expected a 
 few words but I did not give them. Other days I said 
 Mass in the church of Ardee, which is enlarged and beauti- 
 fied with stone altars and stained glass windows. I shall 
 not soon forget the kindness of Father Rogers and Father 
 Murray nor the receptions I met with from everybody I 
 visited in Ardee, Louth, and Meath." 
 
 After these delightful days in the birthplace of his 
 father, Father Tom, accompanied by the generous and 
 warm-hearted Canon Rogers, parish priest of Ardee, 
 visited Cork and there was received with the same cordi- 
 ality and lavish hospitality by the kinsfolk of his mother. 
 
 "Mr. Dan McS weeny and his good wife were delighted 
 to see me and during my whole stay were as affectionate 
 towards me as my own father and mother could be. I 
 shall never forget their kindness and hospitality, ever 
 
64 Father Tom 
 
 attending to and anticipating my wants. Father Rogers 
 bade me good-bye next day and started for Ardee and the 
 tears came to the eyes of both of us when the train pulled 
 out, for we had learned to esteem each other highly. 
 Walked with Cousin Dan by the old McSweeny mansion 
 where Dr. Patrick McSweeny of Paris fame was bom, and 
 then away out on a cotmtry road where we could see the 
 family graveyard in the distance. Walked past No. i 
 Winthrop Street, the place where mother was bom. It is 
 now a dry goods store. 
 
 "Tralee! To-day I walked up and down the principal 
 streets of Tralee, County Cork, Ireland, and thought that 
 perhaps my mother had often walked up and down the 
 same streets — but wait! Next morning I took the six 
 o'clock train for Listowel, and arrived there about forty 
 minutes later. A walk of fifteen minutes through the 
 town past the Railway Hotel and the bank and the Catho- 
 lic Church in the distance, brought me along the Feale 
 River to the convent which mother attended as a child. 
 It was about seven when I arrived and a very pretty nun 
 admitted me. The chaplain came and said Mass and 
 afterwards I said Mass. It was in the chapel I first felt 
 mother's presence and I imagined her there again. The 
 ntm's choir is finished and the chapel is restored. After 
 breaMast I was told that Mother Augustine, mother's 
 teacher, had been sick for the preceeding five weeks and 
 that consequently I could not see her without leave of the 
 bishop. Mother Gertrude, the present head of the con- 
 vent, was delighted to see me and she spoke so lovingly of 
 Grandma McSweeny and all of her children that I felt 
 lonesome, yet happy. At nine I left by car for Bally- 
 bunion and rode along a straight monotonous road for 
 about eight miles, the Dingle Hills and Magillicuddy's 
 reeks being in view all the while. Arrived in the town of 
 Ballybunion, I walked down to the castle and watched 
 
Young Father Tom 65 
 
 the tide going out. Over against the cliff I saw the caves 
 which in my childhood I had delighted in hearing de- 
 scribed and longed one day to see. I saw them and my 
 heart rejoiced. I saw the little children laughing and play- 
 ing in the sand, running into the caves, shouting and listen- 
 ing to the echo of their own sweet voices. My heart grew 
 sad as I thought of the days gone by and I imagined I saw 
 other little children playing there, 'beautiful little girls' 
 as Mother Gertrude described them, and I thought how 
 sad it was that they should ever be obliged to leave their 
 home and how delighted they would be to revisit these 
 scenes of childhood's happy days, when free from care and 
 not knowing grief or sorrow, they sported gayly on these 
 sands, ran into the caves, shouted in glee and bathed, 
 beautiful, happy, innocent little children. Filled with 
 imaginative memories of the past I walked along the sands 
 and climbed up the rocks, to the top of the cliff, that I might 
 see the mad waves dash against the hard high rocks, satis- 
 fied with making even some slight impression on them in 
 the lapse of centuries. The waves came in and the tide 
 went out just as it did forty years ago, everything was the 
 same except the faces and oh ! how I longed to see them. 
 The day was pleasant and I took a bath in the waters of 
 the Atlantic on the shores of dear old Ballybunion, a spot 
 which has made a deep impression on me, a spot which I 
 shall remember as long as I live. As I walked along the 
 shore and watched the men gathering the seaweed and 
 dillisk from the rocks, I could not help but hum to myself 
 all the time those words of Moore's ' 'Twas that friends the 
 beloved of my bosom were near' (in spirit)." 
 
 Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature improve 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 
 
 "At last a great day has come for me. I am on my 
 
66 Father Tom 
 
 way home! The tender at the quay at Queenstown 
 quickly brought us out to the City of Chester waiting in 
 this beautiful harbor. As the ship sailed slowly out to sea 
 in the lingering twilight I gazed on Ireland, until nearly 
 half -past nine. As I looked for the last time on the green 
 hills of old Erin, I realized what a truly great and glorious 
 country Ireland is, how much her exiled sons and daugh- 
 ters have done to spread the faith of St. Patrick aroimd 
 the world. I knew I had left a big part of my heart 
 behind me on her sainted soil, and I felt proud to be an 
 Irishman's son." 
 
 Arriving in New York on Sunday, August lo, 1884, the 
 young priest had the pleasure of being greeted by his 
 immediate family, and those who had the privilege will 
 never forget the joy that filled their hearts as they knelt 
 and received his first blessing. One of the younger child- 
 ren asked, in amazement, why most of the older ones 
 seemed to be crying and it was explained that tears as 
 often "unbidden start" in extreme joy as in sorrow. His 
 reverend uncle, now old Father Tom, joined the family 
 group and rejoiced with them upon the home-coming of 
 yoimg Father Tom. On the following Sunday he cele- 
 brated High Mass in the Church of the Blessed Sacrament 
 in New RocheUe, the scene of so many happy days. In the 
 large congregation were several of his schoolmates who 
 had studied and played with him as a child. His parents, 
 happily spared to see their highest earthly ambition ful- 
 filled, were present at the Mass and their hearts rejoiced 
 as they beheld their eldest son, now passed from his boy- 
 hood, clothed in sacrificial robes offering up the solemn 
 sacrifice in thanksgiving for his safe arrival home and 
 in return for the prayers of the people of the Blessed 
 Sacrament. And his good mother's eyes were filled with 
 tears as she watched the movements of the white-robed 
 figure at the altar, and realized that the little fair-haired 
 
Young Father Tom 67 
 
 boy she so often held to her bosom was now vested with 
 the power to absolve and sacrifice and was consecrated 
 forever to the service of God. 
 
 At the conclusion of the Mass the young priest addressed 
 the people from the altar and there were few dry eyes in 
 the large congregation as he spoke these touching words : 
 
 Dearly beloved Friends: 
 
 On such an auspicious occasion as the present one, I 
 cannot refrain from saying a few words to you to express 
 to you the delight I feel at finding myself once more in 
 your midst. After six years of a voluntary and happy 
 exile spent in Rome, the city to which every Catholic heart 
 turns, I come back again and find that your friendship for 
 me and your good wishes for my success are the same as if 
 I had been always with you. How much I am attached 
 to New Rochelle you may judge from the fact that it was 
 here I first went to school in old St. Matthew's and learned 
 from holy Hps lessons of piety and wisdom, which formed 
 the foimdation of my after career as collegian and student. 
 It was here at the knees of one whom I trust is now in 
 Heaven that I learned the call of God and resolved to fol- 
 low it. I have followed it and behold the reward. I am 
 back again with you a priest forever. The dream of my 
 life has been realized and your prayers have been answered. 
 
 But I do not intend to preach to you to-day. All that I 
 wish to do is to thank you from my heart for the many 
 kind prayers, public and private, which you offered up to 
 Heaven for me during my absence, but especially during 
 the last few months. Above all do I thank the little 
 children from whose pure lips ascended perfect praise and 
 perfect petition which God could not refuse to hear. 
 
 On some future occasion I hope to be able to speak to 
 you at more length and to tell you all about my life in 
 Rome, and my journey up through the different countries 
 
68 Father Tom 
 
 of Europe. Neither will I forget to teU you of my visit 
 to dear old Ireland, a land for which I bear a love which is 
 not exceeded by that which I bear my native land. 
 
 During my travels I visited many magnificent cathedrals 
 and churches, rich in marbles and precious gems, but I 
 have discovered to-day that it is not the chisel of the artist 
 or the brush of the painter which makes the true living 
 temple of God; it is the presence of a faithful, dutiful, 
 and loving flock, who united to their pastor, form a spirit- 
 ual edifice far more precious in the sight of the Most High, 
 than St. Peter's itself. But your church here is not with- 
 out its architectual beauty, for apart from the valuable 
 copies of the old masters which adorn its walls, it possesses 
 a beautiful altar and is handsomely decorated, and on my 
 right I observe a new marble memorial tablet which teUs 
 you that the church is your own and that just this day a 
 year ago through the noble generosity of a CathoHc lady 
 of the parish, your church was declared free from debt. 
 I feel sure that on this happy anniversary you will not 
 forget to renew and redouble your prayers for her and 
 her family. 
 
 Here I may end, but what return shall I make to 
 you my dear friends for aU your kind prayers and good 
 wishes? 
 
 To-day I have offered up the Holy Sacrifice for you and 
 for your children, for those absent as well as those present, 
 that God may shower down his richest blessings on you 
 aU, and after Mass is over when I have laid aside the 
 vestments, I wiU come out to the altar rail, and to as 
 many of you as may wish my blessmg, I will give it with 
 all my heart. 
 
 This letter, addressed to Canon Rogers, Ardee, written 
 by Father Tom's father gives to the good Irish priest, a 
 short account of the home-coming of the young curate: 
 
Young Father Tom 69 
 
 Words are but empty sounds to express the gratitude of our 
 hearts to the Giver of all good for the happiness He has bestowed 
 on us in sending our darling boy home to us, as we feel and 
 hope and trust, a good and pious priest of God. To you and 
 your good curates, I offer the sincere thanks of an honest father 
 and devoted mother for the extreme kindness you have shown 
 our boy during his sojourn with you. He arrived Sunday the 
 loth, was met at the dock by his two eldest brothers, went to ten 
 o'clock Mass at St. Joseph's, N. Y., and was with us by one 
 o'clock. Of our happy meeting after six long years I can better 
 leave to your imagination. He sang his first Mass in dear 
 New Rochelle. He was assisted by his two uncles, as deacon 
 and sub-deacon, while three of his younger brothers served as 
 altar boys. He addressed the congregation in a few well- 
 chosen words, and there were many tears of joy shed by those 
 who knew him as child, boy, and man. In the afternoon some 
 fifteen or twenty young men called on young Father Tom, they 
 stood in line and he was able to recall everyone of them by name 
 as they had been his classmates in the little village school, and 
 they were perfectly delighted. 
 
 Father Tom was assigned to St. Stephen's in 28th 
 Street, New York, and saw his first service as a priest 
 under Dr. McGlynn. Here, as a part of his duties, he 
 attended the sick in that great city institution, Bellevue 
 Hospital. The many sad sights of physical suffering, 
 sickness, and death witnessed there made a very deep 
 impression upon his character. St. Stephen's, during 
 the pastorate of the beloved Dr. McGlynn, was noted for 
 its superb choir imder the direction of the distinguished 
 organist. Professor Frank G. Dossert, and it was this 
 cultivated musician who discovered the remarkable qual- 
 ity of Father Tom's voice. 
 
 While he was a curate at St. Stephen's [says Mr. Dossert] 
 and I was organist and choir director there, I discovered that 
 he possessed a very beautiful voice by his singing of the Mass 
 
70 Father Tom 
 
 ritual and I advised him to study, which he did. His voice 
 was a pure baritone of extended range. He could sing a low 
 G or a high tenor A. Through proper training he was able 
 to retain the same rich quality of the lower tones up to his 
 highest tone. I taught him not only the sacred songs of his 
 church but also the oratorios of Elijah by Mendelssohn, and 
 Messiah by Handel, many songs by classical composers and 
 many Irish folk songs. He was very musical and if he had 
 chosen the career of a singer he would have become a great 
 artist. 
 
 After a service in St. Stephen's of two years. Father 
 Tom was transferred to St. Patrick's, Newburgh, during 
 the pastorate of Rev. Joseph F. Mooney ; then assigned to 
 the Immaculate Conception, Yonkers, under Rev. Chas. 
 R. Corley, and in 1892 to St. Rose's, Cannon Street, New 
 York, whUe Father McGinley was pastor. In each of 
 these parishes he made warm friends who admired his 
 courteous and unaffected manner, as well as his high 
 appreciation of the dignity of the priestly office. 
 
 During the years of his curacy. Father Tom, in the 
 words of an old parishioner of St. Stephen's, "enjoyed 
 every day he lived." While stationed in New York he 
 rarely missed spending one evening a week with his family 
 and his younger brothers and sisters looked forward with 
 delight to the weekly visits of their big brother. In those 
 days Father Tom sang all the best songs published about 
 that time : Israfel, The Holy City, The Chorister, Will He 
 Come, The Palms, Jerusalem, and Happy Day. And 
 in lighter vein for the amusement of the children Santa 
 Lucia, Funiculi, Funicula, Old Uncle Ned, Nellie Bly, 
 Molly Malone, and The Bold Fisherman. On one of these 
 musical evenings a young lady with a rather pleasing 
 soprano voice sang many selections including Calvary, Good- 
 ly Summer, Good-bye Forever and Eternity and when she 
 had finished Father Tom, by way of complimenting her on 
 
Young Father Tom 71 
 
 her vocal ability said, "Why, Miss Jones you could sing 
 ad infinitum. " With all seriousness and without the sus- 
 picion of a smile, the young lady rephed, "Why really, 
 Father, I don't know it, but if the music is here I will try 
 it." 
 
 His vacation days for some years were spent on Lake 
 George in company with Rev. Dr. Wall, Rev. Father 
 Crowley, his brothers, and some of their friends. What a 
 delightful faculty is the memory! Though a score of 
 years have passed since those halcyon vacation hours 
 spent on beautiful Lake George, many of the pleasant 
 incidents connected with them come flooding back to the 
 mind and can be seen as clearly as though they occurred 
 but yesterday. The feeHngs which these thoughts inspire 
 are fittingly expressed by a line from a song popular in 
 those days. 
 
 "Oh! for one of those hours of gladness 
 Gone, alas like our youth too soon. " 
 
 Many travelers who have visited the Swiss lakes and the 
 famous lakes of Killamey have been lavish in their praise 
 of Lake George. The prettiest part of the lake, where 
 the scenery is most varied, is at the Narrows about midway 
 between Caldwell and Ticonderoga, and it was here in a 
 cozy family hotel that Father Tom spent his vacation 
 days. 'The numerous rock-bound islets covered with 
 verdure add to the beauty of the scene at this point of the 
 lake. Black Mountain towering high into the heavens is 
 an inspiring object of natural beauty. One August even- 
 ing when the moon was arrayed in all her fullness, the 
 guests at the hotels in the vicinity of the Narrows were 
 charmed by hearing on the lake sweet sounds of music. 
 The soft notes of a zither were wafted over the still waters. 
 Boats shot out from quiet nooks, followed in the wake of 
 the singers, and coming nearer a young man with ^.n 
 
72 Father Tom 
 
 exquisite baritone voice was heard finishing the last notes 
 of an evening hymn to the Virgin — A ve SancHssima. This 
 was followed by Alma Redemptoris, See the Paraclete De- 
 cending and Hail, Foamy Ocean Star. And then in succes- 
 sion Santa Lucia, Too Late, Fair Moon to Thee We Sing and 
 Good-Night. The boats followed on in silence, for a time, 
 but at the conclusion of that inspiring ItaHan air Funi- 
 culi, Funicula, light ripples of applause were heard. This 
 was repeated for several evenings and the number of boats 
 increased as the days went by. Father Tom was enthusi- 
 astic about the beauties of Lake George, originally called 
 the Lake of the Blessed Sacrament. ' ' Oh ! how can there 
 be any atheists in the world," he remarked to a group of 
 guests at the hotel one evening, as he beheld the first 
 glimpse of the radiant moon peeping out behind the moun- 
 tains, "with such grand manifestations of God's goodness 
 to men on every side. The thought that has been upper- 
 most in my mind since I came to this sylvan retreat has 
 been: If this be the exquisite beauty of what is called 
 God's footstool, what then must be the svirpassing splen- 
 dor of the place which he has prepared for those who love 
 him." 
 
 One Sunday evening during his stay at Lake George, 
 while an Episcopal clergyman was conducting services 
 in the parlor of the hotel. Father Tom, inspired no doubt 
 by the grandeur of the scene about him, drew together the 
 few Catholics in the place, and suggested that they might 
 hold a vesper service on lovely Paradise Bay. The idea 
 was at once acquiesced in, and in a very few moments the 
 hills surrounding that beautiful sheet of peUucid water 
 resounded with the strains of Ave Maris Stella, Ave Maria, 
 and the Magnificat. The moon shone through the trees 
 on the summit of the mountain, bright stars twinkled 
 in the heavens, the surface of the lake was without a 
 ripple, the flitting rowboats ceased their splashing and all 
 
Young Father Tom 73 
 
 was calm and peaceful. Three yotmg ladies, with sweet 
 soprano voices, sang several of the vesper hymns, a yoting 
 man not of their faith seated in his canoe held a brilliant 
 lantern by the light of which they read the words from 
 their prayer books. Rowboats noiselessly guided into 
 the moonlit bay, stopped at the sound of the solemn music 
 and their occupants listened with respectful reverence 
 to the praises of the Almighty. In a short time fully ten 
 boats were locked together, drifting whither they might, 
 while the resonant voice of the young priest sounded the 
 familiar notes of Salutaris and the Tantum Ergo. The 
 scene was indeed an impressive one and lingered long in 
 the memories of those who were fortunate enough to be 
 participants. 
 
 Other equally delightful vacation days were spent by 
 Father Tom at Blue Mountain Lake in the Adirondacks, 
 at Asbury Park, in Nova Scotia, touring the White 
 Mountains, and at picturesque Cliff Haven, the home of 
 the Catholic Simimer School, where during his course of 
 instructive and entertaining lectures on music, he made a 
 host of friends who enjoyed his genial companionship and 
 the charm of his conversation, -while strolling along the 
 wooded shores of lovely Lake Champlain. 
 
 "Kent Lodge, Wolfville, N. S. 
 
 ' ' The Land of Evangeline ! I have just been walking up 
 and down in the shade of an apple orchard reading aloud 
 Longfellow's exquisite poem, and my imagination soon 
 filled the scene with the sturdy Acadian farmers, and 
 the matrons and maids with their 'white caps and kirt- 
 les. ' Strange that the poet who had never set foot in 
 Nova Scotia could so beautifully and accurately describe 
 this charming scenery. Around Grand Pre the forest 
 primeval has forever departed^ — if it ever existed in these 
 lowly marsh lands. But on the hillsides and mountains 
 
74 Father Tom 
 
 surrounding the Basin of Minas the pines and the hemlocks 
 still murmur a sweet responsive echo of 'I love you' to the 
 gentle wooing of the winds. The apple trees and the pear 
 trees are still heavily laden with their ruddy fruit that 
 seem all aglow in the sunshine. That other race 'with 
 other customs and language' that succeeded the Acadian 
 farmers still cultivates the rich soil and brings forth abvm- 
 dant crops of hay and of barley and wheat. These good 
 people, even these, seem to have inherited somewhat the 
 honesty of the children of Normandie, for at Kent Lodge we 
 have had the most delicious coffee and hot muffins and 
 fresh milk and raspberries from the vine direct, and melt- 
 ing shad from the Basin of Minas, and delicate mutton 
 chops and the freshest of milk and eggs and butter, and 
 large airy rooms ; and all for the paltry stim of — but let us 
 not mention filthy lucre in the land of sweet poesie. Our 
 trip so far has been one grand sweet song, like the lost 
 chord, and its echoes will continue haunting us for many 
 a long day. The vision of Evangeline walking home from 
 confession through the village has become a living reality 
 to me, and the fragrance of Longfellow's verses seems to 
 pervade the atmosphere, 'but there is here 'no ceasing of 
 exquisite music' for her presence is felt everywhere, the 
 remembrance of a pure, beautiful woman. " 
 
 " Profile House, N. H. 
 
 "On our way to the 'Flume' to-day I looked intently up 
 at the 'Old Man in the Mountain' and said, 'Well, Old 
 Fellow, what on earth have you been thinking of during 
 the last few thousand years ? ' To my surprise in deep, 
 sepulchral tones, which strange to say, were heard by me 
 alone, the interrogator, he answered and said : ' I have been 
 thinking of only one thing, namely, that there is a God, the 
 creator of all things and that puny man is the only creature 
 that is fool enough to deny his existence. I have been 
 
Young Father Tom 75 
 
 gazing on these eternal hills for centuries and I have 
 heard the birds warble from sunrise to dusk, and the bur- 
 den of their song was, "There is a God." I have watched 
 the trout and the perches and the scaly denizens of the 
 streamlet and lake jump with delight out of the water, and 
 their every movement proclaimed the divinity. I have 
 heard the wild animals of the forest roar and their cry was 
 ' ' Praise God from whom all blessings flow. ' ' The winds 
 from the North and South came and shook and bent the tall 
 cedars and the stately pines ; the zephjrrs from the South 
 and West came and the leaves of the forest murmured in 
 response to their gentle wooing and the same old story was 
 always repeated, "There is a God" ; sometimes it was in the 
 open diapason, with nature's organ stops all uniting in one 
 grand chorus; at other times the gentle vox humana of 
 nature whispering words of adoration and love. Nay, have 
 I not seen great rocks and boulders loosened by the drip- 
 ping waters go tumbling down the mountain side and mak- 
 ing the hillsides re-echo with their loud reverberations and 
 even they, poor inanimate rocks, joined their voices in the 
 general chorus. Year after year have I watched the 
 billows of wild flowers and blades of grass flourish and fade, 
 all for His glory. No other eyes but His hath looked upon 
 them for they bloom for Him alone. This, all this, have I 
 been thinking of for thousands of years, long before Moses 
 spoke to the people of the One who said, ' ' I am He who 
 Am," long before the Pharaohs of Egypt worshiped the 
 vegetables of the field, and did not look up to the stars or 
 the moon or the sun and say, ' ' Who made all these things ? ' ' 
 For ages have I watched sun, moon, and stars revolving in 
 their cycled orbs and have said, "Oh, man why art thou so 
 Wind that thou must be of the earth earthy? Shake 
 off this sleep ! Awake, arise, bow down in adoration with 
 all nature, and confess 'How wonderful are Thy works. Oh 
 God! The heavens are telling Thy glory always and 
 
76 Father Tom 
 
 the firmament and all the creatures of the universe pro- 
 claim Thy power and dominion, Be Thou blest for ever and 
 ever. " " Thus spoke the old man in the mountain and 
 then was silent. When I would have him speak more the 
 voice was silent and I learned the lesson that nature has 
 only one message for man and that is: There is a God, 
 kneel and adore and thank Him for His gifts." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 TRANSFIGURATION 
 
 At that time, Jesus taketh unto Him Peter and James, and 
 John his brother, and bringeth them up into a high mountain 
 apart : and he was transfigured before them. And his face did 
 shine as the sun, and his garments became white as snow. 
 (St. Matthew xvii, 1-9.) 
 
 "Amongst all the pictures presented to us in the pages 
 of Holy Writ, there is none more sublime, none more sur- 
 passingly grand, none more dazzling in its beauty, than 
 this picture of the Transfiguration of Christ, as recorded 
 in to-day's gospel. We look in vain through the books of 
 the Old Testament for so wonderful a vision of celestial 
 glory — God veiled His face when He spoke to Adam, to 
 Abraham, and to Moses; and all things happened to them 
 in figure; — but when the reality was come, when the Son 
 of the Most High God assumed to Himself our poor frail 
 human nature, the veil was cast aside, and man was per- 
 mitted to" look upon the face of his Maker. What a won- 
 derful mystery does the life of Christ present to us, even 
 from an historical standpoint. He goes about almost 
 thirty-three years, and the Jews, although they reverence 
 Him as a good man and a prophet, yet little dream that 
 He is the Son of their living Jehovah. Peter, inspired by 
 the Holy Ghost, it is true, has proclaimed Him 'the Christ, 
 the Son of the living God, ' and there are two other fol- 
 lowers, dear friends of His, whose faith is firm as the rock 
 
 77 
 
78 Father Tom 
 
 itself. To them, the friends of His bosom, so strong in 
 the faith, so ardent in their love, to Peter, to James, and to 
 John, does He say, — 'Come with me awhile to Mt. Tabor, 
 and you shall receive the reward of your faith; and you 
 shall testify to the nations of the earth, that I am indeed 
 the Son of God, as you believed me. ' 
 
 "When they had reached the summit of the mountain 
 which overlooks Jerusalem, they knelt in prayer, when 
 Jesus was suddenly raised above them, and the glory of 
 His divinity made manifest . His face did shine as the sun, 
 and His garments became white as the driven snow; and 
 Moses and Elias also appeared, and spoke with Him con- 
 cerning His passion and death. Ah! this was not the 
 'Man of Sorrows !' This was not one acquainted with grief. 
 This was not one hounded as a malefactor, bruised for our 
 sins, wounded for our iniquities ! Here we are not called 
 to contemplate the scandal and the ignominy of the cross, 
 or the thorn-crowned head, or the five bleeding wounds! 
 No! Here was Jesus Christ, the Son of the Mighty God, 
 — bright as the sun, beautiful as the moon, terrible as an 
 army set in battle array. Here is the Judge of the living 
 and the dead, as He will appear on the last reckoning day. 
 The Apostles fall fiat upon the ground, for very fear, and 
 the voice of the Father comes from out the cloud (symbol 
 of the Holy Spirit), 'This is My beloved Son; hear ye 
 Him. ' And looking up, after all is over, they behold only 
 Jesus, their friend. " 
 
 These were the opening sentences of an eloquent sermon 
 on the Transfiguration preached by Father Tom while a 
 curate in Yonkers. Little did he imagine then that, in a 
 few short years, his first experience as a pastor would be in 
 charge of the old parish bearing that sacred name, situated 
 in what had become the center of the Chinese district in 
 New York. Transfiguration at Mott and Park streets is 
 the fourth oldest parish in the diocese of New York, hay- 
 
"'SSI****' 
 
 FATHER TOM AT YONKEBS IN 1890 
 
Transfiguration 79 
 
 ing been founded by the saintly Father Felix Varela in 
 1827. 
 
 Father Varela, who was Vicar-General of the Diocese 
 in 1837, was noted for his many sacrifices in aid of the 
 poor and afflicted. Going South for the benefit of his 
 health in 1853 he died in that year at St. Augustine, 
 Florida. The students of the University of Havana, 
 where he had taught for some years, begged for the body 
 of their beloved teacher, but the people of St. Augustine 
 refused to give it up, for they said : " A saint has died in our 
 midst and we shall keep his body here to bring God's 
 blessing upon us. " 
 
 Other pastors of Transfiguration, following in succes- 
 sion to Father Varela were Father McClellan, Father 
 John McEvoy, Father Thomas Treanor, Father Hasson, 
 Father McGean and Father Thomas Lynch. 
 
 It was a heavy burden for an inexperienced young man, 
 not yet ten years ordained, to undertake the responsibility 
 of an old city parish, but when, in 1894, Archbishop Corri- 
 gan designated Father Tom as pastor of old Transfigura- 
 tion, he valiantly and cheerfully took up the work. It was 
 only after he had been in the place for a month that he 
 realized what his responsibilities were, for not only did he 
 have the care of fifteen hundred English-speaking people, 
 but also of about six thousand Italians; nay more, he 
 learned that he had to shoulder a large floating debt, 
 and still larger mortgage. He at once began to retrench 
 expenses. It caused no little dissatisfaction to see the 
 clock on the church stopped, and complaints came in from 
 all quarters, but his answer was always, "Gentlemen, that 
 clock is a luxury, and costs sixty dollars a year to run; 
 give me the sixty dollars and I shall pay to have it run for 
 a year, but take that money from our slender resources, 
 no ! I will not. " Next the paid singers had to go as being 
 a luxury he could not afford, and this must have been a 
 
8o Father Tom 
 
 sore trial, as Father Tom was passionately fond of good 
 music. Then the school was changed from a grammar 
 school to a primary school, and the teachers reduced to 
 three, so that the running expenses were reduced nearly 
 two thousand, seven hundred dollars a year. 
 
 Notwithstanding this, he foresaw that with a steadily 
 decreasing congregation, it would scarcely be possible to 
 run the church. Suddenly the thought, like an inspiration 
 came to him; "Why not sell No. 30 Mott Street, an 
 unhealthy residence, and live in the school. " No sooner 
 said than done. Within two weeks it was sold for twenty 
 thousand dollars cash. In about three months the front 
 half of the school was transformed into one of the snuggest 
 little rectories in the city, at an astonishingly low figure. 
 The young men of White Street generously came to Father 
 Tom's assistance, and by an entertainment netted the 
 church funds $634.00. Then came the grand fair in the 
 fall, which netted the sum of $3,539. 
 
 Father Tom now felt that something ought to be done 
 for the old church, which was the gloomiest and darkest in 
 all New York, so that ordinarily gas had to be burned to 
 enable one to read the Missal on the altar. The new 
 rector figured that he would spend $2,500 to renovate 
 the church inside and out. The broken windows were all 
 repaired throughout the church, the antiquated pew doors 
 removed, and the whole church neatly decorated in light 
 colors, including the side altars and statues and the organ. 
 The painting over the high altar was cleaned and the 
 garments of Our Saviour restored to their original white. 
 The upper galleries were removed and abundance of sun- 
 light beamed into the church. The marble altar, which 
 had turned a yellowish tint, emerged from its chemical 
 bath with a snowy whiteness that delighted everyone who 
 saw it. A new set of stations of the cross were solemnly 
 blessed and hung upon the walls; new stained-glass win- 
 
Transfiguration 8i 
 
 dows were placed in the transoms and in the swing doors 
 in memory of the following deceased: Catherine Britt, 
 John McLoughlin, Patrick J. O'Brien, Margaret Shaugh- 
 nessy, Annie Halk, J. and P. O'Brien, Josie Teany, Denis 
 Connelly, Mary Ann Murphy, Holy Name Society, and 
 C. Y. M. A. of White Street. 
 
 Father Tom now set himself to work to provide a suit- 
 able meeting-place for the Literary Society which he had 
 established the previous winter. A partition was erected 
 in the large room which served as a sacristy, and the floor 
 covered with a bright pattern linoleum. Some valuable 
 paintings which were found among the rubbish in the 
 upper gallery were brought down, cleaned, and hung up 
 to adorn the pretty meeting-room. 
 
 While attending to the material wants of the church 
 and the social instinct, by means of lectures and festivals 
 and delightful ' ' Tea Parties ' ' of pleasant memories. Father 
 Tom was ever mindful that the first duty of the priest is to 
 look after the spiritual welfare of his flock. An Advent 
 course of sermons by the pastor, as well as a Lenten course 
 was attended by strangers from different parts of the city. 
 From the first of October till the end of May, the Rosary 
 was recited every evening in the church at 8 o'clock. The 
 Sacred Heart League, the Rosary Society, the Holy Name 
 Society, the Children of Mary, the Immaculate Heart 
 Sodality, the Junior Branch of the Holy Name, the Angels' 
 Society, and the Boys' St. Aloysius Sodality all flourished 
 under the genial guidance of the new pastor. Congre- 
 gational singing, a hobby of the pastor, was heard in its 
 perfection at all the evening services and occasionally at 
 the ten o'clock Mass on Sundays. 
 
 The Sunday School, for those children who had been 
 sent away at the age of twelve, as well as for children whose 
 parents by choice sent them to the Public Schools, was a 
 model which any Sunday School in the Diocese might copy. 
 
82 Father Tom 
 
 It was placed in charge of Rev. Wm. J. Donohue, Father 
 Tom's assistant. Father Donohue visited the Bayard 
 Street School, and asked some Catholic teachers if they 
 would volunteer to take charge of the Cathechism classes. 
 With the true spirit of Christian love and kindliness, they 
 answered : ' ' Father, it would be a pleasure and an honor 
 to aid in so noble a work. " There was a Sunday session 
 immediately after the ten o'clock Mass and a week-day 
 session, at half past three on Tuesdays, and both sessions 
 under the directions of competent teachers. In addition 
 to all this there were three Masses in the basement for 
 the Italians of the parish each Sunday. Nearly twelve 
 hundred of the sons of sunny Italy attended these ser- 
 vices. Father Tom did his best to make the two races co- 
 alesce, by compelling the Italians to attend services in the 
 upper church, but found that far better results could be 
 obtained by having the two people worship separately. 
 While pastor of Transfiguration, Father Tom took an 
 interest in bettering the conditions of the people of his 
 district and was foremost in urging improvements which 
 might eliminate some of the pest holes in the neighbor- 
 hood of his church. A plan was devised to widen Pell 
 Street from the Bowery to Mott Street and extend it 
 through Mott Street to Mulberry Bend Park, and Father 
 Tom was one of the energetic workers to have it carried 
 into effect. Appearing before the President of the 
 Borough as one of a committee of citizens urging this 
 improvement he said : 
 
 In all New York there is no more disreputable street than 
 Pell Street, no more forbidding cow-path than Doyers Street. 
 On Sundays when the Orientals congregate there to do their 
 shopping these streets are impassable. If you want to waUc 
 through there you run against the greasy coats of the Chinese 
 and are stifled by the fumes of tobacco, opium, and Chinese 
 punk whose sickening odor clings to the atmosphere day and 
 
Transfiguration 83 
 
 night. I come here as a pastor of a large congregation. I 
 live in the midst of Chinatown. I am kept awake nights in the 
 summer time by the noise of the Mongolians, by their vile 
 music, by their unauthorized midnight processions, and by the 
 shrill laughter of their white women. I know whereof I speak 
 when I call Pell and Doyers streets a cesspool of immorality 
 and enough to bring a curse on the whole community. The 
 priests know of the iniquity of this section, for it is they who in 
 the middle of the night are called upon to attend the death bed 
 and administer the last rites to the poor fallen white women 
 who dwell in these dens of infamy. Finely dressed ladies are 
 brought through this section night after night to be shown how 
 low some of their less fortunate sisters have fallen and actually 
 pay these girls "to hit the pipe" and show how opium is 
 smoked. 
 
 Father Tom dearly loved the little ones of his flock, and 
 was deeply interested in everything that concerned the 
 welfare of even the humblest child of the tenements who 
 came under his care. How pathetic is his story of "The 
 Passing Away of Tony Gimp" written for The Catholic 
 Youth, in 1899. 
 
 Tony was a great favorite with all the bootblacks of China- 
 town. He had lost one leg, and of course the boys had to dis- 
 tinguish him from all the other Tonys by nicknaming him 
 "Gimp." He was more or less the envy of the other boys, 
 because his mother had received two thousand dollars from 
 the cable-car company for the leg he had lost, and he was looked 
 upon as a hero. His shoe-box was studded with brass nails, 
 and on each side of the foot rest shone forth resplendent the 
 letters " T. G." With great patience he had managed to carve 
 on the side of his box, "Hurray for Dewey ! " By the way, ye 
 who have the good luck to dwell on Murray Hill, let one who 
 has dwelt among the lowly tell you, that compared to the 
 bootblacks of New York, your sense of patriotism is as a grease 
 candle to an electric light. For many nights after the Battle 
 of Manila, these little patriots, drumming on old tin pans and 
 
84 Father Tom 
 
 carrying small American flags, marched up and down Mott 
 Street roaring at the tops of their voices: "When you hear 
 them bells begin to ring"; and when they came to that awe- 
 inspiring verse, "There'll be a hot time in the old town to- 
 to-night," you would think that San Juan Hill was in sight, 
 and that they were ready for a rush. It is down in the slums 
 among the poor that one learns to know what love of country 
 means. I venture to say that one hundred per cent, more 
 money, proportionately, is spent on fireworks, bunting, and 
 flags by the children of the tenements on national celebrations 
 than by their more favored brethren. 
 
 But, where was I ? Oh, yes ! Tony's box. My first experi- 
 ence with the lad, I cannot forget. I was talking to the parish 
 priest of Chinatown one Saturday afternoon, while he took a 
 breath of air between confessions, and Tony knelt and polished 
 the priest's shoes, and as he blew his warm breath on the shoe, 
 the padre said: 
 
 "What's your name?" 
 
 "Tony." 
 
 "Tony what?" 
 
 "Jus' Tony; dat's all." 
 
 "Well, but have you no other name? What's your father's 
 name?" 
 
 "My fada; I ain't got no fada; he died already out in It'ly. " 
 
 "Is your mother alive?" 
 
 "Bet she is; she licks me every night, 'fi doan bring home de 
 mon . 
 
 A pause, during which he blows harder on the shoe, and 
 rubs more energetically with the brush. 
 
 "Say, Tony, why do you blow your breath on the shoe?" 
 
 "Makes 'em shine. Boss, das wha' fo'." 
 
 " Do you know anything else but shining shoes ? ' 
 
 "Me? No, 'cceptn' shoot crap." 
 
 "Come, now, Tony, you know your prayers, don't you; the 
 Our Father and the Ave Maria? " 
 
 "Naw! when I wus outin It'ly I know dem, but now I fergit 
 ev'yting. " 
 
 "Have you made your first confession?" 
 
Transfiguration 85 
 
 " Naw ! I never made nuthin' . ' ' 
 
 "Well, will you promise to come to Sunday School every 
 Sunday if I prepare you for your first Communion and Con- 
 firmation?" 
 
 " Yeh. " Then after reflecting : "Say, Boss, d'ye give clothes 
 and shoes for goin' to Sunday School same as at Five Poin'?" 
 
 "No," answered the padre ; "we are too poor, but I will let you 
 shine my shoes regularly if you will come to Sunday School. " 
 
 The offer was tempting, and the Padre had made a partial 
 convert out of the young heathen. He prepared him for his 
 first confession and Communion and the lad became a "runner' 
 for the Christian Doctrine classes. A ' ' runner ' ' ? Yes, for Gimp 
 could run as fast with his one leg and crutch as many boys who 
 were sound of limb, and it was marvelous to see him skip along. 
 
 But, alas ! winter came, and poor Tony caught cold, got very 
 sick and had to remain home in bed. His face seemed to grow 
 paler and paler as the snow began to fall, until finally about the 
 middle of January, the doctor said there was no hope. Tony 
 lay easily on his little bed when the padre called to see him for 
 the last time, and his dark eyes brightened as he reached out 
 his fevered hand to grasp that of the man who had reached 
 his heart. A priest naturally warms to the wayward and 
 neglected ones of his flock, and the poor little chap had wound 
 himself so 'roimd the padre's heart, that he felt his eyes grow 
 dim as he saw the end approaching 
 
 "Is it snowin', Fada?" 
 
 "Yes, Tony, it is snowing hard. " 
 
 "Is de fellas out wid de'er sleighs on the hill?" (Referring 
 to Park Street Hill.) 
 
 "Yes, Tony, they are all out there having great fun. " 
 
 " I wish't I was dere. Is Little Billy got de red sleigh dat he 
 had las' year?" 
 
 "Yes, Tony, he can beat everything on the hill." 
 
 "Oh, say! I remember las' year he lemme have the sleigh 
 for fipens for fifteen minutes, and I went scootin' like everyting 
 down hill, wen' awful fas' from Mott downa Mulberry, and way 
 into the Park. " 
 
 Poor Tony! His excited look showed that he pictured to 
 
86 Father Tom 
 
 himself the hill, and the snow, and the swift-flying sled, and the 
 curving round into the Park at the foot of the hill. Poor little 
 Tony! he was going down hill "awful fast, "and was breathing 
 very distressfully; the snow was slipping away, and he would 
 soon be around the curve into the Park. 
 
 "Say, Fada, d'ye tink I'll get better?" 
 
 All the padre could manage to say was: " I hope so, Tony, " 
 But he caught the priest's look and quickly said : 
 
 "Fada, d'ye tink I'll git back me other leg when I gits t' 
 Heaven?" 
 
 " Yes, Tony, you will." 
 
 ' ' Well , I'm glad o ' dat . Say ! Is Jimmy de Kid out yet ? ' ' 
 
 Jimmy the Kid had been sentenced to one year in the 
 Reformatory for stealing some lead pipe, and his time was 
 about up, so the padre replied : "Yes, Jimmy arrived home this 
 morning. " 
 
 "I'd like to see him again. Jimmy is a good feller, Fada; 
 he didn't steal dat lead pipe. I knowed the fella did it, but I 
 didn't want to tell on de fella, 'cause his mother wus sick, an' 
 she didn't have no one to woik fur her but him. Jimmy is 
 alright, he is. Say! Jimmy kin have my box wid all de brass 
 nails on it, see! and no one else gits it, see?" This was said 
 with great determination. Poor Tony's last will and testament. 
 
 "All right, Tony. " The boy's voice came more faintly and 
 the breathing more difficult, and he closed his eyes, tired out 
 with speaking. The shouts of his playmates on the hill roused 
 him for an instant, and with an effort he said : "I wish't I wus 
 out wid de fellas on de hill." The padre grasped his little 
 hand as he lay back on his pillow, and the boy's mind still 
 clinging to what was one of the brightest pictures of his life, 
 murmured very slowly: "Will you lend me your sleigh, Billy, 
 uUy jus' once, I won't ask ye no more? I ully jus' want 
 to go down de hill once more, 'round de curve into the Park, 
 and then I'll go home. " The padre felt a slight tremor in the 
 boy's hand. He had grasped the little sleigh. Those who 
 knelt around the bed saw a look of delight in the wan face, a 
 look of triumph. He had sped down the hill, 'round the curve 
 and into the Park. He had gone Home ! 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN DARKEST CHINATOWN 
 
 Eight years of Father Tom's life as a pastor were spent 
 in Mott Street, but the warmth of his manner and the 
 sunshine of his smile won him friends even among his 
 nearest neighbors the "heathen Chinee." Some of his 
 experiences with his celestial friends, as well as his parish 
 work among the unfortunates who found their way into 
 this wretched quarter of the city, are graphically described 
 in an article from his pen, published in Donahue's Magazine 
 in November, 1897, entitled "In Darkest Chinatown." 
 
 "September 2, 1896, was a great day in Chinatown — 
 Mott, Pell, and Doyers streets, just northwest of Chatham 
 Square Junction, which forms the heart of the Celestial 
 Empire in the Eastern States, were gay with yellow flags 
 on which were painted fierce looking blue dragons, whose 
 sole occupation seemed a vain attempt to devour large 
 balls of bright carmine. A sickening odor of Fourth of 
 July punk and Chinese incense pervaded the atmosphere 
 on all sides. Gaudy devices in brilliant colors hung from 
 the front of every building, and mottoes in wonderful tea- 
 box characters told the almond-eyed washermen who read 
 them that Li Hung Chang was great, and that the flowery 
 Kingdom was the greatest place on the footstool. 
 
 "The streets which had been thronged with sightseers 
 for three days, were now almost impassable. A host of 
 the 'Finest' had hard work to make a passageway when 
 
 87 
 
88 Father Tom 
 
 His Highness of the Yellow Jacket and Peacock Feather 
 finally put in an appearance, like the passing of a meteor, so 
 quickly did he come and go. But when he had gone shall 
 we ever forget the scene that followed ? From every bal- 
 cony were hung out strings of giant firecrackers numbering 
 ten thousand to every string and for nearly an hour was 
 heard such noise as cannot be rivaled save on a battle- 
 field. The air soon became so filled with smoke that it 
 was impossible to see the houses on the opposite side of the 
 street. The dread of being set on fire scattered the vast 
 throngs in all directions, but they departed only to return 
 again when the battle was over, and then they boldly 
 walked through the forbidding looking Pell and Doyers 
 streets and seemed to enjoy being jostled by the motley 
 crowd of Mongolians, Negroes, and 'gents' of the 'Chuck 
 Connors ' type, who swarmed on all sides. 
 
 "Some of the more daring climbed cautiously the dirt 
 beladen stairs, and with their kid gloves or their bare 
 palms helped to polish the greasy banisters. Experience 
 on sick call work soon teaches one that banisters in the 
 tenement houses of the slums seem to say, 'Noli me 
 tangere,' and if warning be disregarded, one is likely to 
 leave the building more like a centipede than a biped. 
 
 "What brought our visitors up the dark stairways was 
 to see the Chinese restaurant and partake of the dainty 
 dishes. These restaurants by the way are not famous 
 as a rule for their cleanliness. 
 
 "Some time ago I had occasion to complain to the police 
 because the celestials disturbed our Sunday service by set- 
 ting off an immense bunch of firecrackers just at the most 
 solemn part of the Mass. Up to this time we had been 
 very good neighbors, but this was really imposing upon 
 Christian good nature and forbearance. The following 
 evening a delegation of the merchants waited on me and 
 their spokesman, with bared head and drooping pigtail, 
 
In Darkest Chinatown 89 
 
 and a very sad face said, 'Fodda! Alio Chinamen belly 
 soUy fo' makee much noise yes'dy. Now him wantee 
 you come t'moUa ni'. Havee big din, glan' spied, ewat- 
 ing ni', see?' I could not resist these overtures and so 
 found myself the following evening at a table in a Pell 
 Street restaurant with about seven Chinamen around me, 
 only one of whom could speak English. It may astonish 
 some readers to learn that the Chinese custom in regard to 
 the order of dishes at a dinner is just the reverse of ours ; 
 they begin with the fruits and dainties and sweetmeats 
 and end with the soup. Many things indeed I partook of 
 on faith fearing that if I asked too many questions I might 
 hear in reply the ominous word ' Lats ' which would cer- 
 tainly spoil my appetite for the rest of the dinner. I may 
 observe, parenthetically, that the Chinese mouth is so 
 formed that they cannot pronounce the letter 'R' and 
 hence they substitute ' L ' for it whenever it occurs. 
 
 "Among the delicious viands of which we partook that 
 evening was a dish of 'shark's fins. ' The dish is simply 
 what the name implies, the gristly tough fin of the shark 
 is boiled until it becomes gelatinous and is served up with 
 sauce. Then came 'bird's nest soup' which is not alto- 
 gether what the name implies and it is just as well not to 
 know, till after you have partaken of it, what is its true 
 inwardness. After finishing your alloted portion, you can 
 at your leisure consult your encyclopedia and say with 
 post factum knowledge and courage, 'Well I kept it down 
 anyway. ' Another dish that puzzled me sorely was 
 called 'duck's feet. ' I asked my neighbor what it meant 
 and he naively explained, 'You know yellow foot of duck? 
 Well 'Melican man tlow way in ash-bal like him no good, 
 see ? Well Chinaman takee foots and boil him hard seben 
 eight hou make him soft and belly nice. ' 
 
 "Gentle reader, I could not partake of what followed 
 but I had made up my mind to see the whole thing through 
 
'>o Father Tom 
 
 so I sipped my rice wine which is a pleasant though rather 
 insidious decoction that is served all through the dinner in 
 glasses the size of a very small egg cup. Let me say it to 
 the credit of my host that although the bowl containing 
 the viands was always placed in the middle of the table; 
 although my companions at the table always made a dive 
 at the choicest bits in the bowl with their chopsticks, and 
 although they all licked their chopsticks clean between 
 courses, yet did he endeavor to get me a dainty bit with 
 his chopsticks from a portion of the dish which was not yet 
 touched by the eager guests. One more delicacy I cannot 
 refrain from mentioning was called ' sea cucumber. ' I 
 have never eaten boiled rubber boots to my knowledge, 
 but I am sure they would make a good substitute for sea 
 cucumbers. Enough said. 
 
 "At the end of the meal they served us with the half of 
 a nut like in shape to a brazil nut, but rather bitter. My 
 host warned me in a laughing manner not to eat it as it 
 would make me feel 'dlunk allee samee 'Melican man.' 
 Evidently a powerful narcotic. Then came the orchestral 
 music in my honor. I have the pleasure of listening to 
 like entrancing strains every night in the summer up to 
 one or two o'clock in the morning, but then it is half a 
 block away. Now I was in a little restaurant right up 
 close to the band. Shades of Apollo defend us ! What a 
 noise they made. I remember years ago that the good 
 Father Banti, S.J., gave us a retreat in the Seminary and 
 tried to describe for us the music of hell. I have often 
 thought, since my exile in this land of the heathen, that he 
 would be greatly aided in his meditations could he but be 
 present at a Chinese banquet and hear the musicians play 
 with expression in his honor. The instruments consisted 
 of two immense cymbals, the sound of which recalled the 
 pleasant melodies of a boiler factory; two shrill wooden 
 instruments with brass funnels that resembled in sound 
 
In Darkest Chinatown 91 
 
 those piercing horns used by the Swiss mountaineers and 
 which sound not at all badly at a distance of two miles, 
 and last but not least were two violins shaped like banjos 
 which when played upon made one think that the soul of 
 the cat still remained in the strings and was clamoring 
 plaintively for release. Imagine if you can the combin- 
 ation and yet, I dare say, beautiful sounds must be some- 
 thing relative after all, for I have seen a crowd of these 
 Pagans, not having the price of admission, stand outside 
 of the theater in Doyers street and with mute attention 
 and with expression of rapture depicted on their counten- 
 ances, listen to these horrible discords. 
 
 ' ' On the occasion of the visit of Li Hung Chang to our 
 little colony a year ago, amongst the thousands who 
 came to see the sights was a Protestant clergyman from a 
 neighboring city, who on the following Sunday gave to his 
 highly intelligent congregation a glowing account of his 
 visit, a report of which appeared in the New York Herald. 
 It seems he climbed up five flights of stairs and found 
 himself in a Joss house. There he saw a large shrine — 
 which by the way, the priest on duty did not wish me to 
 photograph — in front of which was a beautifully-carved 
 altar table of wood covered with gold leaf. Back of this 
 was a grotesque looking idol that to our way of thinking 
 would seem to represent the devil rather than any good 
 deity, while on the table itself were large candlesticks, 
 silver dragons, and an immense pot of sand in which the 
 sticks of punk were burned. Large and vari-colored lan- 
 terns hung on all sides and inscriptions in Chinese char- 
 acters from the writings of Confucius covered the walls. 
 A priest of the temple cordially offered our friend a cup of 
 tea, as is customary, which he respectfully declined. The 
 minister noted that the Chinese have very peculiar ways 
 of showing reverence for their sanctuaries, namely they sit 
 around and smoke and chat and have a quiet little game ; 
 
92 Father Tom 
 
 nay right back of the shrine is a room with two bamboo 
 couches where the priests of the temple and their friends 
 'hit the pipe ' to pass away the time. As he watched the 
 movements of those present he saw the door open and a 
 devout worshiper entered and spoke to the priest handing 
 him a twenty-five cent piece. The guardian of the temple 
 bit it and found it genuine sixteen to one material; then 
 taking a large glass jar filled with little bamboo sticks he 
 took out one and gave it to the devotee who immediately 
 extracted from the end of it a square of red paper and he 
 thrust it into one of his mysterious pockets. His next 
 move, was to light a piece of punk or incense and place it 
 to bum in the sand pot on the altar. This done he knelt 
 on the floor and muttered his prayers, bowing down and 
 touching the ground with his forehead several times. 
 This is the Chinese service, a go as you please worship, 
 having no fixed hours, nor fixed days, nor fixed ritual, nor 
 fixed liturgy. Wait, however, till you hear what was 
 on that paper and you may have a better insight into 
 'John's' belief. The paper contained his fortune for the 
 week, i.e., what were to be his lucky and unlucky days 
 what his lucky numbers in gambling, on what days to buy 
 and sell, etc. 
 
 "Our clerical friend looking out from the balcony of Mr. 
 Joss, was struck with astonishment when he saw directly 
 across the street a large old-fashioned church of blue stone 
 with sandstone trimmings, surmounted by a pagoda-like 
 tower, on top of which was a white cross resting on a golden 
 ball. The sight of the cross nettled him, for sad to say 
 there are still among the sects calling themselves Chris- 
 tains, men who are enemies of the Cross of Christ, and who 
 hate the sight of that sacred emblem, especially when they 
 see it on a church dedicated to the worship of that same 
 Christ. Worse still, in a niche below the tower he saw 
 a graven image of that same beloved Christ, with His arms 
 
In Darkest Chinatown 93 
 
 extended as though He were sajdng: 'Other sheep I have 
 that are not of this fold, them also must I bring in, that 
 there may be one fold and one shepherd. ' To the left 
 of the church he saw a large red brick building which had 
 all the appearance of a school-house, with the stars and 
 stripes floating from a pole in front of it. Even this sight 
 did not inspire him with kindly feelings, for he said 'How 
 dare they ? What right have they to hoist Old Glory over 
 what must be a Romish school-house?' He descended 
 and entered the church and it happened to be at the solemn 
 moment of the consecration. He saw the people bowed 
 down in adoration; there was perfect stillness broken 
 only by the sound of the little bell, at each stroke of which 
 he imagined he saw a more profound movement of the 
 head and he even noticed some poor benighted Italians 
 kneeling in the rear of the church striking their breasts, 
 and doubtless saying with the publican ' God be merciful 
 to me a sinner. ' He listened to a simple homily on the 
 gospel, told not in loftiness of speech, but in simple lan- 
 guage such as the Master used, easy of comprehension by 
 the multitude, and he left the church only to ascend his 
 pulpit the following Sunday and try to create a sensation 
 by saying, 'I visited the Joss house in Mott Street last 
 week and saw the pagans bowed down before their idols 
 and offering their incense. Right opposite, I entered a 
 so-called Christian Temple and there found a lot of Papist 
 idolaters bowed down in like manner before their idols of 
 wood and stone. ' As to this man's belief, if he has any, 
 the Lord direct him aright and bring him to a knowledge 
 of the truth ; but we must thank him for one thing, namely 
 that he called attention to the church which caused no 
 end of comment during the Li Hung Chang Jubilee — the 
 Church of the Transfiguration. 
 
 "How came this church in the heart of Chinatown? 
 Who worship here ? What good does it accomplish for the 
 
94 Father Tom 
 
 conversion of the heathen ? Let me briefly reply to some 
 of these questions. The parish of the Transfiguration 
 was founded seventy years ago this fall by the saintly 
 Father Varela, one of the most remarkable men of our 
 time and country, as may be seen in his biography by 
 Jose Rodriquez. He was born in Havana, but on account 
 of the revolution some years afterwards, he was banished 
 from his native land and came to New York to continue 
 the work so dear to his heart, the salvation of souls. In a 
 short time he had mastered the English language and was 
 appointed to found a new parish downtown. Starting 
 first in Ann street, he afterwards, for want of accommo- 
 dations, left that place for Chambers street, which place 
 also becoming too small for the congregation, was sold by 
 Archbishop Hughes for seventy-five thousand dollars, 
 and with this money all the debts were paid and the pre- 
 sent church in Mott street was purchased. This stately 
 edifice erected in 1815 by the Moravian Brethren was 
 bought from the Episcopalians in 1853 for thirty thousand 
 dollars and was dedicated as a Catholic Church the same 
 year. Father Varela passed to his reward honored as a 
 saint and his body rests in a moss covered neglected vault 
 in St. Augustine, as near as he could get to his beloved 
 Island of Cuba; but the work so happily begun by him was 
 continued under zealous clergy ever since. In 1856, our 
 schools were founded and at one time they numbered over 
 fourteen hundred children. In those days from i860 to 
 1880 Transfiguration schools were the rivals of De La 
 Salle, a Christian Brothers' well known Academy in 
 Second street, and many are the noble priests in New 
 York to-day who received their early training within these 
 walls. Not only do the clergy rank among their numbers 
 many old boys of Transfiguration with the honored name 
 of Bishop McDonnell of Brooklyn at their head, but in 
 the lists of the medical, the legal, and the theatrical pro- 
 
'9r» • ^^ 
 
 :wv 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE TRANSFIGURATION, MOTT AND PARK STS. , n. Y. CITY 
 
In Darkest Chinatown 
 
 95 
 
 fessions to-day, we find the names of many prominent men, 
 who love to speak of the good old days when they went to 
 Transfiguration school in Mott street. 
 
 "In 1877, twenty years ago, this parish contained about 
 thirteen thousand Irish CathoHcs. Alas! the changes 
 that twenty years have brought about. First came the 
 Chinese, who gradually usurped all of Pell and Doyers 
 streets, and Mott street from the Bowery to Pell. Then 
 came the Jews, who not satisfied with Baxter street, settled 
 in Mott, Hester, Bayard, and Chrystie streets. Then 
 came the Italians and they drove the Irish from Mulberry 
 and Park streets and took full possession of the "Bend." 
 Last of all came the manufacturers with their big factories 
 and dispersed our people from Elm, Leonard, and Franklin 
 streets so that at the end of twenty years we have in our 
 parish limits scarcely eight hundred English-speaking 
 people, and about one hundred and fifty children in our 
 little primary school. The Italians, except those of the 
 better class, will not amalgamate with the English- 
 speaking in church services, and hence we have three 
 masses in the basement chapel for them every Sunday 
 which are attended by over one thousand of Madonna's 
 chosen people. 
 
 "Our upstairs congregation is the 'pusillus grex' that 
 is held together by bonds of love and sympathy for the 
 dear old church where they and their parents have wor- 
 shiped for so many years, and they propose to stand by 
 it tni it is obliged to close its doors forever. This part of 
 my charge is of little interest to the outside world, except 
 to say of them that it would be difficult to find a more 
 devoted flock or one more generous according to their 
 slender means or one more respectful to their priests than 
 the people of Transfiguration parish. 
 
 ' ' But what of the Italians ? What of the Jews ? What 
 of the Chinese? I would stretch out this article beyond 
 
96 Father Tom 
 
 the limits of the magazine if I attempted to give an 
 account of the quaint doings and sayings of the first 
 mentioned interesting portion of the flock, so must 
 needs dismiss the topic. As to the other two peoples 
 I might say with St. Paul : 'Quid mihi de iis qui foris 
 sunt judicare?' However, I must say in regard to the 
 children of the Jews and Chinese, that the priests of 
 this church are as well known to them as their own 
 fathers and mothers and many of them salute us just 
 like Christian children. 
 
 "We have in our school, several little half-breed Chinese 
 who are very bright and who will make good Catholics 
 some day, but as to their parents whether Christian or 
 Pagan, there is I fear, little hope. 'John ' comes here for 
 the sole object of making money, and he has the poorest 
 idea of the spiritual world that it is possible for a human 
 being to have. I do not wonder that an eminent traveler 
 has gone so far as to say that he considers the Chinese as 
 a nation of atheists, for they acknowledge no Supreme 
 Being and simply pay a superstitious cult to their dead 
 heroes. As for making Christians of them I think it would 
 require an angel from heaven in every case to bring them 
 to a knowledge of God and the Trinity. 
 
 ' ' But, some will tell me that the Protestant missionaries 
 are making converts among them. I shall not venture to 
 give a full solution of the question; I shall not venture 
 to say that none of their conversions are real; but I will 
 say that the Protestant missions have lots of money to 
 start with and I will say that most of their converts still 
 carry the queue, which is a sign that they still hold to their 
 own superstitions. A little incident that came under my 
 observation some time ago may serve to explain to those 
 who can read between the lines the reason of some of the 
 conversions. We held a bazaar for the benefit of our 
 church to which several of the Chinese merchants sent 
 
In Darkest Chinatown 97 
 
 fancy articles, boxes of tea, etc., and not a few came in 
 person and spent their money freely. The pretty girls 
 soon gathered around the Celestials, to relieve them of 
 their surplus cash, as is customary at fairs, when the most 
 modest and retiring young lady in the parish suddenly 
 acquires a savoirfaire we never dreamed of her possessing. 
 The visitors were so pleased that two of them came to me 
 and said 'Fodda, me and my fien wanbee Cattlic alle 
 samee you.' I answered that I was delighted to hear it, but 
 said that a course of instructions in the catechism would be 
 necessary prior to their admittance in the church. 'Oh, ' 
 he answered, 'dat all lightee me an' my fien we likee 
 instluction, we bin at Plotestant Sunna' School befo' see? ' 
 'Very well,' I replied, 'if you come on next Sunday at 
 two o'clock I shall give you your first lesson and after that 
 two lessons a week. I shall take full charge of you my- 
 self. ' With that the countenances of the two would-be 
 neophytes fell and even their eyes seemed to droop as one 
 of them quaintly asked with a vain attempt at concealing 
 his disappointment; 'Fodda, you no havee de young ladi 
 teacha Chinamen 'n you Sunna' School ? ' ' No, ' I an- 
 swered, 'the Chinamen I reserve to myself. ' I have not 
 seen either of these gentlemen since, but I have learned 
 that in one of the Bible classes of the neighborhood, the 
 attendance is so small that they have individual teachers 
 for the Chinese pupils and the newspapers occasionally 
 regale us with the result of such a system of imparting 
 the truths of Christianity. 
 
 "I have said there is little hope for the parents, whether 
 Christian or pagan ; I must modify this remark, for some of 
 our sick-call work is among those who are the mothers of 
 these children. No one but the CathoHc priest really 
 knows how the 'other half lives. In his quest for souls 
 that may be won back to God he gains a saddening knowl- 
 edge of the depths of human misery. I have had varied 
 
98 Father Tom 
 
 experiences in hospital work in Bellevue but Bellevue 
 could never reveal the death-bed scenes of the pest holes 
 of Chinatown. Poor, unfortunate Magdalens! It would 
 seem that she after whom they are named must be ever 
 pleading at the foot of the Eternal Crucifix in their behalf 
 for they rarely die without the priest, and if Catholics, 
 they invariably call for him at the end. Surely the ven- 
 geance of a just God on the men who first robbed them 
 of that pearl without price, must be as terrible in its 
 severity as is His wondrous mercy infinite to the poor 
 forsaken victims. 
 
 "Ashamed am I to confess that a few of those unfortu- 
 nates are Catholics. What brought them to these lowest 
 depths of infamy? It was generally the brutality of a 
 drunken father or mother, the neglect of a drunken hus- 
 band or the false hearted lying promises of a guUty lover. 
 
 "In a short time after their advent to the sltims, these 
 girls, some of them only seventeen years of age, develop, 
 in addition to the inherited whisky habit, a love of 
 opium, and they become what is termed ' dope fiends. ' 
 There may be some chance to reform a drunkard, but once 
 a woman acquires the opium or morphine habit it is almost 
 impossible to make her mend her ways. I remember being 
 sent for in the dead of night to administer the sacraments 
 to such a one. Chinatown was all ablaze even at that hour 
 — half past one in the morning. Three white girls saw me 
 approach, the word was passed along, a scampering of feet 
 was heard, and at each landing I heard a slamming of 
 doors tni I arrived on the fourth floor when two of the 
 white slaves, not besotted, not bloated, but with all the 
 grace of ladies, said gently : ' This way. Father, ' and led 
 me to a small bed-room ten feet square. On a little table 
 in the corner was a small statue of the Blessed Virgin while 
 not far distant hung a picture of Confucius, surely an 
 unhappy combination! On the bed lay a girl of about 
 
In Darkest Chinatown 99 
 
 twenty once doubtless a beauty, but now a skeleton of skin 
 and bone and who had apparently but about twenty-four 
 hours to live. I shall never forget how those great black 
 eyes glared at me out of the sunken sockets as she tried 
 to speak to me. She spoke with gasping breath choked 
 with phlegm; but even then, helped by a Chinaman, she 
 was endeavoring to suck in the nauseating fumes of the 
 ' dope ' from a large bamboo pipe which he was lighting for 
 her at a small lamp. I begged of her to go to a hospital 
 and leave this abode of vice but it was useless. After a 
 long appeal, first kind words and then by threats, I finally 
 told her I could not give her the sacraments unless she 
 promised to leave the place. 'Well,' said she, 'I leave 
 myself in the hands of God. I hope He will be more merci- 
 ful to me than you. I know He will forgive me. ' I went 
 home with the awful eyes following me. I looked up my 
 theology on the point, and the voice still rang in my ears. 
 'I know He will forgive me,' and I returned, saying 
 'Sacraments are to help man, I'll give her the benefit 
 of the doubt provided she makes certain promises.' She 
 made them, God rest her soul ! Perhaps it was the pre- 
 sence of that little image that saved her. 
 
 "Among the well-known celebrities of Chinatown are Li 
 Chung, better known as 'Boston' and Lee Yen com- 
 monly known as 'Irish' who is a stockholder in a restau- 
 rant. Both of these men are especially friendly to the 
 church in a financial way, and the latter even expressed a 
 wish to join our communion. Gambling seems to form 
 the chief amusement of the Chinese and they are at it 
 from morning till night and from night till morning. 
 When we lived in 30 Mott street, which was the home of 
 the Transfiguration priests for thirty years, often was I 
 kept awake for hours by the slamming of the big ivory 
 dominoes on the tables of the gaming houses. A raid 
 takes place on a Sunday afternoon, twenty Chinamen are 
 
100 Father Tom 
 
 carried off to the police station and immediately twenty 
 others rush upstairs to continue the game. So cute are 
 they that with some games they do not go near the 
 'resort ' at all. A select committee composed of members 
 from hostile factions meet, play the game and then hang a 
 signal out of the window which informs the street who are 
 the lucky ones at 'fantan.' The zeal displayed by the 
 police in trying to close the gambling shops which do no 
 harm to any save to the Chinese themselves, is as amusing 
 to me as the story of Don Quixote and the windmills. 
 
 "Can anything be done to check the great evil in this 
 section? Nothing except strict legislation to keep it 
 within bounds and to prevent its becoming a public nui- 
 sance. We are told, however, that the New York Rescue 
 Band are doing noble work with their mission in Doyer 
 street by holding services from ten until twelve, and some- 
 times later every night. Far be it from me to say that 
 they are not in good faith. Neither can I say that they 
 are not accomplishing good in their own way, but where, 
 in fact are the women to go, when they leave there at 
 12.15 A.M. ? The night mission does not solve the problem. 
 What then? Patience! Old Transfiguration stands in 
 Chinatown with its cross pointing upwards, always in their 
 sight. The statue of the Saviour is ever in front of the 
 building with outstretched arms welcoming the penitent 
 Magdalen. Perhaps she has often passed the church and 
 seeing the reproachful saddened look on the statue has said 
 'Have patience with me and I will pay thee all.' The 
 Confessional is the only means of bringing these unfortu- 
 nates to a true knowledge of their state, and making them 
 turn from sinners into saints ; but alas ! these priestly con- 
 solations come but rarely in Chinatown, except when 
 death knocks at the door. 
 
 "In passing through Mott street one is astonished at the 
 queer-looking vegetables he sees; odd-looking cucumbers, 
 
In Darkest Chinatown loi 
 
 covered with immense warts, lettuce that would easily 
 pass for celery, curiously shaped potatoes, beans, etc. 
 'John' wants his own vegetables and as a result some 
 Chinese farmers in Long Island are reaping a fortune, by 
 planting seeds of all kinds imported from the Flowery 
 Kingdom. 
 
 "Their weddings are very simple and consist, as far as 
 I can comprehend them, in the groom being presented to 
 the bride, having never met before, of saying 'I'm glad to 
 make your acquaintance,' and of taking a ride around the 
 block in a carriage. Their funerals are more elaborate, 
 for when a Chinaman dies, immediately is heard the bang- 
 bang of the cjnnbals to drive away the evil spirits and 
 the noise is kept up till the body is borne to the under- 
 taker's. There it rests for twenty-four hours and then 
 the immediate relatives and friends of the deceased go 
 in two carriages, playing on those ungodly instruments 
 mentioned previously in this article, and from here to 
 Evergreen Cemetery in Long Island, one of the body-guard 
 continually throws printed slips of paper on the street to 
 divert the attention of the devils both of hell and of New 
 York, and prevent them from following the body. In 
 one of the carriages are two roast fowls, a bottle of rice 
 wine, some preserved ginger and dried fruits, all of which 
 are brought to the cemetery and placed on top of the grave. 
 This is to enable the departed to enjoy a hearty meal 
 before he starts on his long journey to the home of Joss 
 and Confucius. What becomes of the deHcate lunch 
 placed on the grave you may ask? It disappears miracu- 
 lously, so many of the Celestials think ; not so in reality, 
 for it is well known that the workmen in a neighboring 
 factory are in the habit of watching these peculiar funerals 
 and when the mourners have departed, they secure the 
 viands and enjoy a right good feast of these funeral meats. 
 Many wonder why the Chinese persist in wearing the 
 
102 Father Tom 
 
 pigtail. It is because they expect to be hauled up into 
 heaven by that very convenient appendage, and without 
 it, they believe they cannot enter into immortal life. 
 
 "It is not generally known that, besides the various 
 clubs and secret societies that exist among the Mongolians, 
 they have laws and governors of their own and this 
 explains why they so seldom appear in our courts in 
 questions of litigation. The Council Chamber, where the 
 Mayor presides is a model of neatness, the walls being 
 covered with pictures, and the large arrachairs made of 
 beautifully carved dark colored wood. The Mayor was in 
 a bad humor when I called and would not allow me to 
 photograph either himself or the room. 
 
 ' ' Do they ever come to have the babies baptized ? Yes, 
 very frequently and sometimes the principal races of the 
 world are represented at the baptism. For instance, 
 lately when a child was presented for baptism the grand- 
 father was Irish, the grandmother Scotch, the father 
 Chinese, the mother an American, the godfather an 
 Italian, and the godmother a negress. Surely, Europe, 
 Asia, and Africa have come very closely together in this 
 little section of America. 
 
 ' ' To conclude I must say that I find the Chinese, as far 
 as my dealings go with them, shrewd but honest; generous 
 but usually with anticipation of some future return, 
 apparently childlike and bland, but clever diplomatists; 
 clean physically, though looking exactly the opposite; 
 moral — well, just as moral as most of their white brethren 
 and certainly a great deal more so than civilized Christians 
 of the Seeley type. Can anything be done to make them 
 converts to the faith of Christ ? I fear not, under existing 
 circumstances, for in the first place, we do not speak their 
 language, and very few of them have even a limited knowl- 
 edge of EngHsh; secondly, the experiment has been tried 
 in San Francisco and proven a dead failure, and in that 
 
In Darkest Chinatown 103 
 
 instance the missionary spoke Chinese with a very good 
 accent. The Lord has picked out, in His unsearchable 
 ways, some two or three of them in this city, and they are 
 practical Catholics, though not members of this congre- 
 gation. Why then send money to China to support the 
 missionaries? Because they have there the outcast chil- 
 dren and are bringing up a race of stalwart Christians, well 
 imbued from childhood with the principles of our Holy 
 Religion and these in time will become fathers and 
 mothers of an Apostolic race, that will in God's own good 
 time, exert such a wonderful influence over that immense 
 nation of four hundred million souls that through the 
 intercession of the blood of her martjTed children, crying 
 for pity to God the Father, she will come to a knowledge of 
 Christ and of His Church and will be forced to cry out as 
 have other nations that have persecuted those professing 
 Christianity: 'Too late have we known Thee, O Lord, too 
 late have we loved Thee. ' This is our hope for the chil- 
 dren of the Chinese Empire. Meanwhile all we can do for 
 them is to pray earnestly for them as prayed the prophets 
 of old: Thy Kingdom Come. " 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE SINGING PRIEST 
 
 "Oh, the magical power of a song! Whose heart is 
 insensible" to the touching tenderness of that air which 
 mourns the loneliness of the summer's last rose? What 
 soul is not exalted by the strains of Nearer my God to Thee ? 
 On what breast can sorrow sit when the fiddler plays The 
 Bonnie Dundee. What mind is not inspired with a higher 
 and a deeper love of country by the majestic glory of the 
 Star Spangled Banner? What spirit is not fired with 
 martial zeal when the quick step of Garryowen is beaten 
 out with the crash of brass and the thunder of drums? 
 The reason is the simple one that music is expression, 
 yet the expression of instrumental music is not quite defin- 
 ite except to the educated musician. The human voice 
 upraised in song is a necessary supplemental vehicle of 
 perfect musical expression, when the words and the notes 
 are in harmony, which is the unalterable rule in all good 
 vocal composing. I have no hesitation in saying that 
 more souls have been turned to righteousness, or kept 
 steadfast in the path of virtue, by the sweet sway of sacred 
 song than by all the eloquence and fervor expressed in 
 painting the horrors of hell. The effectiveness of a sermon 
 depends not so much on the words spoken as upon the fer- 
 vor and fire and unmistakable earnestness of the speaker. 
 But the hymn, the soul filling hymn! It addresses not 
 the cold reason of men but their emotions. A portion of 
 heaven's joy is revealed to them in the glorious strain, 
 
 104 
 
The Singing Priest 105 
 
 the happy blend of voice and reed ; they feel a communion 
 with the blest. Faith is held firm by this realization, hope 
 blossoms anew and the refining flame of the music burns 
 out of the heart what is sensual and selfish, making room 
 for the third great virtue, abounding charity. To sacred 
 song I would give a wider range of definition than would 
 confine it to church and choir. There is a sacredness, 
 ennobling to her, in the mother's crooning lullaby, a 
 conserving sanctity in the love song of true spiritual affec- 
 tion, a holiness in the battle hymn which nerves men to 
 lay down their lives for God and country. Song will live 
 forever, the greatest force in all nature for the uplifting, 
 the ennobling, the spiritualizing of mankind. " 
 
 These sentiments, expressed by Father Tom in an essay 
 on the magical power of song, are an index of the high pur- 
 pose which inspired him in taking up the study of the sacred 
 songs of Holy Mother Church and the folk songs of many 
 countries and appearing before the public in the r61e of a 
 lecturer and singer. It was with some trepidation , and with 
 a slight misgiving as to the propriety of a priest singing on 
 the stage of a theater or hall, that Father Tom undertook 
 his first musical lecture. Up to that time no Catholic priest 
 had appeared before the public in the manner he set out to 
 do. Blessed, as he felt himself to be, with the gift of a sweet 
 voice, he believed much good might be accomplished in af- 
 fording those outside his immediate congregation an oppor- 
 tunity of listening to the very best in church and secular 
 music rendered by a priest of the true church, whose sole 
 aim was to win souls to God and to teach men that : 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show 
 
 For man's illusion given 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe 
 
 Deceitful shine, deceitful flow 
 There's nothing true but heaven. 
 
io6 Father Tom 
 
 As a boy, Father Tom displayed some talent as a singer 
 of comic songs, but his good mother, who was extremely 
 fond of sacred music, helped to develop his taste along 
 higher lines by teaching him those sweet hymns of the 
 church which he afterwards sang in exquisite fashion, 
 See the Paraclete Descending and Fading Still Fading. 
 It may have been a song his mother used to sing that sug- 
 gested to Father Tom the number of erring souls that 
 might be reached by him as a singer of simple ballads : 
 
 The melodies of many lands ere'while have charmed my ear 
 Yet there's but one among them all that still my heart holds 
 
 dear. 
 I heard it first from lips I loved, its words my tears beguiled 
 It was the song my mother sang when I was but a child. 
 Its words I well remember now, were fraught with precepts 
 
 old 
 And every line a maxim held of far more worth than gold. 
 A lesson 'twas, tho simply taught, that cannot pass away 
 It is my guiding star by night, my comfort in the day. 
 
 A number of programs of Class entertainments at Ford- 
 ham show that Tom McLoughlin frequently sang humor- 
 ous songs, and also sang duets in company with Mr. 
 Austin O'Malley. In Rome he received vocal instruc- 
 tions from Fiorentino the basso, and his letters from the 
 Eternal City frequently told of many delightful musical 
 evenings in which he always took a leading part : 
 
 '■ American College, Rome, 
 " May 21, 1883. 
 
 "Last night we gave an entertainment to the new 
 priests. Bishop Dwenger of Fort Wa)me and Bishop 
 Rogers of Chatham, Ontario, the correspondent of the 
 Boston Pilot and others were present. We had several 
 select original poems, two duets and a solo and chorus. 
 The last named was Juravit Dominus, composed by one 
 
The Singing Priest 107 
 
 of the students (Cardinal O'Connell), the solo being written 
 especially for my voice, and it is needless to say that I 
 tried my best to make the affair a success. I also sang 
 Schubert's Ave Maria. I suppose the Pilot will have an 
 account of the entertainment but I trust they will not 
 find out the names of those who took part, for much as I 
 desire to see my name in print when I succeed with my 
 studies, I dislike very much to be in print as being good at 
 these optional frivolities." 
 
 It was while pastor in Mott Street that Father Tom 
 gained fame as "The Singing Priest of Chinatown." 
 Whilst a curate in St. Patrick's, Newburgh he had made his 
 first appearance as a lecturer, choosing a subject which, 
 on account of early associations, was an inspiring one to 
 him, "John Hughes, Churchman and Statesman." His 
 success in this effort prompted him to utilize his spare time 
 in perfecting himself as a platform orator, and cultivat- 
 ing his exceptional voice. He received vocal instruction 
 from Professors Tamaro and Dossert in New York, and 
 followed the Italian method. His clear enunciation, and 
 the sympathetic tones of his voice, appealed alike to those 
 who were musical critics as well as to those who knew they 
 were listening to melodious song which pleased them, and 
 thrilled them, and raised their thoughts from the sordid 
 things of earth to something higher. 
 
 What a valuable possession is an unselfish friend. 
 Emerson says that "Our chief want in life is somebody 
 who shall make us do what we can. This is the service of 
 a friend. With him we are easily great. There is a sub- 
 lime attraction in him to whatever virtue is in us. How 
 he flings wide the door of existence . " In addition to mak- 
 ing us do a thing the true generous friend aids us in doing 
 it. Father Tom was fortunate in his friendships. It was 
 one of his sincere friends and earnest well-wishers, Rev. 
 Francis H. Wall, who with a recollection of the songs he 
 
io8 Father Tom 
 
 used to sing in happy seminary days in the American Col- 
 lege in Rome, urged him to try out his first musical lec- 
 ture, "Ireland the Home of Music and Song," in the 
 little parish hall in Mount Kisco, Westchester County. 
 With that fervid enthusiasm and impulsive generosity, 
 which ever characterized him, Dr. Wall pronounced 
 Father Tom's initial effort a splendid success, and assured 
 him that a great field of usefulness in God's service was 
 before him. This lecture on Ireland's music at once be- 
 came exceedingly popular, largely on account of the superb 
 rendition of those gems of Moore's melodies Believe Me, 
 The Meeting of the Waters, and The Minstrel Boy. The 
 latter song always roused his audience to the highest 
 enthusiasm especially when the singer reached high C at 
 the climax: 
 
 Thy songs were made for the pure and free 
 They shall never, never sound in slavery. 
 
 Invitations came pouring in on Father Tom and from 
 time to time he delivered this lecture in several New York 
 City parishes, in Brooklyn, in Newark, N. J., Charleston, 
 S. C, Savannah, Ga., and during his stay on the Pacific 
 Coast in Metropolitan Hall, San Francisco, where an 
 enthusiastic audience of three thousand applauded him to 
 the echo at its conclusion. 
 
 From San Francisco he sailed to Hawaii and while there 
 on May 6, 1901 lectured on music in the rooms of the 
 Catholic Benevolent Society, and The Pacific Commercial 
 Advertiser of Honolulu gave this account of his appearance : 
 
 The reverend father is of almost military carriage, appar- 
 ently in the prime of life ; his hair is turning slightly gray, with 
 a florid complexion and mobile, clearly cut features. Singing, 
 to his own accompaniment, with equal facility, in French, 
 Italian, German, and Latin, he has a rich, high baritone of 
 peculiar sweetness and great compass. The Bishop of Pano- 
 
The Singing Priest 109 
 
 polis introduced the lecturer to his expectant audience, and in 
 fluent speech the lecturer proceeded. "Monsignor, I am 
 thankful to your lordship for the invitation so kindly extended 
 me to speak to these dwellers in your beautiful islands. The 
 subject of my talk is one, I am sure, dear to all Hawaiian hearts 
 — music. In all the wide scope of music's power nothing 
 appeals more closely, more quickly to the very heartstrings 
 than the folk songs of a country ; not even a thorough under- 
 standing of the works of such masters of harmony as Wagner 
 can assist in bringing out our real feelings as these songs of 
 country. Music is the outpouring of our natural expressions ; 
 we have all experienced the universal wish to compose some- 
 thing beautiful when listening to some well-rendered piece of 
 music. The power of song whether with or without music, 
 affects the human breast as no other power can. The words 
 are often foolish, as in Dixie with its lively music and trashy 
 words yet, thirty years after the Civil War, the playing of 
 Dixie in a Southern community will arouse an enthusiasm 
 that shows the onlooker that to them the music of Dixie is a 
 melody attuned to their heart strings. I had the pleasure of 
 meeting Colonel Roosevelt some time ago and he told me of the 
 power that music possessed to bring back to his jaded soldiers 
 the springy step and upright head. When the troops lagged, 
 the present Vice-President ordered the band to play and the 
 tune that sent them uphill in a quickstep was not Columbia 
 nor The Star Spangled Banner but There'll Be a Hot Time in the 
 Old Town To-night." 
 
 The speaker went on to speak of the foundation of all good 
 church music in the simple harmonies of St. Ambrose and 
 St. Gregory in the fourth and sixth centuries, illustrating it 
 with a Salva Regina of the eighth century in the time of 
 Charlemange. 
 
 Outside the church the oldest records of music come from 
 Ireland. Bigoted historians have omitted the claims of 
 Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, and declared in favor of the 
 French troubadours, Italian trovatores, and German meister- 
 singers, who in reality came hundreds of years after Ireland 
 was renowned for its music, and its poetry. The ancient 
 
no Father Tom 
 
 banner of Ireland bore the harp as the emblem of the only- 
 land that dared claim it for her right. Not all historians 
 have slighted her claims, however, as the witness of the 
 eminent Montelambert will testify. 
 
 Eileen Aroon the melody which Handel is said to have 
 wished he had composed rather than all his oratorios, was 
 sung as a selection of the oldest Irish airs to the words of 
 Moore commencing "Erin the tear and the smile in thine eye" 
 and was followed by The Harp that Once Thro' Tara's Halls. 
 
 Scotland, with an almost equally ancient musical history 
 furnished as an example The Land o' the Leal. Italy was 
 represented by a Neapolitan barcarole and the well-known 
 Funiculi, Funicula, the singer using the Italian and translat- 
 ing for the benefit of his audience. Italy was named by the 
 lecturer as the modem nation that had advanced the most 
 among the more modern nations producing numberless folk 
 songs. America came last with Foster's Suwanee River and a 
 pretty darkey lullaby, Doan You Cry, Ma Honey. 
 
 Mr. Alapal, accompanied by Father Valentin, saxig Aloha Oe 
 for the benefit of the lecturer, and a rising vote of thanks was 
 then tendered Father McLoughlin for his entertaining lecture. 
 
 Much of Father Tom's success on the platform, as a 
 musical lecturer, was due to the generous and unselfish aid 
 of an accomplished young New York musician. Professor 
 Charles Clark Dunn. During Father Tom's pastorate in old 
 Transfiguration, Professor Dunn was organist there, and 
 being a finished pianist, he delighted in playing accompani- 
 ments for his pastor whose talent he greatly admired and 
 fostered in every way. Professor Dunn, in addition to his 
 regular duties as choir director, gave unsparingly of his 
 time and talent to the proper selection and rehearsal of the 
 many songs introduced by the lecturer to illustrate the 
 beauty of the music and songs of various countries. Mr. 
 Dunn was Father Tom's accompanist on all of his public 
 appearances and was cherished by the Singing Priest as a 
 welcome companion and sincere friend. 
 
The Singing Priest iir 
 
 Another admirer of Father Tom's voice and personaHty 
 was his teacher Professor Tamaro, who paid Father Tom 
 the high compHment of composing a piece especially for his 
 voice. This selection, published in 1899 bears upon its 
 title page the inscription '"Pater Noster' (God is Gra- 
 cious) composed expressly for the voice of my pupil Rev. 
 Thomas P. McLoughlin, Pastor of Transfiguration Church, 
 New York and dedicated to him by the composer Joseph 
 Tamaro." 
 
 Father Tom prepared a course of lectures on the folk 
 songs of Ireland, Scotland, England, Italy, and the Sunny 
 South which he delivered as morning round table talks 
 at the Catholic Summer School at Cliff Haven on Lake 
 Champlain. The preparation of these lectures required 
 an immense amount of research along musical lines. The 
 manuscript, written in his own strong, legible hand, shows 
 that each and every word of the lecture, as well as every 
 word of the verses of all the songs introduced, were labor- 
 iously written out and afterwards committed to memory. 
 Perhaps the most delightful of these round table talks 
 was the one on the songs of Sunny Italy. Father Tom 
 seemed to revel in the soft, liquid tones of the Italian 
 language and those who heard him frequently became 
 quite familiar with the words of such sweet sounding 
 ballads as La Partenza, La Smortina, Santa Lucia, and 
 many were able to join in the rollicking chorus of Funi- 
 culi, Funicula. 
 
 Father Tom's personality on the platform was often 
 commented upon by newspaper critics in cities where his 
 musical lectures, always for the benefit of charity, were 
 given, as: 
 
 An orator whose audience smiled and wept under his magne- 
 tic influence. "A brilliant elocutionist," "A sweet singer," 
 "A polished orator and a cultured gentleman. " 
 
 It is not often that a single individual is endowed with such 
 
112 Father Tom 
 
 varied accomplishments. One may be able to write well, yet 
 spoil his essay in the delivery ; he may have a good delivery yet 
 become tiresome through lack of action on the platform; he 
 may love music and yet be unable to sing a note, but Father 
 McLoughlin can write entertainingly, has a pleasing address 
 and is a vocalist with few equals. 
 
 But there is one other gem to be recorded. The Bells of 
 Shandon, which he recited most charmingly. I have often 
 heard Father Prout's delightful melody, as it may well be 
 called, recited, but on this occasion it acquired new beauties for 
 so exquisitely modulated was the lecturer's voice that the 
 music of the bells was actually reproduced in his words. They 
 were tingling that night through my dreams. 
 
 Father McLoughlin possesses a voice whose magnetism is 
 irresistible. Its unfailing sweetness is as delightful to the ear 
 as an aeolian harp, and its sympathetic vibrations stir the soul 
 of the listener to its very depths. It is a cultivated voice and 
 its possessor knows how to use it to the best advantage without 
 any appearance of straining or effort. 
 
 His lecture all through was one of the most polished efforts 
 that it has ever been my pleasure to hear, at once simple, 
 concise, and elegant. He sings in a charmingly, sympathetic 
 voice, and from the quaint old plain chants of Gregory in the 
 sixth century to the modern Hosanna of Granier his musical 
 illustrations were rendered with much simple grace. 
 
 Father McLoughlin's peroration consisted of an impassioned 
 declaration that to us there is but one banner to which Ameri- 
 cans owe undying allegiance — The Star Spangled Banner. 
 This was the signal for the audience to arise, the lights changed 
 until the colors showed in red, white and blue, a large American 
 flag was dropped from above the stage and the chorus, led by 
 the priest, sang the words of the national anthem. 
 
 But, Oh! the heart of Dixie's Summer School is laid at the 
 feet of Father McLoughlin, the well-known musical lecturer. 
 Of course, he's popular wherever he goes, but here he is a con- 
 quering hero. At the close of the entertainment on Thursday 
 evening he made the whole audience sing Dixie Land and then 
 Maryland, my Maryland. Enthusiasm? Pshaw! The word 
 
The Singing Priest 113 
 
 IS too pale and mild. Then we stood and sang with him Holy 
 God We Praise Thy Name. 
 
 In all of his lectures Father Tom strongly advocated 
 banishing secular music from the church, urged con- 
 gregational singing, and denounced the prevaiHng ragtime 
 which he said was illegitimate in the extreme on account 
 of obnoxious prevalence of the syncopation. "It is used 
 rather to degrade than uplift and in all the cities of the 
 country is used principally by the lowest characters, being 
 a select medium for clothing slang and double mean- 
 ing terms, and the general tone of it smacks much of 
 looseness. Another objection is the fact that it makes a 
 buffoon of the negro race. 
 
 "I believe in teaching the young to appreciate the bal- 
 lads of our forefathers — the simple old songs that breathe 
 pure love and that incite them to the right ideas of patriot- 
 ism. To my mind the most beautiful ballads written are 
 those of Ireland and Scotland, but there is one man of our 
 own country whose work I consider preeminent for heart 
 songs and that is Stephen Foster, author of Suwanee River 
 and Old Kentucky Home. 
 
 "As to church music, which is a hobby of mine, I am in 
 favor of a return to the original plain chant as a solid basis 
 for church music. 
 
 "Theatrical or operatic music is out of place in church, 
 and as for ballet music which we sometimes hear in the 
 Catholic churches, I think it an abomination in the house 
 of God. What is wanted in our churches is that which 
 will make the head and heart bend low. Such was the 
 music of St. Ambrose in the fourth century of which St. 
 Augustine speaking, said: 'It moved my eyes to tears and 
 my heart to repentance.' 
 
 "I have tried, especially in our English-speaking con- 
 gregations to bring about congregational singing, particu- 
 larly at the evening services. Shall we have the quartet 
 
114 Father Tom 
 
 in church? Yes, sometimes. The chorus? Yes, cer- 
 tainly. But let there be congregational singing always 
 and all the time. " 
 
 Many newspaper articles were written of the work of the 
 "Singing Priest." A special writer for the New York 
 Herald in 1 899 said of Father Tom : 
 
 In all New York there is not a man who occupies so anoma- 
 lous a position as this godly man who dwells beneath the sign 
 of the cross in the midst of Chinatown. He inveighs against 
 the Chinaman's vices and commends him for his virtues. He 
 is merciless in denunciation and yet compassionate and gentle. 
 At his approach the loungers before the saloons remove their 
 hats and stand in line as he passes by. Vice looks down from 
 the windows and withdraws abashed when "The Singing 
 Priest of Chinatown " goes about the streets. The Chinamen 
 get off the narrow sidewalk to make room for "Father Glock. " 
 He has a voice of exceptional clearness and quality. He sings 
 the ballads of Ireland with such feeling that they bring tears 
 to the eye. For years he has made the songs of the common 
 people a study. He is recognized as an authority on the folk- 
 lore of Ireland, Scotland, and Italy. He leaves the little 
 rectory at times to deliver lectures on his favorite topic before 
 large audiences in Boston, Philadelphia, and Chicago. At the 
 entertainments which he gives for his church his singing is one 
 of the features of the program. He has good Italians in his 
 parish. To them he is one of their own people. To the 
 Chinaman he is a friend who may be invited to state dinners. 
 To the Irishman he is a descendant of one of the old families of 
 the Emerald Isle. He has journeyed to every county of the 
 land of Erin and his voice is attuned to its minstrelsy. To 
 Irish, Italian, and Chinamen "the Singing Priest" is the same. 
 He is the foe of sin and the friend of the sick and needy. 
 
 An article written for Men and Women in August, 1905, 
 by the well-known journalist, Owen Kildare, describes a 
 chance meeting and an interview with the ' ' Singing Priest 
 of Chinatown. " 
 
o 5 
 
 QC Lil 
 IJ U 
 
The Singing Priest 115 
 
 We of the metropolis are close neighbors to misery, ignor- 
 ance, and utter wickedness, and we have learned to respect and 
 admire the men and women who slave day and night to relieve 
 the most heart-rending conditions and to teach their unfortu- 
 nate fellow-beings the sublime art of living. I will yield to no 
 one in my respect of these toilers ; but, while I esteem them all, 
 the one who stands out to me the strongest from these servi- 
 tors of duty is Father McLoughlin, the Singing Priest of the 
 Church of the Transfiguration in Mott Street. 
 
 It is three years ago since I had the privilege of meeting this 
 good and noble man. After a period of reportorial training, 
 I had been promoted to the position of special writer and 
 investigator on a metropolitan daily newspaper. Until I had 
 been promoted to this position, my belief in human kind had 
 been all embracing. It took but a very few days of my new 
 work to prove to me that shams, cheats, and frauds were 
 rampant in the land. And — let me be honest about this — I 
 fairly began to loathe my fellows. In this mood I found my- 
 self one day in the slums of Chinatown, where I had gone to 
 verify a report of a most woeful tale, which had been told to me 
 with most minute detail at my office. Alas, again it was a 
 fraudulent scheme, and bittered to the very core of my heart, 
 I stepped into Mott Street, like Diogenes of old, asking myself: 
 "Is there not one honest man among them?" Instinctively 
 my glance reverted to the Church of the Transfiguration, right 
 opposite to where I stood, and through the half-open door the 
 coolth and quiet within seemed to whisper an invitation to 
 enter the ever accessible temple. Twilight was fast approach- 
 ing, and only here and there the sun found prismatic reflection 
 on sculptured frieze or bas-relief. I deemed myself alone ; all 
 was quiet, and never better moment for reflection and retro- 
 spection had been mine. Sharing the silence of the venerable 
 sanctum I sat enchanted, moved away from earth's cares, until 
 strains of ineffably sweet music prepared me for — I know not 
 what. Can you not feel the impress of that moment, as I 
 there was, bereft of moods and travails ? And, if you can, you 
 will believe me that, when a voice softly blended with the 
 harmony of the reeds, I gave up reasoning, gave up skeptic 
 
ii6 Father Tom 
 
 searching and felt, as you would have done, in touch with the 
 Infinite. 
 
 But, even the sweetest spells find ending and, as softly as 
 they had been intoned, the strains, at last, merged themselves 
 again into silence and back to earth once more I came; but it 
 seemed a better earth. 
 
 To leave the church without ascertaining to whom I had 
 been indebted for this inspiring half hour was out of the ques- 
 tion and I rose to seek information. There was an organ loft 
 — alas, it was bare and empty. But, at the other end of the 
 church, quite near the altar, there was a small parlor organ 
 and a man before it. Although he had stopped singing and 
 playing, his fingers were still resting on the keys, while his fine 
 profile was turned to the last straggling ray of the homing 
 sun. I had no right to intrude or to prevent that train of 
 thought from rounding itself and I stood quietly waiting. At 
 last, just as the sun took final leave, the priest rose, and care- 
 fully covering the instrument, he turned to meet me with 
 outstretched hand and a smile, which was a replica of the sun- 
 shine, so recently departed. It took but a few words before 
 I was most cordially invited to accompany him to the rectory 
 for a chat. As soon as we were in the modest parlor, I took a 
 good look at Father McLoughlin and the aftermath of my 
 bluish mood took wings unto itself. Five minutes later I 
 laughed more heartily than I had laughed in months. Ah, 
 indeed, he is a fine body of a man. And the clasp of his hand, 
 the first few words of conversation prove that there is a very 
 fine soul in this fine body, with a mind and head — a very level 
 head — as companions. His personality alone makes him a 
 force. He is still young about forty — a big man, broad should- 
 ered, with one of those round symmetrical heads, which looks 
 as if every nook and cranny were full of brains and common 
 sense. Framed by light hair and rosy cheeks, his blue eyes 
 twinkle merrily or glow with earnest fire and tell of the whole- 
 some man within. 
 
 The work of Father McLoughlin was not accomplished in a 
 day. For over ten years Father McLoughlin had been the 
 rector over this old church — the fourth oldest Catholic church 
 
The Singing Priest ii7 
 
 in the city — and it has been a tremendous and continued strug- 
 gle to keep his parish together. . . . 
 
 In place of the banished choir, Father McLoughlin offered 
 his services — and the parishioners eventually, began to ask 
 themselves if they ' ' hadn't got the best of the bargain. ' ' Then 
 the Litany was sung, and not in the usual singsong tone. It 
 had a distinct rliythm and carried its own conviction. The 
 Masses fared as well. But that which makes the congregation 
 sit up straight in their pews and glad with anticipation is 
 when the rector steps from the altar to take his seat at the 
 organ. For not only as the choir, but also as the organist, 
 serves this many-sided priest. It is likely that there are sing- 
 ers who excel him in artistic perfection and pyrotechnical 
 roulades, but in the song of the rector something wafts to you 
 which never comes from stage or concert platform. An in- 
 describable something it is, but it tells its own tale of devo- 
 tion and truth and love of fellowman. 
 
 His congregation is not alone in its endorsements of the 
 pastor's vocal accomplishment. Quite frequently Father 
 McLoughlin is invited to sing at other places outside of his 
 church, and he has even been induced to make short tours 
 through the country. And, perhaps in this lies the key for the 
 mystery of the reduction of the church debt. 
 
 Do not conceive the impression that Father McLoughlin's 
 time is given entirely to singing and dreaming at the organ; 
 parishes in the slums do not leave much time for those plea- 
 sures. There is much work, and the great heart of the man is 
 never left untroubled. And it is his big-heartedness which 
 has made some deem Father McLoughlin a sentimentalist, an 
 easy prey to designing schemers. It is true that Father 
 McLoughlin cares for and helps Christian and pagan, the 
 respectable and the disreputable, with the same unselfish 
 devotion ; it is true that he has gone to the death beds of 
 the unfortunate women of Chinatown; that he is glad to an- 
 swer a summons from anywhere, if he can be of assistance, 
 but he is rarely deceived and very little sentimentality finds 
 lodging in his strong and balanced brain. He is known 
 throughout the slums, and no more beautiful picture can 
 
ii8 Father Tom 
 
 be seen than to watch this splendid man coming through the 
 narrow streets and alleys, followed and surrounded by the 
 little people, whom he is trying his very best to make good 
 men and women. 
 
 When I rose to leave, thanks to the rector's inspiring inter- 
 course, my loathing for my fellowman had vanished. My 
 normality had been restored by the sanity of Father McLough- 
 lin. And when I wended my way uptown I thought what a 
 fortunate thing it was for the parishioners of old Trans- 
 figuration to have a man like Father McLoughlin for their 
 shepherd, and also thought how great the heart of a man 
 must be who, according to accepted standards, which are 
 measured by dollars and cents, was "wasting" the best 
 years of his life and his brilliant attainments in the narrow 
 environment of a slum parish. 
 
 Father Tom received compliments from many sources 
 on his service to the cause of the church and the Irish peo- 
 ple by his singing lectures, but nothing did he treasure 
 more than a letter from His Eminence Cardinal Logue, 
 Archbishop of Armagh, thanking him for a lecture delivered 
 in Chickering Hall, N. Y., which netted a goodly sum for 
 the Armagh Cathedral. 
 
 Ara Coeli, Armagh, 
 February lo, 1900. 
 
 My dear Fr. McLoughlin : 
 
 Canon Rogers has written to tell me of your great kindness 
 to him and of the very material assistance you have given his 
 mission by your interesting lecture. The very least I can do is 
 to assure you of my heartfelt gratitude. I know mere thanks 
 is but a poor return for all your kindness and trouble, but I 
 doubt not you will find a reward which you appreciate much 
 more in the satisfaction of having done so much for the beauty 
 of God's house and the honour of our National Apostle. I 
 trust God will bestow a special blessing on you and your faith- 
 ful people in return for your great charity, and that St. Patrick, 
 
The Singing Priest 119 
 
 to whom all Irish children are so dear, will watch over you and 
 your flock with special care. 
 
 Wishing you every blessing, I am, dear Father McLoughlin, 
 
 Yours most gratefully, 
 
 Michael Card. Logue. 
 
 Father Tom during his trip West in 1901 spent a few 
 days in viewing the wonders of Yellowstone Park and 
 Yosemite Valley. This letter tells of his singing the 
 praises of the Almighty in a temple of natural beauty ; 
 
 "Yesterday we took a sixteen mile drive around the 
 floor of the Yosemite Valley. What is the use of trying to 
 describe the beauties of that ride. I shall try, however, 
 to tell you of our Sabbath day in the Valley. We arose 
 about six a.m., and after breakfast, started at seven o'clock 
 for Mirror Lake where we saw the sun rise over the top of 
 the mountains and took some exquisite views. 
 
 "At eight A.M. we started a climb of about a mile up 
 to Vernal Falls and about half way up the raountain path 
 we rested in a shady spot overlooking one of the grandest 
 views of the Valley. High precipitous peaks towered up 
 on all sides of us, while in front of us about half a mile away 
 a cataract came tumbling down for nearly three thousand 
 feet. Above us was the blue vault of heaven, around us 
 the green trees with birds singing therein; at our feet 
 swiftly flowed the murmuring Merced. It was an ideal 
 spot, the center of the sanctuary of one of God's grandest 
 temples, not made by hands, but direct from the eternal 
 designs of the Supreme Architect, a fitting place to offer 
 Him a sacrifice of prayer and praise. My little flock sat 
 on the rocks around me and we recited aloud the morning 
 prayers after which I read a portion of the Scriptures and 
 then preached a ten minutes' sermon, inspired by the 
 wonderful beauty of the enchanting scene. I closed our 
 little service with the singing of Nearer My God to Thee 
 making the hillsides ring, as I put my whole soul into the 
 
I20 Father Tom 
 
 sacred song, and finished with spiritual communion and 
 blessing. It was a 'golden hour' that can never pass from 
 the memory of those who participated in it. Would that 
 you were here ! The view of Vernal Falls was superb but 
 we could not snap it very well as the sun was in our eyes. 
 
 ' ' The Bridal Veil is perhaps the most beautiful of all the 
 cataracts, and on the opposite side of the valley flows the 
 Virgin's Tears ! 
 
 "I am writing this on the back porch of our cottage, 
 and directly in front of us rises an immense cliff, while 
 over it topples the great falls of the Yosemite, four thou- 
 sand feet in height, and they seem to sing as they have 
 sung for thousands of years 'Praise the Lord all ye waters 
 of the earth; Praise Him ye fountains and waterfalls. 
 Praise Him and extol Him forever.' " 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 HAPPY DAYS 
 
 Father Tom while at Transfiguration had gained 
 renown throughout the country as the "Singing Priest," 
 he had been the recipient of the applause of thousands who 
 attended his musical lectures and had become a prominent 
 figure in the life of the great metropolis; but withal he 
 was never altogether happy while residing in that aban- 
 doned quarter of lower New York known as Chinatown. 
 He had done his utmost for the spiritual uplift of a fast 
 dwindling flock, but the field of activity along these lines 
 was too circumscribed to satisfy the earnest longing of his 
 priestly heart. The number of English-speaking families 
 in the old parish grew less and less as the years passed by. 
 The few who remained were loyal to their faith and dearly 
 loved their pastor, yet he yearned for more and still more 
 of the real work he had been ordained to do — to help 
 others lead good lives in order that they might merit 
 eternal life. It was, therefore, with a feeling of sincere 
 joy that Father Tom learned, early in 1902, that his Grace 
 Archbishop Corrigan had decided to establish a new parish 
 uptown in the heart of the theatrical district and had 
 designated the pastor of Transfiguration to undertake the 
 work. The boundaries of this new parish were Seventh 
 to Eighth avenues, 46th to 54th and Eighth to Ninth 
 avenues, 54th to 49th streets. Three houses were pur- 
 chased by Father Tom on the north side of 49th Street 
 
122 Father Tom 
 
 between Broadway and 7th Avenue, one of which was to be 
 used as a rectory and upon the space occupied by the other 
 two a modest church was to be built. The name selected 
 for this new parish was that of St. Malachy, Archbishop of 
 Armagh, which diocese included in its boundaries the 
 County Louth from whence Father Tom's ancestors 
 came. 
 
 The new pastor had just started an energetic campaign 
 to gather funds with which to erect this church in honor 
 of St. Malachy when the death of old Father Tom in New 
 Rochelle, in December, changed his plans, and the com- 
 pletion of what is now known as the Actor's Church in 
 New York was left to other, but no less willing and com- 
 petent hands. 
 
 While the good Catholic people of New Rochelle were 
 mourning the sudden taking off of the devoted priest who 
 for fifty years had baptized their children, solemnized 
 marriages between their sons and daughters, and buried 
 their beloved dead, their grief was somewhat mitigated 
 when news came that his Grace, the Archbishop of New 
 York with singular kindliness and graceful tact had se- 
 lected young Father Tom to take the place of his revered 
 uncle as pastor of the Blessed Sacrament, New Rochelle. 
 
 " St. Malachy's, 
 " Dec. 17, 1902. 
 
 "Yesterday p.m. I received a note from the Archbishop 
 asking me to call to-day at 9 :30 a.m. He praised my labor- 
 ious work in Mott street, and said he thought I deserved 
 easier work than building a church after my eighteen 
 years on the mission. After leaving his Grace I took the 
 train to New Rochelle and called on the trustees and on 
 other parishioners. It made me feel happy to know that 
 my coming among them gives them joy. I take the reins 
 Christmas eve by the Archbishop's orders." 
 

 ^'U-A^ £s?7«^ /ZtrZ*^ *^TZ,tf> ^ ^i-/ '^!^Zy3 /t-. 
 
 FACSIMILE OF ARCHBISHOP FARLEY'S LETTER 
 
Happy Days i::^-, 
 
 Archbishop's House, 
 452 Madison Ave., N. Y., 
 Dec. 17, 1902. 
 
 Dear Rev. Father McLoughlin : 
 
 I take great pleasure in hereby appointing you pastor of the 
 Blessed Sacrament, New Rochelle, in succession to your lately 
 deceased uncle, the faithful shepherd of a devoted flock for 
 half a century. 
 
 May your own days be as long in the land, and no less filled 
 with blessings. 
 
 Very sincerely yours in Xt., 
 
 John M. Farley, Abp., N. Y. 
 
 " New Rochelle, N. Y., Dec. 24, 1902. 
 
 "A Merry Christmas to you all. The year of 1902 has 
 been a very sad one for us, but God is good, and let us 
 hope that the next year will be filled with new blessings. 
 If Father Hughes wishes to go home to his folks Christ- 
 mas night, I shall let him go (as I was young once myself) 
 and I shall put a log on the fire in Uncle's room, and sit 
 and think over it all, and wonder how many years till we 
 have all passed away 'to see the angel faces smile again 
 which we have loved long since and lost awhile. 
 
 It was Christmas morning in New Rochelle! The 
 hillsides, roads and lanes of the village were covered with 
 snow; the leafless trees were laden with glistening icicles, 
 stars shone brilliantly in the heavens; the sky was a clear, 
 limpid blue, and a spirit of prayer and peace floated 
 through the atmosphere. The day of days had not yet 
 dawned when from out cosy cottages on Pelham Road, 
 from comfortable homes on the streets sloping down to the 
 water, and even from far away Jerusalem Woods came the 
 worthy sons and daughters of the hardy pioneers who 
 had made many sacrifices to build the beautiful white 
 marble church towards which their eager steps were now 
 directed. Bright-faced children trudged along through 
 
124 Father Tom 
 
 the snow by the side of fond parents, and they did not seem 
 to mind the cold wind blowing in from the Sound, which 
 made their blood tingle and placed roses in their cheeks. 
 As these devoted Catholics hurried along through the 
 streets, cheery Christmas greetings were exchanged be- 
 tween relatives, neighbors, and friends. In the distance 
 could be seen the beckoning lights in the windows of the 
 church of the Blessed Sacrament, and the clear notes of 
 the sweetly sounding bell admonished those, who, like the 
 shepherds of old, were hastening to adore Him, that the 
 first Mass of Christmas day was soon to begin. With 
 anxious hearts they enter the church and reverently kneel 
 in adoration of the new-born Christ-child as did their 
 fathers and grandfathers before them. 
 
 A hush of expectancy falls over the congregation as 
 the eyes of all are fixed upon the sacristy door just to the 
 left of the Blessed Virgin's altar. It now softly opens and 
 the Cross bearer followed by the sweet, innocent faces of 
 the altar boys, robed in cassock and surplice, appear. 
 The opening notes of the familiar and inspiring Christmas 
 hymn Adeste Fideles come from the organ. The proces- 
 sion files slowly towards the gate in the sanctuary rail in 
 front of the main altar. The sub-deacon and deacon pass 
 out of the sacristy and then — with moist eyes many of the 
 older members of the congregation look and see the serious 
 yet kindly face of Father Tom, their new shepherd, coming 
 to them in the fullness of his manhood, ready to serve them 
 as a devoted friend whose ardent desire is their eternal 
 welfare, and whose heart, they feel assured, is filled with 
 the tenderest love for them and their children. He stands 
 at the foot of the altar and in solemn tones begins the 
 Introibo ad altare Dei. He ascends the altar and they 
 watch his every movement as he proceeds with the solemn 
 sacrifice of the Mass. They realize the harmonious 
 beauty of the tones of his voice as he raises it to sing the 
 
Happy Days 125 
 
 Gloria in Excelsis Deo and the Pater Noster. A few words 
 of Christmas greeting, a tribute to his beloved uncle, their 
 departed pastor, and a promise to follow in his footsteps 
 so far as his ability and God's grace will allow, is all that 
 Father Tom finds himself able to say on this blessed 
 Christmas morning. After the Mass he is warmly wel- 
 comed by many who knew him as a boy in old St. Mat- 
 thew's school and he is truly happy. 
 
 With energy and a real love of the work before him, 
 Father Tom began his labors as pastor of the Blessed 
 Sacrament . The magnificent marble temple had been com- 
 pleted by his uncle, but Father Tom soon had plans under 
 way for the decoration of the interior of the church, the se- 
 lection and putting in place of ornate stained-glass windows, 
 the placing of a tympanum, representing our Lord with out- 
 stretched hands, in the front of the church, and the build- 
 ing of a modern and comfortable rectory in keeping with 
 the needs of the parish. In the choice of the windows. 
 Father Tom's first thought was to place one over the main 
 altar, picturing St. Thomas saying "My Lord and My 
 God" in memory of the founder of the parish. Another 
 depicting the death of St. Joseph in memory of his beloved 
 grandmother, Jane McLoughlin, was placed on the right- 
 hand side of the church, and still another, the gift of 
 Father Tom's aunt, Mrs. Bridget Whitehead, showing 
 St. Patrick demonstrating the doctrine of the Trinity, in 
 memory of Patrick and Peter McLoughlin, his sturdy 
 ancestors, whose faith was transmitted in undiluted 
 strength unto the third generation personified in himself. 
 
 Other windows donated by faithful parishioners are — 
 The Annimciation, in memory of John and Anne Havey 
 Dillon. 
 
 Rose window, in memory of Helen S. Lenane. 
 
 The Nativity, in memory of John and Sarah Murray 
 MoUoy. 
 
126 Father Tom 
 
 Christ at Emmaus, in memory of William V. MoUoy. 
 
 Christ blessing little children, in thanksgiving from 
 F. A. Bucknam and wife. 
 
 The Institution of the Blessed Sacrament, in memory of 
 Ellen A. Kreitler and OUie G. Molloy. 
 
 The Wedding Feast at Cana, gift of Anne Hutchinson. 
 
 Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, in memory of John 
 Bartnett and Jane O'Leary. 
 
 The Offering of Melchisedec, in memory of Patrick 
 Rogers. 
 
 Apparition to Blessed Margaret Mary, in memory of 
 Joaquin, Caesar, and Henry de Figaniere. 
 
 The Sistine Madonna in memory of James Drought and 
 Bridget Dillon Drought. 
 
 The Blessed Virgin's altar was the gift of Michael J. 
 Tierney and his wife; the St. Joseph's altar the gift of 
 the Holy Name Society; the Sanctuary Lamp and Pulpit 
 the gift of Mrs. Richard Burnett; a smaller window repre- 
 senting St. Joseph, the gift of the Immaculate Heart 
 Sodality in memory of Father Maxcy; and the beU in the 
 tower the gift of Mrs. Margaret Murray. 
 
 While attending zealously to all the material wants of 
 a well-regulated parish, Father Tom devoted most of his 
 time to the spiritual side of his work. He adopted a 
 plan of reading a portion of the Scriptures every Sunday 
 evening; he established a society known as the Queen's 
 Daughters, a women's auxiliary of the St. Vincent de Paul 
 Society; he frequently sang in the choir at vespers on 
 Sunday evenings; he took a vital interest in upbuilding 
 the Holy Name Society urging all the men in the parish 
 to join it; he attended meetings and aided in every good 
 work undertaken by the local council of the Knights of 
 Columbus; he became chaplain of the Ancient Order of 
 Hibernians in Westchester County. 
 
 He followed the example of his uncle in his aflfectionate 
 
Happy Days 127 
 
 interest in the little ones of the flock, particularly in pre- 
 paring them for first Holy Communion and Confirmation. 
 He conceived the idea of building a chapel for the Catholic 
 soldiers on David's Island, Fort Slocum, and carried it 
 through- to completion. Father Tom took the greatest 
 pride in this work for the soldiers. In order to carry it out, 
 it was necessary for him to secure permission from the War 
 Department. Armed with letters of introduction, Father 
 Tom made a trip to Washington and had a personal inter- 
 view with President Roosevelt, who received him most 
 graciously, heartily indorsed his plan for a chapel in which 
 the Catholic soldiers could worship, and speedily saw to it 
 that the requisite permission from the War Department 
 was forthcoming- 
 
 The White House, 
 Washington, 
 
 June 18, 1908. 
 
 My dear Father McLoughlin: 
 
 That is a mighty nice letter of yours and I want to say how 
 pleased I am that you are going to erect at Fort Slocum such 
 a building as you describe. As you say, a chapel could only 
 be used on Sunday, whereas in this building, what I firmly 
 believe will be work good for their souls as well as for their 
 bodies will be done for the soldiers all the time. Indeed, my 
 dear Father McLoughlin, I did not need your assurance that 
 you would do all in your power to make better men not only 
 of the Catholic soldiers, but of all who are willing to accept 
 of your ministrations. 
 
 With all good wishes, believe me. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 (Signed) Theodore Roosevelt. 
 
 Rev. T. P. McLoughlin, 
 
 Church of the Blessed Sacrament, 
 New Rochelle, N. Y. 
 
128 Father Tom 
 
 Father Tom was an enthusiastic admirer of Theodore 
 Roosevelt, not alone because of his kindly reception of 
 him and his aid in securing the necessary permission to 
 build the soldier's chapel, but during all his public career, 
 as Governor and President, he had admired his splendid 
 Americanism and his spirit of religious toleration in deal- 
 ing with all classes. Attending the annual dinner of the 
 Friendly Sons of St. Patrick at Delmonico's on March 
 17, 1905, Father Tom joined most enthusiastically in the 
 applause and cheers which greeted Colonel Roosevelt as 
 he rose to speak. And turning to a companion seated at 
 the table with him, he said, "Ah, it does one goodtoshout 
 and cheer once in a while. The Italians love to shout out. 
 We all feel better after we have gotten a good cheer out of 
 our system. It makes us boys once again. " 
 
 Writing in the Parish Monthly, in August, 1908, Father 
 Tom made this striking appeal for funds for the soldiers' 
 chapel : 
 
 "The rector, now makes this formal appeal for funds. 
 It is a real work of charity on behalf of the enlisted men, for 
 the Catholic soldiers first, and then for all the rest. How 
 much will you give now? If you cannot give now, how 
 much will you promise to give within six months or within 
 a year? Whatever you give, give with a cheerful heart — 
 give it to God. 'He that giveth to the poor, lendeth to the 
 Lord !' We see by the 'ad ' on the back page of the Parish 
 Monthly that the National City Bank gives four per cent, 
 on deposits. The Almighty is a more philanthropic 
 banker. He promised a hundred per cent, on all invest- 
 ments. Think over this you that have been caught on 
 ten-cent and twenty-five cent shares of copper mines in 
 Mexico and Spain and in the air. With the Lord there is 
 no watered stock. It is all gold nuggets, gilt-edge securi- 
 ties, fully paid and non-assessable, and your dividend of 
 one hundred per cent, guaranteed by the Infallible Word of 
 
Happy Days 129 
 
 God. One gentleman has taken 500. Two have taken 
 250 each. Some have made application for 100 shares; 
 some for 50. Don't wait for the Rector to call on you 
 personally; write him a note saying; 'Put me down for five 
 hundred dollars, or five dollars,' as the case may be. If 
 you cannot afford to give anything — well, God bless you 
 all the same, if we have your good will and your prayers. 
 Sometimes it is some good old woman's Rosary recited by 
 her bedside, that causes God to touch some rich man's 
 heart, and make him loosen his purse-strings, and causes 
 him to send along a big, generous cheque that makes 
 matters easy for those who are endeavoring to do some- 
 thing for His greater honor and glory and the salvation of 
 souls. What a consolation it will be when the end comes, 
 and you ask yourself : 'What have I done for God, what for 
 my fellow-man during life ?' to be able to say, 'Well, for one 
 thing, I helped to build the chapel at Fort Slocum, and in 
 doing this I had the intention not only of helping along 
 the Catholic soldiers, but of doing good for my fellow-man 
 without regard to nationality, creed or color.' See how 
 active the Protestant Y. M. C. A. are ! See how in earnest 
 in their endeavors to do good for the men. See the mil- 
 lions spent by them throughout the United States in their 
 buildings, gymnasiums, etc. Shame on any Catholic 
 man or woman, possessed of the true faith of Christ, who 
 will refuse to contribute to this magnificent work. Wake 
 up ! This is but the beginning of a movement that shall 
 spread through the whole country wherever there exists an 
 Army Post. Here the soldiers will have Mass and Bene- 
 diction on Sundays. Here they will square up accounts 
 with their Maker and receive the Viaticum of Life Eternal 
 before setting out for the Philippines or Samoa or the Sand- 
 wich Islands. Here the priest will write a letter for some 
 poor fellow home to his mother in Ireland, or elsewhere, 
 and tell her that her boy had made his duty, that he started 
 
I30 Father Tom 
 
 off with the blessing of God on him, with a knapsack on his 
 back, but with the scapular of Our Lady over his shoulder 
 and a little crucifix in his pocket. Here the Word of God 
 will be preached in season, and out of season, and many 'a 
 sheep that is not of this fold' will be brought to the knowl- 
 edge and love of Jesus Christ. " 
 
 The solemn blessing of the Chapel of St. Sebastian, 
 Soldier and Martyr, at Fort Slocum, took place on Sunday, 
 morning, November 14, 1909. The military band was 
 followed by an escort of fifty soldiers, who saluted Arch- 
 bishop Farley as he appeared in full pontificals on the front 
 porch of Major Dugan's residence. The acol3d;es, followed 
 by the priests and the Monsignori and His Grace, with his 
 two little train-bearers, formed a very impressive picture 
 as they marched across the parade-ground to the chapel. 
 After the preliminary prayers in front of the open door, 
 the priests chanted the Miserere and the Archbishop 
 sprinkled the outer walls with holy water, all the clergy 
 accompanying him around the building. The inner walls 
 were then sprinkled and the Litany of the Saints chanted. 
 Then came the Solemn Mass, His Grace presiding on the 
 throne in "Cappa Magna." 
 
 The celebrant was the Rev. Rector; deacon, Rev. Father 
 McCormick, of Tuckahoe; sub-deacon, Rev. Thomas 
 Lynch, of Dunwoodie Seminary; master of ceremonies, 
 Very Rev. Monsignor Lewis, secretary to His Grace ; sec- 
 ond master of ceremonies, Mr. George Betts, of Cathedral 
 College. After the Gospel, Father Tom spoke a few words 
 of congratulation on the happy completion of the work, 
 and thanked one and all who contributed to bring it to 
 such a successful issue. He then introduced the preacher 
 of the day, Monsignor Hayes, Chancellor of the Arch- 
 diocese of New York, who preached an eloquent sermon on 
 the Gospel of the centurion and his sick servant, and 
 showed that the two great forces that rule the world are 
 
Happy Days 
 
 131 
 
 authority and obedience, for without these forces nothing 
 is left but anarchy. 
 
 At the close of the service the Archbishop congratulated 
 the Rector and the soldiers and the assembled visitors on 
 the great work accomplished by them, and imparted to 
 one and all the Papal Benediction. Most of the officers of 
 the Post and their wives were present at the services 
 and seemed deeply impressed by all they saw and heard. 
 St. Sebastian's Chapel was built by Peter Doern, whose 
 father, Valentine Doern, assisted by his sons, Peter and 
 Jacob, had built the beautiful Church of the Blessed 
 Sacrament. 
 
 Including its furnishings, vestments, ornaments, etc., 
 the total cost of the chapel was about eight thousand 
 dollars, and stands as a monument to the deep interest 
 which Father Tom took in the men in the service of the 
 United States Army. 
 
 Still pursuing his philosophy of life to enjoy every hour 
 he lived in a rational way. Father Tom planned some 
 agreeable work or a pleasant visit for each day. Rising 
 at six-thirty he said daily Mass at seven, and after a light 
 breakfast read his office, received callers, superintended 
 any work about the church or grounds that might be in 
 progress, spent half an hour with the little ones in the 
 primary school, telling them some interesting story from 
 Bible history or testing their knowledge of the catechism. 
 He had a fund of amusing stories and anecdotes which 
 never failed to interest the children. A favorite one was of 
 the catechism class where each boy in line was asked a 
 question in turn. On a particular Sunday, the boy who 
 had the first place in the line was absent, and the priest 
 coming in started and asked the first question, "Who 
 made you" and quickly the boy whose usual place was 
 second replied, "To know Him, to love Him, and to serve 
 
132 Father Tom 
 
 Him. "—"No, " said the priest, "God made you. "—"No, 
 Father, " replied the youngster, "the boy that God made 
 ain't here to-day." Another favorite story was of a 
 Protestant minister who was walking along a road in an 
 Irish village on Sunday and stopped for a moment to listen 
 to a fiddler who was playing away for dear life. ' ' Do you 
 know this is the Lord's Day?" said the minister. "No, 
 your reverence, " said the fiddler, "but if you whistle it I'll 
 play it for you. " 
 
 He also taught the little ones a few simple rules of con- 
 duct which his good uncle had constantly taught other 
 children now grown, like himself, to manhood. "Mind 
 your own business; mind nobody else's business." — "Do 
 what you're told and do it right away. " — "Eat an apple a 
 day and keep the doctor away. " 
 
 Possessing a cheerful sunshiny disposition himself he 
 tried to make others happy wherever he went, and he 
 usually succeeded. He believed that, after all, it is not 
 the big things or the great deeds of heroism that make up 
 life. The lives of most people are made up of little things, 
 the kind word spoken, the pleasant smile, the friendly 
 shake of the hand. By precept and example he taught 
 his people, and indeed everyone with whom he came in 
 contact, that there was not a day of their lives that they 
 could not bring a ray of sunshine into some other person's 
 life by doing a kind act, by saying a cheering word, by 
 forgetting and forgiving some slight offense and making 
 up with some friend who had drifted away. Father Tom's 
 cheerfulness and kindly disposition was not something 
 assumed in public, for in the bosom of his family, where he 
 delighted to be, he was the same genial, light-hearted man 
 that he appeared to an audience, telling one of his most 
 amusing anecdotes on the platform, his face lighted with a 
 smile. 
 
 While attached to all the members of his family. Father 
 
Happy Days 133 
 
 Tom had a special affection for his youngest sister, Ellen, 
 who, on June 7, 1908, entered the novitiate at Mount 
 Hope, Maryland, and became Sister Ellen of the Sisters of 
 Charity of St. Vincent de Paul. Two cousins of Father 
 Tom, Isabelle and Irene McSweeny, daughters of Dr. 
 Daniel E. McSweeny, a noted New York physician, had 
 joined the same order a few years before. An aunt of 
 these three cousins, now Sisters of Charity, Ellen Mc- 
 Sweeny, was one of the early members of Mother Seton's 
 order. While Father Tom at first missed the companion- 
 ship of his youngest sister, a letter written by him after a 
 visit to her at the mother-house of the order in Emmits- 
 burg, shows that he found her so happy in her choice of a 
 religious life that he rejoiced that she, like himself, had 
 "chosen the better part. " 
 
 " Mt. St. Mary's College, 
 " Emmitsburg, Md., 
 " Oct. 13, '08. 
 
 "I have seen her and she is as pretty a picture as you'd 
 wish to look at. Was she glad to see me? She ran to- 
 wards me and hugged me till I nearly fell over. She 
 seemed to laugh and cry at the same time. She asked for 
 everyone by name and sent bushels of love. It did me 
 good to hear the sound of her merry little laugh. And 
 then sweet little Sister Isabelle came in, and you can im- 
 agine that I did not do all the talking. God bless her. I 
 feel as happy as she does now. " 
 
 All three cousins Sister Irene, Sister IsabeUe and Sister 
 Ellen, now daughters of St. Vincent de Paul, are doing 
 noble work in the care of God's little ones. 
 
 Father Tom's sermons were at once profound aijd 
 simple, and he explained the text of the Gospel in such 
 language that even the little children could understand. 
 His well modulated and superbly trained voice reached 
 every part of the church without any apparent effort on 
 
134 Father Tom 
 
 his part. His sole desire in his preaching seemed to be to 
 communicate to those listening to him, something of the 
 thoughts and feelings which filled his own soul, and he 
 usually brought home the points of his sermon with an 
 apt illustration that everyone could comprehend. 
 
 Father Tom became Vice-President of New Rochelle 
 College and took a deep interest in every undertak- 
 ing of the Ursulines, who established the first Catholic 
 Women's college in New York. He heartily encouraged 
 Mr. Nelson Hume in his project to establish a Catholic pre- 
 paratory school for boys on PeUiam Road, New Rochelle. 
 Filled with a desire to foster vocations for the priesthood, 
 he aided several youths in their studies at Cathedral 
 College, the preparatory seminary established by Arch- 
 bishop Farley. 
 
 Again following the example of his uncle he devoted 
 a great deal of time to the work of lajdng out roads and 
 otherwise beautifying Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, and 
 encouraged his people to honor their dead by holding 
 memorial services in the cemetery on Decoration Day. 
 He took an active part in the civic affairs of the City of 
 New Rochelle. He mingled on terms of Christian amity 
 with the ministers of the various denominations and was 
 respected by them all. On one Fourth of July he de- 
 livered a patriotic address in the parish house attached to 
 Trinity Church. He aided in the work of providing a 
 hospital for the city and attended the Catholic sick who 
 were sent there. 
 
 With all these various activities, Father Tom found time 
 to enjoy the company of genial friends among the clergy 
 at his own home, as well as to occasionally join delightful 
 clerical gatherings at the home of the hospitable Father 
 Meister in Mamaroneck. He delighted in bathing in the 
 refreshing waters of the Sound; now and then enjoyed a 
 fishing trip in the company of some of his boyhood friends, 
 
Happy Days i35 
 
 and found pleasure in drives around the hills and valleys 
 of the surrounding country, behind a very sedate and 
 slow going horse, whose pace was in marked contrast to the 
 high powered automobiles which continually passed him 
 on the road. 
 
 Father Tom was always popular with his assistants, was 
 beloved by them, and life in the comfortable rectory was 
 harmonious and homelike in the real sense of the word. 
 On one occasion in speaking of Fathers James T. Hughes 
 and Joseph Maxcy, he said, ' ' I believe I have two of the 
 best assistants that ever lived. During the six years of 
 our life together, Father Hughes and I have not been to 
 each other Uke pastor and assistant, not even like an elder 
 and a younger brother, but just like two brothers. And 
 the boy of our family is Father Maxcy. ' ' Father Hughes, 
 first assistant at the Blessed Sacrament for eleven years, 
 and who was much beloved by all the parishioners, said of 
 his life and association with Father Tom : 
 
 I think you don't know a man until you live with him, and 
 the real friends a man has are those who have lived with him 
 and know him best. I speak on the subject with a full heart. 
 I don't think any priest can realize the relations existing be- 
 tween Father McLoughlin, Father Maxcy, and myself. Our 
 pastor is one of those men who believe in exercising authority 
 not as much as possible, but as little as possible. Not a single 
 cloud has obscured the sunshine of our existence during the six 
 years I have lived with him. I can say from my heart that 
 there is not any place the diocese has to give me that I would 
 take in preference to being an assistant right here with Father 
 Tom. The relations existing between us are a sacred thing. 
 He has always been a good brother, a kindly brother to me. 
 He has given me his confidence and I have given him mine. 
 We have worked together in perfect harmony. I don't know 
 myself all his kindly deeds but I know they will have a lasting 
 influence on my career, and if there is any thing that promises 
 
136 Father Tom 
 
 success to my priestly work it will be, after the grace of God, 
 due to the good example of my pastor. 
 
 Busy, and happy in being so, with all the varied duties 
 of his parish work, Father Tom seldom found time, while 
 pastor of the Blessed Sacrament, to accept invitations to 
 deliver his musical lectures. Exceptions, however, were 
 made in the case of old and valued friends who wished his 
 aid for some deserving charity. Father Wm. J. Donohue, 
 Father Tom's devoted assistant at Transfiguration, having 
 become pastor of the Church of the Most Sacred Heart, 
 Port Jervis, a struggling parish, prevailed upon him to 
 come out of his retirement and once more appear on the 
 lecture platform. An immense audience assembled at 
 Terrace Garden, New York, was entertained by Father 
 Tom, with all his old time charm, singing all the familiar 
 Irish melodies with the same sweetness and arousing the 
 same enthusiasm as he had done so often in days gone by. 
 
 While it might not, speaking in a worldly sense, have 
 been considered a happy occasion, nevertheless. Father 
 Tom regarded it as quite a happy day from a spiritual 
 standpoint, when he was invited on November 7, 1904, to 
 deliver the eulogy over the remains of Rev. Benjamin De 
 Costa, at the requiem mass in St. Patrick's Cathedral. Dr. 
 De Costa, who was a well-known figure in New York as 
 pastor of the Church of St. John the Evangelist, and who 
 after forty years' service in the Protestant Episcopal 
 ministry, became a convert to the faith, regarded Father 
 Tom with sincere admiration and as a friend and coun- 
 selor. It was Father Tom who received him into the 
 church in 1899. 
 
 Being a married man at that time, Dr. De Costa was, of 
 course, not eligible for ordination to the priesthood. His 
 wife died in 1901 and shortly afterwards he went to Rome, 
 where, in November 1903, he was ordained a priest. His 
 
Happy Days 137 
 
 health was very poor and he only lived a year after his 
 ordination. These extracts from Father Tom's sermon 
 tell of his meeting and association with this distinguished 
 Protestant divine who became a Catholic priest : 
 
 "About ten years ago I met Dr. De Costa while on a 
 trip to the Holy Land. I then lost sight of him for a 
 number of years. One day he called to see me at the 
 Transfiguration rectory, and he said, 'Father McLoughlin, 
 am I a priest ? ' I told him that according to the teachings 
 of the Catholic Church, he was not a priest. A few days 
 later he came to see me again, and said : 'Father, I want to 
 be a Catholic' The great sacrifice was made, and he 
 stood the test manfully. He was a man who had con- 
 quered himself, and showed fortitude equal to Newman, 
 Manning, and Faber. He asked me if there was any rea- 
 son why he could not become a Catholic, and I told him 
 there was none. Shortly afterwards I received him into 
 the Church. God cleared the way. The reward was to 
 come at last. After his good wife died his one prayer was, 
 'I'd like to die a priest.' His prayer was heard, for some 
 months later he was ordained. He was a priest, not only 
 with orders, but with jurisdiction. 
 
 "And what words of eulogy shall I pronounce over the 
 remains ? Which of the virtues of a well spent life shall I 
 admire the most? Shall I tell of his childlike faith and 
 hope in God? Shall I refer to his unbounded charity, or 
 his gentle, Christlike treatment of his fellow-men? No; I 
 will rather say that whether we consider Dr. De Costa as 
 a minister or as a man, or as a priest, we shall always find 
 in him two dominant qualities that should characterize 
 a perfect Christian, namely, intense zeal for God's glory 
 and wonderful fortitude. 
 
 "Dr. De Costa was born in Charlestown, Mass., in 
 1 83 1. His mother, although throughout her life a Pro- 
 testant, was baptized in the Catholic Church. What 
 
138 Father Tom 
 
 manner of man was he ? Ask the flock so dear to his heart 
 in the Church of St. John. They will answer, 'He led us 
 by word and example.' Ask the little children, now 
 grown up, to whom he wrote so beautifully from the Holy 
 Land. Ask the young men of the White Cross League if 
 his was not a pure, beautiful, white soul, one who hated 
 hypocrisy, show, and iniquity. Ask the many hundreds 
 to whom he has administered words of consolation in grief, 
 whom he baptized, whom he married. 
 
 "His life as a minister was all that could be desired. A 
 minister may be ideal in life before his congregation, and 
 because not tempted, be zealous and courageous, but it is 
 trial, hardship, persecution that tries the just man, and his 
 trial came and brought out the real character of the man, 
 the hero and the martyr. He knew what it was to face 
 shot and shell and serve his country in time of danger as 
 chaplain in a Massachusetts regiment in the Civil War. 
 But that was child's play ; his real trial was to come. 
 
 "One night at prayer, like St. Paul going to Damascus, 
 in the quiet and solitude of his own room, he prayed long 
 and earnestly for the True Light. He was overcome with 
 confusion, blindness, uncertainty, doubt. He cried out, 
 'Lord, that I may see ; I want light, the night is dark, lead 
 Thou me on. Lord, what wishest Thou me to do ? Lead, 
 kindly Light.' Then the answer came, 'You have served 
 me faithfully these years, your prayers are answered.' A 
 flood of light seemed to break through the gloom, and he 
 was overwhelmed and exclaimed : 'Father, if it be possible 
 let this chalice pass from me. What! am I not a priest? 
 I must go over to Rome ? Must I break the friendships of 
 a life time ? Have I been really blind and a leader of the 
 blind? Let the chalice pass, O God! Think of my little 
 flock that I have ministered to so carefully. I shall 
 scandalize them. I shall do injury to religion.' Again 
 the answer: 'Come, give up all things; follow Me.' 
 
Happy Days 139 
 
 "Men have praised the heroes of the charge of the 
 Light Brigade and of other gallant deeds. Ah ! but what 
 was their courage to that which gained the great moral 
 victory. How many a man in similar circumstances has 
 turned off the current and shut out the light and would not 
 let it enter his soul. 
 
 "And now we are assembled to pay the last tribute of 
 respect and brotherly love to a fellow priest; to one who, 
 like ourselves, has stood at the altar of God and offered 
 sacrifice for the living and the dead; to one who, like our- 
 selves, has paused to say at the foot of the altar, 'Judge me, 
 God, and discern my cause,' and yet who would not dare 
 to ascend to the Mountain of the Lord till he had said 
 aloud, before all the people, 'I confess to Almighty God 
 and to all the saints that I have sinned exceedingly in 
 thought, word, and deed, through my most grevious fault.' 
 
 "So great is the dignity of the priesthood of the new law 
 that the expression 'Sacerdos alter Christus' (the priest is 
 another Christ), has been adopted by the Church as 
 expressing fully the high position he occupied in the world. 
 When the Saviour, the night before He suffered, took 
 bread into His holy and venerable hands and said, 'This is 
 My body, this is My blood, do this for commemoration of 
 Me,' He gave to his newly ordained priests the power to 
 do what He had done. And what was the meaning of that 
 power? St. Paul in his Epistle to the Corinthians tells us 
 where he says, 'As often as ye shall eat of this bread and 
 drink of this chalice ye shall show forth the death of the 
 Lord till He come. Wherefore, whoever eateth this 
 bread or drinketh the chalice of the Lord unworthily shall 
 be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord. But let a man 
 prove himself and so let him eat of this bread and drink of 
 this chalice, for he that eateth and drinketh unworthily 
 eateth and drinketh judgment to himself, not discerning 
 the body of the Lord ! ' A priest, therefore, if he be a priest 
 
I40 Father Tom 
 
 at all, must be connected with a visible sacrifice, and the 
 reason I lay stress on this point is because it was deep and 
 prayerful meditation on these words that brought our dear 
 departed friend where he is to-day. 
 
 "His body lies here in this Catholic Cathedral, clad in 
 all the sacred vestments of his high and holy office, hon- 
 ored in death by so large a number of his fellow-priests, few 
 of whom knew him personally, sprinkled with holy water, 
 incensed with precious perfumes, not only because his body 
 was once the temple of the Holy Ghost, but because of 
 the eternal priesthood of Christ of whom it was said, 
 'Thou art a priest forever according to the order of Mel- 
 chisedec ' and hence to-day we honor this faithful servant 
 of God, this priest who conjointly with the great High 
 Priest is like Him a priest forever according to the order 
 of Melchisedec. " 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE TRAVELER 
 
 One of the great pleasures in life is travel. Father 
 Tom believed that the world belonged to the man who had 
 seen it, and during the days of his curacy and as a pastor, 
 all of his spare time, and most of his slender income, was 
 spent in travel. As a student and a newly ordained priest 
 he had seen many of the beautiful cities and towns of 
 Italy. He reveled in describing the blue Italian skies 
 and the sparkling waters of the Adriatic. 
 
 These experiences made him yearn to gaze upon the 
 beauties of earth wherever they were to be found. Of the 
 delights of travel he said in one of his lectures: 
 
 The Irish, the English, and the Germans are great travelers, 
 and the American of to-day, who is a mixture of the three, is 
 the greatest of all and has earned for himself the title of globe- 
 trotter. Every one has a desire to travel, some in a greater 
 and some in a less degree, and it comes from our studies. The 
 more history and historical romances we read, the scenes of 
 which are laid in old countries, the more we long to gaze upon 
 the places rendered famous by the lives and deaths of men. 
 We have magnificent scenery right here in the United States. 
 Our Hudson River is far the superior of the Rhine, our Lake 
 George is fully the peer of Killarney, and more beautiful than 
 Como. The Catskills are more delightful than the Alban 
 Hills, the Rocky Mountains just as impressive as the Alps or 
 the Himalayas. Why then is it that we are anxious to go 
 abroad, when we have all these things at our own door? It is 
 
 141 
 
142 Father Tom 
 
 principally because of their historical connections. It is be- 
 cause we can read history of centuries in the old stones that 
 lie toppling over one another in the ancient round towers or 
 the grand old cathedrals or university buildings that speak to 
 us most eloquently of times gone by. All of us cannot gratify 
 this ambition to travel, so that those of us who can do so ought 
 to feel it a duty to give others the benefit of our travels and 
 to make all participate in the delights which travel gives to 
 both mind and heart. 
 
 Father Tom made four trips through Europe, first in 
 1884, returning from Rome, again in 1896 when he visited 
 Egypt and the Holy Land, in 1905 touring the Cathedral- 
 towns of England, and visiting Spain and finally in 1910 
 when in failing health he sought rest and relief at Aix-les- 
 Bains in France, at Bad Nauheim in Germany, and found 
 strength, consolation, and comfort at the shrine of Our 
 Lady, to whom he had a special devotion, in Lourdes. 
 
 As a young priest returning from Rome, Father Tom's 
 travels brought him through Italy, Germany, France, 
 England, and Ireland. His impressions were noted at 
 length in a diary which he kept of each day's experience. 
 A few extracts will show the earnest religious feeling which 
 inspired him as he gazed upon the famous cathedrals, and 
 the superb natural beauties of the Old World. 
 
 "We have just had a glorious ride through the grand 
 majestic Alps — fertile valleys, gorgeous mountains, pretty 
 streams — but everything Italian as yet. How high the 
 mountains tower. How high the birds fly, the wild 
 animals climb! Man alone clings to the valleys. AU 
 nature would fain come nearer its creator. Man, the 
 noblest of all creatures, seems to be content to remain low 
 down. What a lesson we might learn from nature. 
 
 "As we passed through this wonderful snow-clad moun- 
 tain scenery, and I saw the frequent streams and cascades 
 rushing down from high mountains, I realized that the 
 
The Traveler 143 
 
 mountains soaring so high and becoming covered with 
 snow, the snow melting rushes down and makes fertile the 
 valleys below. So it is when some blessed in God ascend 
 to the height of perfection and love, they obtain for them- 
 selves and others abundant showers of blessings and graces 
 from on high. 
 
 "The Milan Cathedral is magnificent — Gothic at its 
 best, in a word. Few pictures, for it needs them not, fine 
 stained-glass windows. Saw the solid silver tomb of St. 
 Charles Borromeo, the great choir, and organs. I re- 
 mained for part of the High Mass, saw the strange vest- 
 ments, listened to the strange chants, and watched the 
 strange ceremonies. Visited the church of Santa Maria 
 delle Grazie, and in a hall nearby looked for some time on 
 the famous Last Supper of Leonardo da Vinci. It is 
 very well preserved, but the fact that so little of the original 
 is left, after so many restorations, detracts greatly from its 
 value as a work of art. One thing I noticed was that in 
 the original there exists no salt cellar of any shape. This 
 addition, no doubt, is the work of some unscrupulous fan- 
 ciful artist. 
 
 "Cologne Cathedral is the grandest Gothic structure I 
 ever saw. It is simply magnificent as regards exterior and 
 St. Patrick's, New York, resembles it somewhat. The 
 columns and the aisles of the interior are grand, as are 
 likewise the windows. We visited the tomb of the three 
 Magi, a great square mausoleum and very simple. Visited 
 the church of St. Ursula and saw there the great collection 
 of bones of the eleven thousand virgins who were martyred 
 with her by the Huns in the twelfth century. The walls 
 of the church are fiUed with bones. The sacristan showed 
 us a reUc of the true cross. At Aix-la-Chapelle we also saw 
 some precious relics, the girdle of Our Lord, part of a gar- 
 ment of Our Lady, part of the rope wherewith Our Saviour 
 was whipped, rich chalices, ciboriums, and reliquaries." 
 
144 Father Tom 
 
 In 1896, Father Tom, having as a companion his friend 
 and classmate, Rev. James F. Crowley, made a trip to 
 Egypt and the Holy Land. The company on board the 
 Fuerst Bismarck, which sailed from New York on a 
 Mediterranean tour in February of that year, included 
 many distinguished Americans, with all of whom Father 
 Tom became a favorite as he frequently entertained them 
 with his singing, and on one Sunday evening at the request 
 of the Captain gave services in the saloon at which many 
 Protestants attended. It was on this trip that Father 
 Tom made the acquaintance of Rev. Benjamin F. De 
 Costa, the noted New York Protestant clergyman who 
 later became a Catholic priest. The diary which Father 
 Tom kept of part of this trip unfortunately was lost, and 
 only two letters are available to tell of his feelings while 
 at the spot hallowed by the footsteps of Our Savior. One 
 is dated, 
 
 "Off Beyrout, Syria, 
 
 "March i, 1896. 
 
 ' ' We have been like Moses of old for the last two days, 
 in view of the Promised Land. There was cholera in 
 Alexandria, and consequently a five days' quarantine is 
 set in Turkish dominions against all vessels coming from 
 Egypt. Here we are at anchor in the beautiful harbor of 
 B eyrout forty miles north of Jaffa . The tall rugged moun- 
 tain s of Lebanon, backed by the perennial snow-clad range 
 of the anti-Lebanon Mountains, are right before us. They 
 are no longer covered with the grand cedars which Hiram, 
 King of Tyre, sent to Jerusalem for the building of the 
 temple, but have a deserted, burnt-out look. Yesterday 
 we passed by the coast of Tyre and Sidon, of which Christ 
 speaks in the Gospel, and whose people rejected His teach- 
 ing. The sunset on the snow-clad hills was a sight never 
 to be forgotten. For half an hour after the red sun had 
 
The Traveler 145 
 
 set for us on the horizon, we could still see that it shone 
 brightly on snowy Lebanon. Scarcely had the light dis- 
 appeared when over the same range of hills arose the full 
 moon in all her silvery glory. We felt rewarded for our 
 visit to Beyrout. 
 
 "At nine o'clock we were treated to a total eclipse of 
 fair Luna, and we all declared that nature is simply 
 spreading herself for us during all this trip. 
 
 "At Alexandria we visited the famous Pompey's Pillar, 
 and we were more interested in the glories of the past than 
 in the dirty city through which we passed on our way to 
 Cairo. Egypt astounded me, in its sepulchral monu- 
 ments but principally in the fertility of its soil. It rains 
 only one inch a year in Egypt, and yet very often they get 
 three crops from the earth. The Nile overflows annually 
 and deposits mud, the people press the button by sowing 
 the seed, and nature does the rest. 
 
 "The streets of Cairo at the World's Fair, in 1892, gave 
 but a faint idea of the real streets, for the real streets are 
 dirty, and the people are like the streets in every respect. 
 There are no sewers in Cairo, and yet it is a city of four 
 hundred thousand people. We made three excursions, 
 first to the Pyramids, the second to the ruins of Heliopolis 
 where we saw an obelisk and the 'Virgin's Tree' under 
 which the Holy Family rested during the flight into Egypt, 
 as also the 'Virgin's Well ' near the tree where the Blessed 
 Virgin washed the Divine Infant, and the third excursion 
 to the Pyramids of Isccarah, where we had a donkey ride 
 for five hours through palm groves, and then over the 
 burning sands of the desert to the ruins of Memphis and 
 the tombs of the Sacred Hills and Pyramids, and the tomb 
 of 'Ti.' Oh, it was an awfully hot ride, still we saw it 
 and paid our respects to the Sheik of the Tombs. The 
 Mosques at Cairo are grand, but most of them are in a 
 state of decay because the government is bankrupt, and 
 
146 Father Tom 
 
 unable to keep them going. In old Cairo on the banks of 
 the Nile we saw the spot where Moses was found in the 
 bulrushes. ' ' 
 
 A second letter is dated Bethlehem, March 6, 1896. 
 Writing to his youngest brother he said : 
 
 "You are the privileged one of the family, the Benjamin, 
 to receive a letter from this holy of holies, Bethlehem, 
 where Christ, Our Lord, was born. It is impossible to re- 
 alize it all, but to-day we saw the very cave of Bethlehem, 
 which I have known and pictured to myself since child- 
 hood, and words fail me to speak of the thoughts that filled 
 my h eart, for they were unspeakable. To-morrow we hope 
 to have the supreme pleasure of celebrating Mass in the 
 holy grotto itself, and I shall make an earnest memento 
 for mother and brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts 
 and all. We saw also to-day the fields where tradition 
 says the shepherds saw the vision of the angels when they 
 announced the glad tidings. Bethlehem has become a 
 reality and the mystery of God made man a more wonder- 
 ful mystery than ever. This morning I celebrated Mass 
 on Mount Calvary where Jesus died upon the cross for 
 man's salvation, and to-day we visited the Holy Sepulchre, 
 the Garden of Gethsemane, the Mount of Olives, the 
 Church of the Ascension, the Tomb of Lazarus, and the 
 house of Martha and Mary in Bethany, the place of Ecce 
 Homo, the temple of Solomon (ruins), the wailing place 
 of the Jews, and the original Stations of the Cross. To- 
 morrow we start for Smyrna, thence to Constantinople. 
 This is a very picturesque country, high mountains, shep- 
 herds, sheep, goats, wells, tombs, and so on. " 
 
 On the return trip from the Holy Land Father Tom 
 traveled extensively through Europe and these extracts 
 from a diary written on board the steamer give his impres- 
 sions : 
 
 "Munich is a very clean progressive city, the capital of 
 
The Traveler H7 
 
 Bavaria. A fine large German church with pews, and the 
 services conducted with German decorum and solemnity. 
 The Royal Palace is very fine. The King's stables — most 
 of the horses from Ireland. The State carriages and 
 sleighs are the finest in the world. We have seen others 
 since, even in the Tuileries, and they could not compare 
 with those of Bavaria. The poor King is mad and a re- 
 gent rules in his stead. We saw the change of guard at 
 the Royal Palace and it was a truly comical sight to see the 
 soldiers go through what they term dress parade. The 
 opera in Munich begins at six p.m. and is over about nine- 
 thirty, then all adjourn to the beer halls and gardens to 
 drink beer and eat sandwiches. Our guide spoke French 
 and brought us through the Royal Treasury and the old 
 palace of paintings, and the King's palace with its state- 
 room of Pius VII. We went also to the Royal Hofbrau 
 Kellar and a smoky dingy place it was. Horses all through 
 Germany draw the wagon by one shaft. Dogs, helping 
 men and women to draw wagons, are very common. The 
 park is equal to the Bois de Bologne. The King's palace 
 is very fine, yet strange to say William prefers to live in the 
 old palace at Potsdam, a city about half an hour's ride 
 from Berlin. We went there Good Friday P.M. and visited 
 the old palace of Frederick the Great and the beautiful 
 Queen Louise and saw her suite of rooms and her private 
 apartments and the ' Tree of Appeal. ' Visited the new 
 palace where the present Emperor lives and saw the won- 
 derful dining-room, built to represent the ocean caves, and 
 covered with shells and large precious stones. From there 
 to the tomb of Unser Fritz, made of Carrara marble repre- 
 senting him lying in state. We went by fast express from 
 Berlin to Cologne and it was as good traveling as one could 
 have on the Central at home. Fine rolling country, large 
 manufacturing towns, neat little villages, church spires in 
 every village, women at work in the fields, all the flower 
 
148 Father Tom 
 
 of the country in the army, fooling away their lives in 
 idleness. 
 
 "Dresden is another city more beautiful than Paris, 
 and cleaner though smaller. Protestant with a Catholic 
 King. We attended Mass in the church Holy Thursday 
 and saw the King and suite. Attended Protestant service 
 for five minutes in the great Lutheran Church. A statue 
 of Martin Luther in the square erected two years ago. 
 
 " Oh ! let me not forget the Sistine Madonna of Raphael 
 and Hoffman's Christ in the Temple, the latter, the picture 
 that impressed me more than any I have seen in my travels. 
 Munkacksy's Christ on the Cross did not impress me at all 
 but HofiEman's Christ Preaching from Peter's Boat to the 
 people on the shore did affect me. 
 
 "From Dresden we went to Berlin through a rather fiat 
 country with many large prosperous towns. Berlin is the 
 finest city in Europe. Grand buildings and temples of 
 art, great galleries, palaces, colonnades and bridges, statues 
 and parks, fountains, theaters, boulevards, clean streets, 
 parliament houses, propylasa, etc. Its people stout, 
 healthy, happy, beer drinking, fond of rational pleasure. 
 We said Mass Easter Sunday in the principal Catholic 
 church. Very edifying sight to see the Catholics there 
 both Friday, Saturday, and Stmday. A Protestant city 
 and consequently the Catholics are devout and practical. " 
 
 Under date of April 14, 1896, there is found these inter- 
 esting items. 
 
 "To-morrow night, please God, we shall bein 'homesweet 
 home, ' dear old New York. As to Paris what shall I say. 
 From the use of soft coal it has become dirty like London. 
 So different from the Paris I saw in 1878. The streets are 
 alive with people day and night. The Boulevard des 
 Italiens especially seems the favorite promenade. We 
 ascended the Eiffel tower over eight hundred feet by the 
 elevator and had a superb view of the city. Drove 
 
The Traveler i49 
 
 through the Champs Elysees and the Bois de Bologne, Arc 
 de Triomphe, visited the great church of Sacred Heart at 
 Montmarte; fine outside but cheerless within. Notre 
 Dame Cathedral is the same as ever, saw its treasury with 
 coronation robes of Napleon first. Soutane worn by Abp. 
 Darbois when he was shot by the commune. Versailles 
 Palace and grounds a great disapointment, likewise the 
 Trianon and Petit Trianon, which cannot be compared to 
 Sans Souci of Potsdam for beauty of art. The state 
 carriages and sleighs of Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, 
 Louis, etc. (Oh ! the humbug of it all !) , could not be com- 
 pared to those of Bavaria's crazy king. The people are 
 light-spirited, gay, frivolous as you see them at night. 
 But in the daytime as you see them at business and as you 
 meet the crowds of shop girls going to their work or coming 
 home, and minding their own business or as you see them 
 crowding around the favorite shrines of their Madonna 
 (Notre Dame), they appear to be an industrious, sober- 
 minded, devout people. If a person retired to his hotel 
 at sundown he might come away with a very good impres- 
 sion of Paris — ^but at night — it is different from Berlin, 
 from Dresden, from Vienna, and to be candid, the only 
 city that reminded me of Paris at night is New York! — 
 up town. London I do not remember well as I did not 
 see it by night to advantage — Paris is retrograding every 
 day. Many dirty streets, and while they are enjoying 
 life, the Germans are preparing for war, and enjoying Uf e 
 moderately. (1896.) 
 
 "The greatest, most sublime sight of our whole trip was 
 reserved for this morning, we were awakened at 6 : 30 by 
 the voice of the stewardess in the next stateroom saying 
 to our next door neighbors, 'You should get up once and 
 see the icebergs. ' I hastened on deck and witnessed a 
 spectacle never to be forgotten. About four mUes away 
 was a field of ice reaching — so the captain said — nearly a 
 
150 Father Tom 
 
 hundred miles in length. We counted in this immense 
 field no less than eighteen bergs and afterwards at least six 
 individual bergs which had floated off and each must have 
 been at least a hundred feet out of the water. As they 
 shone resplendent in the light of the morning sun they 
 resembled at one time towers, at another time cathedrals, 
 at another sublime ruins of old abbeys and stairways, and 
 the sunlight causing effects of shadow and light made even 
 broken arches and oriel windows appear without any 
 stretch of imagination. The Parthenon and Acropolis 
 were not to be even thought of when we gazed on these 
 handiworks of God. It taught me at least that the great- 
 est work of man cannot be compared even to one of God's 
 icebergs floating in mid-ocean to give him glory. It was 
 truly a glorious sight. " 
 
 The trip which Father Tom took to Europe in 1905 
 was made principally to tour the Cathedral towns of 
 England and to visit Spain. A few of the most interesting 
 letters of the many written by him during his three months 
 of travel are these: 
 
 " The Royal Hotel, Plymouth, 
 
 " July 9. 1905- 
 
 "Here I am in Plymouth, having just returned from a 
 charming drive through the town whence the Pilgrim 
 Fathers sailed. I visited the pier this morning where those 
 sturdy men, fleeing persecution, boarded the Mayflower 
 and braved the unknown seas. Persecuted themselves, 
 it is passing strange that they did not learn the lesson of 
 religious toleration. I found Plymouth a large flourishing 
 city of nearly three hundred thousand inhabitants with 
 fine clean streets, troops of Tommy Atkins and crowds 
 of well-dressed civilians. Double-decker tram-trolleys 
 filled with gay people meet you everywhere. I said Mass 
 in the cathedral this morning at 9 o'clock and preached 
 
The Traveler 151 
 
 a short homily on obedience. ' Lord we have labored all 
 the night and have caught nothing, nevertheless at Thy 
 word I shall let down the net. ' It would have done 
 Mother's heart good to see the regiment of fine strapping 
 red-coated soldiers march into church, making music with 
 their own heels on the tiled pavement. They listened with 
 great attention to the stranger as he held them up as 
 models of obedience to the rest of the congregation, and 
 heard him say that that's the kind of obedience, united to 
 love, that God wants from all of us. 
 
 "His Lordship, Bishop Graham, received me very 
 courteously and sat with me at a breakfast of "am and 
 eggs. ' He told me that Father Sheehan was under him, 
 an assistant at Exeter, and that many of the characters 
 in Luke Delmege are real ones copied from originals, the 
 old Canon merely changing the names. " 
 
 " RouGEMONT Hotel, Exeter, 
 " July 9, 1905. 
 
 "My first Sunday in England gives me the impression 
 that this is a very religious country (at least on Sunday), 
 and furthers the impression indelibly made on me years 
 ago, that religious toleration wins more souls to the love 
 of Christ than all the thumbscrews and racks and slow 
 fires ever invented by Catholic Spain or Protestant Eng- 
 land. Everywhere to-day in Plymouth and Exeter, shops 
 were shut and the prince and peasant were dressed in 
 their Sunday clothes, hastening to church and thence 
 to rational enjoyment at the seaside or open field. I can 
 understand better now the phrase 'running to church' 
 because this morning I saw a great number of well- 
 dressed people prayer books in hand, hurridng on for dear 
 life, to be in time. Many of the men wore high hats and 
 Prince Albert coats and many of the women of the medium 
 and lower class wore hats like my straw, good big ones 
 
152 Father Tom 
 
 that reached their ears and in many instances pushed their 
 faces down a bit. 
 
 "A pleasant ride of two hours through a rolling country 
 brought me to this first of the Cathedral towns. It is 
 like Plymouth but smaller, the same sense of prosperity 
 appearing everywhere especially in the neat cottages of 
 the working classes. The Cathedral I found large, very- 
 old and crumbling, but disappointing in the interior. 
 When I entered it was filled with worshipers, many de- 
 vout, many looking around like myself. A clergjnnan was 
 reading away at a sermon above the heads of his people. 
 They came for bread, perhaps, and they got some Scotch 
 granite instead. What he talked of I know not for my 
 mind was busy with other things. I thought how a few 
 centuries ago those same arches rang with the 'Glorias' 
 and 'Hosannas' and 'Allelujas' of the monks of old, and 
 how the people of Merry England received the true Bread 
 of Life both in the Gospel and in the Sacrament of the 
 Eucharist. But now! The preacher reads, the organ 
 grandly swells, but there is no soul in it all. The life is 
 gone. God's angels have fled from the desecrated temple 
 and in the place of the Holy of Holies rises a great organ. 
 The service is over, all were ordered out of the church, 
 and 'twas just as well. Why remain? The Presence was 
 not there. The Princess Frederica attended the service 
 with her husband. Who is she? I know not. Perhaps 
 the lineal descendant of Henry VIH who put Christ out 
 of His temples in England. " 
 
 "London, July 15, 1905. 
 
 "Yesterday we had a deUghtful experience in the shape 
 of a row on the Thames. We took the train to Windsor, 
 about half an hour's ride and saw the grand old castle 
 which looks just as beautiful as the pictures represent it. 
 The quiet flowing river, with its green banks, dotted here 
 
The Traveler 153 
 
 and there with clumps of big oak trees; the graceful swans 
 called 'the King's birds' swimming around the daintily 
 decorated house boats and other pleasure craft, the chil- 
 dren paddling on the shore or fishing for fish that never 
 bite, the river curving every now and then and giving new 
 surprises in the way of charming bits of scenery, and the 
 immense turreted castle towering high up above the 
 whole scene, formed a picture never to be forgotten. I 
 said Mass this morning in the crypt of St. Etheldreda's 
 chapel, one of the few ancient shrines in possession of our 
 church. " 
 
 After leaving Exeter, Father Tom visited Salisbury, 
 Canterbury, Ely, Peterborough, Lincoln, Durham, and 
 York. How his heart was thrilled at quaint old Canter- 
 bury when a venerable verger pointed out the spot before 
 the side altar upon which saintly Thomas k Becket knelt 
 when he was slain at the behest of the king by the murder- 
 ous knights. And 'here at Canterbury as well he was 
 privileged to sit in the chair in which St. Augustine of 
 Canterbury sat when he was enthroned as its first Arch- 
 bishop. He stood and gazed in admiration at the beautiful 
 lines of those wonderful cathedrals of Ely and Peter- 
 borough ; reverently prayed at the tomb of the Venerable 
 Bede at Durham, but declared Lincoln was the crowning 
 glory of them all. 
 
 ' ' Surely a visit to these ancient English Cathedrals is a 
 rare treat to the lover of Gothic architecture as well as a 
 delight to the student of Church history. While it is sad 
 to think of the way in which the English people were 
 robbed of their faith under Henry VIII and EUzabeth, and 
 whilst difficult to understand how such a change was 
 brought about, yet it is a source of pride to think that the 
 faith once so strong was perpetuated in these marvelous 
 monuments of stone which for centuries have resisted the 
 slow but sure destructive power of the elements. It is 
 
154 Father Tom 
 
 also a pleasure to think that within the last thirty years 
 a wonderful change has come over the religious thought 
 and tendencies of the Anglican body, so that now in many 
 of those glorious temples one sees the high altar and reredos 
 again in its place, adorned with figures of Christ and Our 
 Lady and the saints, while in the center of the altar sur- 
 rounded by lighted candles, stands the crucifix, and at 
 Vespers the sweet odor of incense is observed, as in days of 
 old. Some day we feel certain, when Parliament realizes 
 that it is only the Church of Rome that can safely direct 
 the masses of the common people and hold them in control, 
 the grand real sacrifice will be offered again on those altars, 
 and the choir stalls will be filled with the black friars and 
 white friars, as in the days of Merrie England. " 
 
 During this same trip, in 1905, Father Tom spent nine 
 happy days at the shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes, he 
 visited the tomb of the celebrated Cure of Ars, and the 
 shrine of Notre Dame de Fourvi^res at Lyons. Amongst 
 other places of interest visited was the well-known water- 
 ing place of Biarritz, the Pyrenees of Pau and Cauterets, 
 and the cities of Burgos, Madrid, Toledo, and Barcelona 
 in Spain. 
 
 In a letter from Lourdes he wrote : 
 
 "I arrived here Saturday evening after a long and 
 sleepless night ride from Paris and a rest of a few hours at 
 Pau. Lourdes goes entirely beyond my expectation, and 
 is without doubt the grandest shrine in all the world. 
 As I approached the great square in front of the Basilica, 
 I witnessed a procession of about a thousand pilgrims from 
 Strasbourg, all carrying lighted candles and singing a pecu- 
 liar litany in German, the refrain being the words 'Ave 
 Maria ! ' Most of the pilgrims were men and the effect 
 produced by the magnificent volume of voices, and the 
 evident intense faith of the pilgrims cannot be expressed 
 in words. I was not the only one in whose eyes there were 
 
The Traveler 155 
 
 tears. A visit to the famous grotto seemed to produce the 
 same effect on many who came there for the first time — 
 for you are Uving in an atmosphere of simple faith, and 
 feel that this indeed is a wonderful place — this is the House 
 of God, and the Gate of Heaven. My first Mass was on 
 Sunday and was offered for all the members of the parish 
 of the Blessed Sacrament (living and dead). My second 
 Mass, said on Monday was for a member of the parish 
 who for many long years has been a gentle, patient sufferer 
 from a grievous malady, and my third, to-day, I endeavored 
 to say for myself, but instinctively my prayer was, 'Lord, 
 hear the fervent prayers of those praying for me at home, 
 for I don't know how to pray for myself. ' To tell the 
 truth, there are here so many poor, suffering examples of 
 helpless humanity a hundred per cent, worse off than I am, 
 that I would rather pray for them than for myself, for they 
 really need the help. I must away now for the grand 
 Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament. If I wanted to 
 wish any Catholic the greatest treat of his life — even 
 greater than a view of the Pope and of Rome — I would say, 
 'See Lourdes and die happy. ' " 
 
 "Hotel Terminus Nord, 
 " Paris. 
 
 "Arrived in the poor little village of Ars, we visited the 
 tomb of the great parish priest. He is now 'Blessed' and 
 his body was conveyed with great pomp, on August 4, 1905, 
 and placed in a rich golden casket over the altar of a side 
 chapel. A thin mask of wax gives a bona fide representa- 
 tion of his face as he reposed in death, for when they 
 removed the body from its original casket of lead, after 
 being buried nearly fifty years, it was found practically 
 incorrupt. The Cure was like Leo XI H, so thin and frail 
 that there was little left but skin and bones. I said Mass 
 at his shrine at 5.30 this morning and then visited the 
 
156 Father Tom 
 
 little rectory with its relics. I prayed hard for everything 
 except my physical wants." 
 
 " Amsterdam, Holland, 
 "Aug. 31, '05. 
 
 "We reached Antwerp shortly after one o'clock and I 
 spent the afternoon seeing the city. I had the pleasure 
 of seeing Rubens's famous paintings of the Ascent and 
 Descent from the Cross together with several other of his 
 works. The Cathedral itself was very large and impres- 
 sive interiorly but, like many Catholic monuments of the 
 days of faith, it has been ruined by tawdry cheap statuary. 
 The pulpit is one of the many specimens of intricate wood 
 carving for which Belgium is famous. The city of Ant- 
 werp is by all odds the cleanest city I have ever visited. 
 It is simply a case of 'Spotless Town, ' and I know it, for 
 I walked the whole time. One of the strange sights of 
 Belgium is to see the work of horses and mules done by 
 dogs and not over large ones at that. I saw two dogs to- 
 day pulling along a little dog cart in which sat a farmer and 
 his boy. These animals certainly lead a dog's life of it. 
 Just think of it last Sunday afternoon at five o'clock I was 
 at a bull fight in Madrid and here four days later I am in 
 Amsterdam, Holland, having in the meantime visited 
 Lyons, said Mass at Ars, and spent a night in Paris." 
 
 While always enthusiastic over the surpassing natural 
 beauties of the countries he visited, Father Tom, being a 
 natural born mimic, often delighted his intimate friends 
 with a description of people he met on his travels whose 
 mannerisms and foibles were depicted in such a clever way 
 that one was able to picture them in imagination as per- 
 sons actually met. 
 
 "Scarcely had we landed from a delightful row on the 
 beautiful Thames when we saw a little red-faced butcher boy 
 of about eighteen and a tall baker boy of about twenty, 
 with a pale face, indulging in some personal compliments 
 
The Traveler 157 
 
 of a questionable nature. In a flash 'little Reddy' threw 
 off his jacket and started in to square off at lanky Bob. 
 The little fellow was like a game cock and dodged around 
 at a great rate and endeavored to scratch his antagonist. 
 We watched the fight for about four minutes till we saw 
 the big fellow strike little Red in the jaw. The next thing 
 we knew they shook hands, lanky Bob put on ' Reddy 's' 
 coat, Reddy jumped on his butcher's cart and they both 
 went on their way apparently as cheerful as though noth- 
 ing had occurred. And this took place under the shadow 
 of Windsor Castle! It made me reflect that it was this 
 spirit of fighting and then making up again quickly that 
 has made England what she is. The opposite spirit on 
 the other hand, is what leaves Ireland on the flat of her 
 back. Her chieftains and people have fought among 
 themselves for centuries but neither side ever gives in, 
 even when beaten. " 
 
 Father Tom was most kindly received by His Eminence 
 Cardinal Logue of Armagh, and spent two very pleasant 
 days in his company. Of Ireland he said, that while it is 
 unsurpassed in the beauty of its scenery, the words of the 
 song are only too true: 
 
 She's the most distressful country that ever you have seen. 
 
 Thousands of acres of rich lands were lying idle and 
 the country outside of the cities appeared deserted. So 
 far as the future of Ireland was concerned his opinion 
 was that if some rich American capitalists would under- 
 take to revive Irish industries and start the valuable 
 mines going, it would prevent the great emigration that 
 was fast depopulating the country. 
 
 "In Belfast I was obliged to hear Mass like one of the 
 faithful. A little chap came running out of the church 
 in his bare feet. I said, 'Where's your shoes, my lad?' 
 
158 Father Tom 
 
 'I have none, sir. ' 'Well how do you keep warm in win- 
 ter? ' And looking up at me with his smiling Irish eyes he 
 replied, 'Oh, sir, I just kape runnin' round.' 
 
 "A jarvey drove us around Belfast and pointed out the 
 principal sights, among others the new Post Office. 
 'That's a fine public building ! ' said I. 'Yes, your Rever- 
 ence, ' said the driver, 'but that's the back of it, you ought 
 to see the front of it, it's behind!' 
 
 "When we arrived in Dublin it began to rain and I 
 asked the jarvey what he did when it rained. 'What do 
 you mane,' says he, 'is it the car — how do I protect the 
 car?' 'No,' said I. 'How do you protect yourself?' 
 'Oh, let it rain all it wants to on meself. ' — 'This is a very 
 wet country, ' said I. 'It's been raining steadily now for 
 a week.' — 'Oh, that's nothing sir,' said the jarvey, 'last 
 year it rained steadily for eighteen months. ' 
 
 "In some parts of Ireland they still talk of Cromwell, 
 particularly in the ancient city of Drogheda where the 
 recollection of his butcheries will never die out as long 
 as there lives the son or grandson of an Irishman to tell the 
 sad tale. An English lady viewing the sights in Drogheda 
 asked a jaunting-car driver, 'Who is this Mr. Cromwell, 
 does he live anywhere hereabouts?' 'Faith ma'am,' re- 
 plied the driver, 'he lives now where he can light his pipe 
 with the tip of his fingers. ' 
 
 "Last evening we sauntered up the main street of Cal- 
 ender (Scotland) and entered a kirk. We heard an organ 
 recital by some fellow from Edinburgh University and 
 incidentally witnessed an innocent flirtation between a 
 swain and a girl of his. He would mark a chapter and 
 verse in his Bible and slip it back to her and she would 
 mark a place in hers and pass it to him and both would 
 smile significantly. The Bible is a wonderful book. 
 
 ' ' The glorious Fourth at sea ! The presence on board of 
 a Father Kessler of Detroit, a splendid type of a German 
 
The Traveler 159 
 
 American priest, reminds us forcibly of a memorable Fourth 
 of July at sea when our own Father Kessler, of St. Joseph's, 
 New York, knelt with the crucifix in his uplifted hands 
 and fervently besought God's mercy for the unfortunate 
 souls on board La Bourgogne as that ill-fated French liner 
 gradually disappeared beneath the waves, and a terrified 
 ship's company sank into eternity. The only event to 
 mark the day were some athletic games, refereed by a 
 former pugilist, who seemed to be the principal attraction. 
 A small committee of gentlemen, headed by a well-known 
 member of the New York bar, waited on the Captain and 
 requested permission to hold a brief patriotic celebration 
 in the saloon. The Captain declined, giving as his reason 
 that on the preceding Decoration Day a celebration was 
 held and a Western Congressman had the temerity to 
 make some remarks about an event that occurred in 1776 
 and it gave offense to so many that he decided there would 
 be no more patriotic American celebrations on board his 
 ship. And this is the American line and the beautiful 
 Stars and Stripes float in the breeze at the stern ! 
 
 "Spent a delightful couple of hours with Canon Denis 
 McSwiney (that's how he says the family name is spelled 
 on ancient tombstones) pastor of Sts. Peter and Paul's 
 in Cork. He told me of his life while parish priest in 
 Bandon and one of his works, of which he spoke with 
 animation and pride, was the placing of a statue of the 
 Blessed Virgin at the spot on the walls of the town where 
 some scoffer had written, 'Turk, Jew, or Atheist may enter 
 here, but not a Papist.' — 'You will remember,' said the 
 Canon, now eighty-four, 'that underneath those offensive 
 words Dean Swift wrote, "Who wrote these lines wrote 
 them well for the same are written on the gates of hell." ' 
 
 "At Glasnevin cemetery I felt a thrill of patriotic and 
 religious fervor as I reverently placed my hand on the 
 wood of Daniel O'Connell's coffin, and then stood admir- 
 
i6o Father Tom 
 
 ing the graceful lines of the tall round tower marking the 
 resting place of Ireland's emancipator. In a remote 
 corner of the cemetery my eyes happened by pure chance 
 to rest upon an inscription which so excited my interest 
 that I copied it. 'Erected to the memory of Anne Devlin, 
 Emmett's faithful servant who possessed some rare and 
 many noble qualities, who Hved in obscurity and poverty 
 and so died. September i8, 1851. ' Recalling the untold 
 indignities which this woman, as a girl of twenty-four, 
 suffered, because of her loyalty to Robert Emmett and her 
 fortitude when faced with the bayonets of the British 
 soldiers, I realized that I was standing at the grave of one 
 of Ireland's greatest heroines. Anne Devlin in the face 
 of humiliation and bitter suffering would not disclose 
 Emmett's hiding-place in the Wicklow Mountains and it 
 was left for a man to turn informer. It is unfortunately 
 true that Ireland's cause has often been hampered and 
 hindered by some of her unworthy sons but the true no- 
 bility of nature displayed by this humble peasant girl, in 
 the midst of torture, should be remembered by lovers of 
 liberty the world over to the everlasting credit of woman- 
 kind who, though termed the weaker sex, is often far 
 stronger than the strongest man in loyalty, affection, and 
 heroic devotion to those they love. " 
 
 Father Tom visited the Pacific Coast in the spring of 
 1901 and spent several months in Southern California. 
 He was enthusiastic in his praise of the scenery in all parts 
 of the Golden State. An extract from a lecture entitled 
 The Old Mission Bells, which he delivered shortly after his 
 return, tells of the delight which he experienced in visit- 
 ing the old Franciscan missions. 
 
 "The traveler who has seen California in the springtime 
 has witnessed a picture of loveliness that cannot be sur- 
 passed in all the world. Cross over the Sierras and for 
 hours you are in the midst of snow and ice and the accom- 
 
The Traveler i6i 
 
 panying severe cold of winter, for it is still the month of 
 February. 
 
 "The summit reached the rapid descent begins; the 
 train dashes along around curves overlooking precipices 
 hundreds of feet in depth, and in less than three hours you 
 find yourself in a veritable paradise, a land of sunshine and 
 flowers. The mountains and the hills and the valleys are 
 covered with golden poppies, and wild flowers of purple, 
 red, yellow, blue, and pink as far as the eye can reach. 
 Calla Ulies and geraniums are as common as weeds in this 
 land of abundance, and as for roses they fill the country 
 with their color and sweetness the whole year 'round. 
 Prom the delicate little wild rose to the great luscious 
 American beauty, we find this favorite flower everywhere. 
 Frequently instead of a wooden fence in front of a dwelling, 
 there is a low hedge of rose bushes and vines covered with 
 thousands of flowers, pink, white and blood red filling the 
 air with their fragrance day and night. Immediately the 
 traveler becomes poetic, but when he descends farther into 
 the plains, and rides through the San Joaquin or Santa 
 Clara or Salinas valley, and passes through miles of orange 
 groves, with luscious golden fruit ready to drop from the 
 overladen branches, and again through miles of peach, 
 prtme, apricot, and plum orchards, with their delicate white 
 and pink blossoms, he is forced to exclaim, 'This is truly 
 the land of sunshine and flowers. ' 
 
 "If, however, your journey leads up at eventide to one 
 of the old Franciscan missions, then is the poetic soul up- 
 raised in joy and exultation. Never can we forget whUe 
 life lasts our approach to the old mission of Santa Barbara, 
 situated on an eminence in an ideal garden spot, with the 
 high Sierras as a background and the immense waves of 
 the Pacific dashing against the rocks in full view of the 
 convent cloisters. It was a perfect evening in the month 
 of January. The warm sun was sinking to rest over the 
 
1 62 Father Tom 
 
 boundless ocean, and its golden rays were reflected over 
 the blue waters, as we came near the hallowed monastery. 
 
 "When, hark! What are those Heavenly sounds that 
 greet our ears? They are like the voices of angels out of 
 dreamland. They form harmonies such as we have never 
 heard before — so sweet, so pathetic, so full of romance and 
 poetry and reminiscence, that they almost make one a 
 believer in the transmigration of souls; for one feels that 
 sometime far away in the dim and distant past, he has 
 heard sounds that exercised the same influence over his 
 soul, but when or where he cannot tell. 
 
 "When I heard the old mission bells of Santa Barbara, 
 therefore, they spoke to me a story of a long ago. On the 
 summit of a hill at Monterey stands a marble statue of a 
 man clad in the habit of a poor follower of St. Francis of 
 Assisi. He bears aloft the sign of our redemption, and 
 seems to invoke a blessing on both sea and land. 
 
 ' ' Looking at the inscription we find that the monument 
 is dedicated to the memory of the venerable Father Juni- 
 pero Serra, founder of the Franciscan Missions in upper 
 California. Junipero Serra was a delicate youth but was 
 so filled with the spirit of his divine vocation that he spent 
 most of his time in reading the lives of the saints. He was 
 accustomed to scourge himself regularly with an iron chain 
 and to burning his flesh with a lighted candle. He was 
 merely taking in a literal sense the words of the Master: 
 'If thy right hand scandalize thee, cut it off, and cast it 
 from thee. For it is better to enter heaven marred than 
 to be cast forever into hell. ' 
 
 "On December 6, 1749, Father Serra landed at Vera 
 Cruz whence he proceeded on foot to Mexico, walking 
 twenty-six days to reach there. For over eighteen years 
 he labored among the Indians of Mexico, and then estab- 
 lished the missions in upper California. 
 
 "There had been Franciscan Fathers among the In- 
 
The Traveler 163 
 
 dians in Lower California as far back as 1596, over three 
 hundred years ago, preaching the Gospel, administering 
 the Sacraments, and leading mortified lives while peace- 
 ftilly converting the Indians, and this was twenty-four 
 years before the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock and 
 began their systematic slaughtering of the Indians on the 
 eastern coast. 
 
 "The first mission in upper California was founded by 
 Father Junipero in San Diego, July 16, 1769, and we can 
 picture his coming among the Indians. Down near the 
 seashore at Monterey there is a large grove of gnarled live 
 oaks, interspersed with tall pine trees and under their 
 wide-spreading branches the native savages were as- 
 sembled to hold a council of war. Far out on the ocean 
 they perceive a great vessel with white sails such as they 
 have never seen before, and one of their old men has de- 
 clared that it is filled with war-like men who come to rob 
 them of their land, and that if they permit them to disem- 
 bark they will lose their country forever. 
 
 "As the ship approaches they become more apprehen- 
 sive. At length the vessel, carrying Father Junipero and his 
 monks, drops anchor in the bay and fires a salute three 
 times in honor of the blessed Trinity, and most of the poor 
 savages fall prostrate on the ground with fear, for they 
 think it is the voice of a God that has spoken. A won- 
 derful spell comes over them as they see the Franciscan 
 Fathers and the Spanish soldiers come ashore with their 
 bright armor and their carbines and their wonderful ban- 
 ners held in the hand of the leading soldier who takes 
 possession of the country in the name of the King of 
 Spain. Their prophet has forseen aright ! Great is their 
 astonishment when they see some of the men cut down two 
 large trees, and stripping them of their branches raise 
 them in the form of a cross for thus the Fathers claim the 
 souls of the Indians in the name of Jesus, King of Kings. 
 
1 64 Father Tom 
 
 "Softened suddenly are the savage natures of these men 
 when they hear the monks chant their hymns of thanks- 
 giving to God : 
 
 Te Deum Laudamus 
 Te Dominum confitemur 
 Te Aeternum Patrem 
 Omnis terra veneratur 
 Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, 
 Dominus Deus Sabbaoth. 
 
 " No less moved are they as they listen to the song of 
 the monks invoking the blessing and the guidance of the 
 Holy Ghost as they chant the Veni Creator Spiritus. 
 Neither do these holy men forget to sound the praises of 
 their Virgin Queen of Heaven under whose special pa- 
 tronage they have taken their journey. For now the 
 chant takes another turn and they hear the inspiring 
 Magnificat. 
 
 " Very soon a rude altar is set up. The Gothic arches 
 of the gigantic firs and redwoods and pines forming a 
 wonderful nave and chancel, while the transept is filled 
 with naked savages who look on awe-stricken at the 
 bright colored vestments of Father Junipero who is singing 
 the first High Mass ever heard in that virgin forest. The 
 birds are warbling sweetly in the branches and the odor 
 of the incense mingles with the sweet perfume of the 
 flowers and ascends as a sacrifice of prayer to God. 
 
 ' ' Now a hush comes over the frightened Indians, because 
 for the first time in their existence they hear the tinkling 
 of the little silver Mass bell as the celebrant says, 'Sanctus, 
 sanctus, sanctus, ' and a moment later they see the Fathers 
 all bowed down in prayer to the ground and, while Father 
 Junipero raises the sacred host on high, the soldiers fire a 
 volley in honor of the King of highest Heaven who has 
 
The Traveler 165 
 
 come down to ransom the captive souls held in bondage 
 under the yoke of the enemy of mankind. 
 
 " 'Peace on earth to men of good will' is the message 
 that the Eucharistic God brings to these poor people and 
 they, unconsciously bending low at the sacred mysteries, 
 fulfill again the prophetic words of Malachias; 'From 
 the rising of the sun to the going down there is sacrifice in 
 every place, and there is offered to my name a clean obla- 
 tion, for my name is great among the gentiles, saith the 
 Lord God of Hosts. ' 
 
 " Thus was the standard of the cross raised in Monterey 
 in Upper California, and the first seeds of the Catholic 
 religion planted ; and whatever may have been the motives 
 of the Spanish conquerors in acquiring new territory for the 
 crown of Castile, we know from the Protestant historian 
 Bancroft that the sole motive that moved the saintly 
 Junipero and his companions was to win souls to the 
 knowledge and love of God by preaching Jesus Christ and 
 him crucified. 
 
 "Missions were founded at San Diego, San Bonaven- 
 tura, San Carlo, Santa Barbara, Carmel, San Juan Capi- 
 strano, San Gabriel, San Luis Obispo, Santa Inez, and San 
 Francisco, and thousands of Indians were taught by the 
 missionaries not only how to keep the commandments of 
 God, but also to give up their savage warfare, to cultivate 
 their fields by planting wheat and corn and vegetables of 
 all kinds, and at the same time they were instructed in 
 reading and writing. 
 
 "It is only on the great judgment day, when the books 
 are opened, that the world will know all the sufferings, all 
 the privations and hardships, all the hunger and thirst and 
 cold, all the persecution and bitterness and ingratitude 
 that these sturdy warriors of the cross had to endure in 
 order that the Indians of the far West might be brought 
 under the sweet yoke of Christ." 
 
1 66 Father Tom 
 
 "Paso Robles, Cal., 
 " Feb. 22, 1901. 
 
 ' ' I never spoke of the car driver, did I ? He's the pro- 
 prietor, sole owner. President, and whole company of the 
 Paso Robles Railway. The rolling stock consists of an 
 old time jigger car, on both sides of which appears the 
 legend: 'Mud Baths' and the top and back and front, 
 and in fact every spot not covered by the aforesaid legend 
 is covered with advertising signs such as 'Go to Helders 
 for your axle grease,' 'Feed your hens with Whiskey 
 Cocktails, ' ' Have your sheep sheared by Tony the barber, ' 
 'Clean towel with every three shakes of a lamb's tail,' 
 etc. His two horses are called the 'Blue and the Gray' 
 because they are so old and 'Hack Kneed. ' 
 
 ' ' Old Whiskers himself came out of a gopher hole origin- 
 ally and never knew nothin' before nor since. He is more 
 spavined than either of his horses ; but he mounts the back 
 platform and rings the husky bell several times and then 
 in a wheezy voice, his nose in the key of 'high G' says 
 'Beord' which being translated signifies 'AH aboard.' 
 Seeing no one budge from the hotel piazza he takes a walk 
 down to the pump, has a drink, strokes out his whiskers 
 and has a chat with the doctor or the druggist or anyone 
 who happens to be near. Mounting again the front plat- 
 form he says: 'Well ef ther ain't no one goin' I guess I'U 
 be movin' back t' ther stable. ' This is a signal that he 
 really intends to start, so there is a rush on the part of 
 four or five people who want to catch the car for the Mud 
 Baths. He shouts 'Whoa thar!' and turns around the 
 brakes as if grinding coffee so that one would imagine the 
 car was on a very steep grade instead of on the dead level 
 and the horses walking at a snail's pace. Then he turns 
 around with a chuckle and says, ' Wall I come put ' near 
 leavin' ye behin' this time, I'm twenty minutes behin' 
 time now. ' When he arrives at the baths, two miles 
 
The Traveler 167 
 
 away, he unhitches the steeds and lets them out to grass 
 and then gets into the car and reads the Examiner or the 
 Lady's Home Journal until the last man has had his bath. 
 He must wait or lose his fare, for he collects the fare (20 
 cents) before he starts on the return trip. 
 
 "An Englishman and his wife who live in Los Angeles 
 boarded the train at Spokane. The first thing I heard 
 him say to the conductor was, ' How much is it to Yellow- 
 stone?' ' How much if we go in the ordinary coach and 
 then into the sleeper just at night ? ' ' How much to go in 
 the observation car and ordinary coach?' Next morning 
 I met him at the station lunch counter and the questions 
 were as follows: 'How much would I have to pay if I 
 went over to the Hotel for breakfast?' 'Seventy-five 
 cents? That's too much ! ' 'What can I get here to eat ?' 
 ' How much for scrambled eggs ? ' ' Twenty cents ! Does 
 that mean for two ? ' ' All right ! let us have scrambled eggs 
 for two. What, only two eggs for twenty cents! That's 
 too much. Well, all right, my wife won't have any eggs, 
 just bring me two for myself. Fresh ones don't you 
 know?' 
 
 "I met him after breakfast and he said, 'They charge 
 too much for everything around here. I'm not going to the 
 Hotels in the Park, they charge too much. I am going to 
 the camp it is much cheaper. ' Then followed a long 
 history of cheap things and bargains he had purchased, 
 and an inquiry as to how much the fellow charged me for 
 breakfast. When leaving for the camp he said, 'I can't 
 tell you how much I have enjoyed your company. ' I 
 should say about five cents' worth judging by his usual 
 standards." 
 
 " Yellowstone Park, 
 "June 16, 1901. 
 
 " Yosemite the beautiful will ever linger in my memory 
 as a vision of Paradise; Yellowstone Park, so far will 
 
i68 Father Tom 
 
 always make me think of hell. Wonderful beyond words 
 are the manifestations of nature in action all through the 
 Park. Thousands of wells that are forever boiling and 
 bubbling and throwing the scalding water sixty to a hun- 
 dred and sixty feet in the air ; paint pots a hundred feet in 
 circumference that keep spluttering up white mud from a 
 thousand different places. Hot steam coming out of 
 large craters and emitting a sound greater than that of the 
 safety valve of an ocean steamer. It is all marvelous, 
 weird, uncanny. It makes one think of Dante's Inferno. 
 It is like the hell he pictures, without the flames. The 
 natural fountains seen at Mammoth Springs are something 
 that must be seen to be appreciated. Traveling alone 
 is not pleasant, unless you strike in with agreeable people 
 as I did going to Hawaii. Beside me on the stage to-day 
 was a German from Germany, who spoke scarcely a word 
 of English. We stopped at one of the thousand springs 
 and had a drink of ApoUinaris. It was delicious. When 
 we returned to the stage I said to him, ' The water is very 
 good,' a simple sentence. His answer was, 'Yes it is 
 werry refreshment. ' 
 
 "Yesterday an enthusiastic lady was seated beside me, 
 and when we were gazing at the crystal waters that came 
 toppling over the exquisitely tinted fountains she ex- 
 claimed, 'Isn't it beautiful, it looks so spongy, don't you 
 know?' 
 
 "At Norris Station to-day we were very much amused by 
 Larry Matthews who is mine host ! He is a jolly Irishman 
 full of wit and humor who keeps up a running comment all 
 through the lunch and shakes hands with every male 
 diner. 'This way ladies, that's it, sit down. You're 
 heartily welcome, and if you're a baron or a dioke and pay 
 down the dollar, you can eat as much as you please. 
 Three soups there Jimmy! That's right! Don't fill 
 yourselves with soup for there's meat and vegetables and 
 
The Traveler 169 
 
 pie yet. Fire away all of ye and when ye git through off 
 wid ye to th' geezers! Well, good-bye I hope I'll see you 
 all again. My home is in Heaven, Call and see me ! ' etc. 
 He spotted me and said, 'I beg pardon sir, where's your 
 name on the register?' I pointed it out and said, 'It's a 
 French name like your own. ' — 'I thought so, ' he said, 'for 
 I saw a thrace of the map in your face — I'm from County 
 Louth. ' " 
 
 Father Tom visited Mexico in 1909, and some of his 
 impressions on the condition of the Church there were 
 given in an article published in the Catholic World in 
 January, 1910. 
 
 "My visit to Mexico was made to see the country, its 
 inhabitants, and its works of art, and, to study the actual 
 condition of the Catholic Church within its borders. I 
 had read various accounts of the sad condition of religion 
 among the Mexicans. Their worship was represented as 
 a mass of idle superstitions ; their priests were pictured as 
 immoral; their children were represented as ignorant. 
 To test the truth or falsehood of these statements, we 
 visited several clergymen, notably two American born 
 priests who had no reason to misrepresent the actual state 
 of affairs. 
 
 ' ' I received my first impressions of Mexico on a Sunday 
 morning. As I walked along through the quiet streets of 
 Orizaba there was an air of Christian Sabbath about the 
 town. Ten minutes' walk from our hotel brought us to the 
 church called 'Dolores' the church of the Seven Sorrows 
 of our Lady, and as we entered we saw a sight fit for the 
 brush of an artist. A Mexican, clad in ragged garments, 
 with his peculiar shoulder covering which strongly re- 
 sembled in shape a priest's chasuble, his tall-peaked 
 Mexican hat on the ground beside him, his scapular of 
 Moimt Carmel hanging outside his clothing, knelt near 
 the door, and with outstretched hands and eyes directed 
 
lyo Father Tom 
 
 towards the tabernacle, devoutly said his prayers, paying 
 no attention to those who passed in or out. As we stood 
 there for a moment in admiration at the simple prayerful 
 attitude of this publican, we saw a woman, with her baby 
 strapped to her back, as is their custom, enter the church, 
 devoutly cross herself with holy water, and dexterously 
 reach her right hand over her left shoulder to sprinkle her 
 little baby with the same. 
 
 "The church was very bright and cheerful and clean, 
 the priest in charge most hospitable, the altar linen 
 immaculately white, the chalice and paten perfectly 
 polished, the tabernacle with its draperies, bespoke a real 
 living faith in the Blessed Sacrament. The congregation 
 was composed, for the most part, of women; poorly clad, 
 it is true, but most devout. Next we visited a Jesuit 
 Church, and witnessed a scene that few travelers have 
 recorded. In one part of the church a large catechism 
 class of little Mexican boys sat on the ground barefooted, 
 of course, their eyes bright and full of intelligence, their 
 hair unkempt ; their hands and faces, in some instances at 
 least, manifesting the utter absence of the use of soap and 
 water; but their hearts, like those of their parents were in 
 the right place. Their sisters on the opposite side of the 
 church sat on little benches and their Sunday School 
 teachers, just like our own, were seated with catechism in 
 hand and made the pupils repeat them the answers to the 
 questions; the most profound that can be proposed to the 
 human mind. 
 
 "When the lesson was over, the children said the morn- 
 ing prayers, after which the good Father put them through 
 a series of catechetical gymnastics on the five principal 
 mysteries of religion and on the ten commandments, all 
 of which they recited in chorus. The session ended with 
 the singing of a hymn. 
 
 "From this church we wended our way to the principal 
 
The Traveler 171 
 
 square of the city, a beautiful park or alameda alongside 
 of the cathedral-like structure known as the parish church. 
 Entering this edifice we found it filled with devout wor- 
 shipers who were attending the Forty Hours' Adoration. 
 Noting that the worshipers were nearly all women and 
 children I said to my companion : ' The Mexicans, as far 
 as the devout female sex is concerned, are certainly faith- 
 ful in their attendance at Sunday Mass ; but where are the 
 men?' 
 
 "At half past twelve while sitting in the park looking 
 towards the parish church, I saw issuing from its immense 
 portals, hundreds upon hundreds of men, and I learned 
 from the parish priest that the twelve o'clock Mass was 
 for the men only, and the attendance was always large. 
 Mentally I said to myself; 'Let no one in future tell me 
 that the Mexicans in general are an irreligious people. 
 Let no one venture to assert that the priests as a rule are 
 not men of godly lives. ' If the old saying be true: 'As 
 the priest so the people, ' then I would conclude as far as 
 my observation went in Orizaba, that the city must be 
 blessed with a band of zealous, untiring priests. 
 
 "On Monday morning I offered Mass in the Jesuit 
 Church, and was astonished to see upwards of one hundred 
 young women approaching Holy Communion; and on 
 asking the father in charge what was the meaning of this 
 on a Monday morning, he explained to me that this was 
 the Sodality of the Children of Mary, and that they were 
 making a Novena of Holy Communions in preparation 
 for the first celebration of the feast of our Lady of Lourdes 
 in Mexico. 
 
 "I found out later, in a conversation with one of the 
 secular clergy, the real explanation of all the devotion 
 which I had witnessed in various parts of the Republic. 
 An atheistic Masonic government, which hates the church, 
 has persecuted the religious orders of men and women and 
 
172 Father Tom 
 
 driven them out into an unsympathetic worid. Their 
 convents and monasteries and colleges and churches and 
 schools have been confiscated and declared government 
 property. After the manner of the French Republic, the 
 government kindly consented to allow those whom they 
 had robbed to buy back their own property; and as many 
 of the wealthy Spaniards and Mexicans availed themselves 
 of this privilege, the result is that several churches in the 
 larger towns are open for Christian worship. The govern- 
 ment strictly forbids the clergy to appear on the streets 
 with their soutanes visible, hence the custom of wearing 
 long black cloaks. 
 
 ' ' The present government has forbidden all ecclesiasti- 
 cal processions in the streets, even in towns where the 
 entire population is in favor of them. On the other hand 
 it allows carnival processions, not only during the ten days 
 preceding Ash Wednesday, but on all Sundays during 
 Lent, and in these processions, indecency of costume as 
 well as of action is not only not frowned upon but receives 
 the fullest sanction of the government. As if to emphasize 
 more fully the determination of the minority in power, 
 after closing up all the churches they are erecting at the ex- 
 pense of an oppressed people, what is supposed to be the 
 largest theater in the world where the ballet and vaude- 
 ville and light comedy will be offered to the public. ' They 
 that sow the wind reap the whirlwind, * and so it will be 
 in Mexico. The good padres used all their influence for 
 upholding the hands of the secular government; the un- 
 wise legislators under the most absolute of dictators. 
 President Diaz, have rejected the aid of Holy Church 
 with the result that Socialism is fast making itself a 
 power throughout the land. Even now leaders in the 
 army are plotting a revolution against Diaz and his chosen 
 friends. 
 
 "Throughout Mexico the same infamous methods are 
 
The Traveler 173 
 
 in vogue that have disgraced the French Government. 
 Sisters and brothers and priests are not allowed to teach 
 in the schools; in the hospitals and industrial homes and 
 reformatories, where these noble men and women exercised 
 such a power for good, it is strictly forbidden to mention 
 the name of God; there must be absolutely no religious 
 training whatever for the children ; the sacred emblems of 
 the crucifix and the images of the saints have been ruth- 
 lessly torn down and removed ; many of the churches are 
 rented by the government for storehouses for grain and 
 liquor, or as stabling places for horses and wagons ; yet for 
 all that the large majority of the Mexicans are devoted 
 children of Holy Mother Church. 
 
 ' ' ' How do you support your churches ? ' I asked one of 
 the priests, ' and what supports you ? ' He answered that 
 they were dependent entirely upon the alms of the faith- 
 ful ; the poor laborers, out of their paltry wages, contribut- 
 ing generously to the support of religion. 
 
 "While I was talking to this priest two peons or labor- 
 ing men came into the vestry and one of them slipped a 
 large leather belt from his waist and said to the padre: 
 ' I want a Mass said on next Friday at five o'clock in honor 
 of St. Anthony, that God may bless my little farm. ' He 
 lifted the belt in the air until he had shaken out a Mexican 
 dollar and handed it to the priest and waited for his 
 receipt. 'That poor fellow, ' said the priest, 'lives about 
 six miles away and will be here bright and early on Friday 
 before the church is opened to be present at the Mass. ' 
 The reason therefore, of the great piety of the Mexicans 
 and their devotion to the church is that they are suffering 
 persecution for justice' sake. 
 
 "I asked a Jesuit father in Orizaba if I might take that 
 city as a fair example in reUgious matters of the cities of 
 Mexico. He shook his head sadly and answered : 'No, 
 I am sorry to say,' he continued, 'that Vera Cruz and 
 
174 Father Tom 
 
 nearly all the seacoast towns are very irreligious; few of 
 the people go to church at all; and,' he added significantly, 
 'I leave it to you to judge the real cause of this. ' 'How 
 about the city of Mexico itself? ' I queried. 'As for Mex- 
 ico, ' he said, 'I will only answer for our own parish. 
 During Lent we have a four weeks' retreat, the first for the 
 women servants, the second for the men servants, the 
 third for the ladies and the fourth for the gentlemen of 
 the parish ; and our church is crowded during those four 
 weeks. During the last week we have between eight 
 hundred and a thousand men who go to confession and 
 receive Holy Communion ; but I regret to say that for the 
 rest of the year the great majority of the men never cross 
 the threshold of the church. ' 
 
 "In the cathedral of Mexico at the reception given to 
 the new archbishop, we had the pleasure of seeing his 
 Grace pass through the crowds of kneeling men and women, 
 many richly dressed, while side by side knelt the humble 
 barefooted ragged Mexican men, women, and children, all 
 eager to kiss the hand of the bishop and to receive his 
 blessing. 
 
 "At Cordova I met Father Krill, who was bom in Pitts- 
 burg. His father coming to Mexico on business settled 
 there. After some years the young man was ordained for 
 the diocese of Mexico, and accomplished such splendid 
 work there that when his pastor was made bishop, he 
 insisted that Father Krill should go with him to his new 
 diocese. 
 
 "The wonderful results brought about during the six 
 years of Father Krill's administration show to us very 
 clearly why Christ was content to use only twelve Apostles 
 for the conversion of the world. In Cordova and its en- 
 vironments there are some four or five secondary chapels, 
 which, it is unnecessary to say, were in very poor condition. 
 The bishop appointed Father Krill pastor, not only of the 
 
The Traveler i75 
 
 cathedral but of the outlying parishes and five priests 
 were appointed to assist him in his work. Each priest 
 takes charge of a certain mission, and is responsible for 
 it to the pastor. All the stipends, even the offerings for 
 Masses, are handed over to him, while he in turn pro- 
 vides his community with a Mass stipend for every day 
 and their board and lodging and their meagre salary of 
 about ten doUars a month. 
 
 "To give some idea of the apostolic joumeyings of the 
 pastor himself, it is enough to state that four times in the 
 year he takes the train to Vera Cruz, some sixty miles away, 
 then goes on horseback thirty-nine miles each way over 
 the mountain trails, to hear the confessions of an English 
 speaking colony at one of the seacoast towns. As the 
 roads are few and far between in the mountain districts 
 most of his sick call work must be done on horseback or 
 rather on muleback, and here again let us note the deep 
 seated religious sentiments of the native Mexicans. Up 
 the side of the mountain seme nine miles away from the 
 city live nearly nine hundred farm laborers and their 
 families. Father Krill assured me that, except in case of 
 sickness not one of these people would think of missing 
 Mass on Sunday. Down the mountain slope they trudge 
 nine miles and after Mass back they climb nine miles 
 again to their wretched straw-covered huts. 
 
 "In the cathedral church Father Krill has established a 
 society of perpetual adoration. When the church opens 
 in the morning the members of the Guard of Honor begin 
 their loving task and bands of six or more women succeed 
 each other during the day. When the Angelus rings in 
 the evening at six, the men come in large numbers and 
 remain on guard like so many statues, gazing steadfastly 
 at the tabernacle until the church is closed about nine 
 o'clock. On Thursday evenings throughout the year 
 over five hundred people attend the Holy Hour of Adora- 
 
176 Father Tom 
 
 tion. Daily Communion is constantly on the increase, 
 particularly among the Sodalities of our Lady and the 
 League of the Holy Eucharist. 
 
 ' ' Let us hope that, as the noon day sun melts the snow 
 of Orizaba and sends it down in life giving streams to 
 irrigate the valleys below, so may the faithful prayers of 
 the devout Mexican Catholics serve to convert the hearts 
 of the public enemies of religion and bring down God's 
 continued blessings upon the people of Mexico." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 TWENTY-FIVE YEARS A PRIEST 
 
 It is June, the month of roses, the most delightful 
 month of the year in the country. In no suburb of the 
 great city, in that first summer month, are the beauties 
 of nature more bountifully displayed than in lovely New 
 Rochelle, close by the sparkling waters of Long Island 
 Sound. The various trees which cluster about the hill- 
 sides, and the shade trees around the town now take on 
 their summer dress, and the newly set out plants in the 
 many gardens surrounding the houses on every street and 
 avenue are beginning to blossom forth in all their beauty. 
 
 It is Sunday. How strange it is that even in the country 
 there's a peculiar stillness in the air on the Sabbath day 
 that is not true of any other day in the week. The silence 
 is only broken by the sound of bells summoning worship- 
 ers to divine service. How dearly Father Tom loved the 
 sounds of bells. 
 
 "Did you ever notice the influence of sound upon the 
 human heart. It is generally a melody or a song and not 
 infrequently the sound of a bell. There is nothing that 
 will so quickly awaken memories as the sound of a bell 
 whose tones were known to us in childhood. It may have 
 been the sweetly sounding bell of the village church 
 where we worshiped and learned our catechism as chil- 
 dren. It may have been the tinkling of the little silvery 
 Mass bell that rang us to our knees at the 'Sanctus' or 
 12 177 
 
178 Father Tom 
 
 caused us to lowly bow our heads during the elevation or 
 make us strike our breasts at the ' Domine Non Sum Dig- 
 nus' as we approached the holy table. It may have been 
 the dismal sound of the school bell rung by the precise 
 hand of the teacher calling us unwillingly to our books, or 
 the merry sound of the same bell telling us that noonday or 
 three o'clock had come and we were free to romp to our 
 heart's content. It may have been the tinkle of the merry 
 sleigh bells in winter as we went 'dashing through the 
 snow in a one-horse open sleigh. ' It may have been the 
 chimes in the cathedral that rang out a peal of blessing 
 on the newly wedded couple as they came out from the 
 Nuptial Mass, the harmonies of the chimes mingling with 
 the sound of the wedding march. " 
 
 The pealing of the bell in the tower of the church of the 
 Blessed Sacrament, on Sunday, June 6, 1909, was a joyous 
 sound in Father Tom's ears and his heart was thrilled as 
 he realized the bell was being rung to call the people of the 
 parish to attend the solemn high Mass in celebration of the 
 twenty-fifth anniversary of his ordination to the priest- 
 hood. The early morning train from the city brought a 
 distinguished company of ecclesiastical and lay friends of 
 Father Tom, all eager to join with him in offering thanks 
 to Almighty God for his goodness in sparing him to cele- 
 brate his silver jubilee. Father Tom was celebrant of the 
 Mass, his uncle Rev. Edward McSweeny of Mt. St. 
 Mary's, deacon, and Rev. James F. Crowley, subdeacon. 
 
 The jubilee sermon was preached by Rev. Cornelius 
 Clifford, Father Tom's classmate at Fordham, and was a 
 most eloquent presentation of the glory of the priesthood. 
 Father Clifford took as his text : 
 
 "Sacrifice the Sacrifice of Righteousness. Put your hope 
 in the Lord. Many there are that say : Who hath shown us 
 good things. The light of Thy Countenance is sealed upon us, 
 
THE CHURCH OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT, NEW ROCHELLE 
 
Twenty- Five Years a Priest i79 
 
 0, Lord. Thou hast given gladness to my heart. By the 
 fruit of their corn and wine and oil are Thy people multiplied. 
 In peace, therefore, will I lay me down and rest, because Thou, 
 Lord, hast singularly established me in hope. " 
 
 These words [said Father Clifford, in opening his sermon], 
 seem to sum up in a very singular and stimulating way the 
 thoughts that must inevitably rise to our hearts in the presence 
 of the feast that we are keeping together to-day, a feast which 
 is preeminently Catholic; and which needs a Catholic heart 
 altogether to understand it, for it is the feast of one upon whom 
 the light of God's Countenance has been sealed these five and 
 twenty years past; the feast of a Levite soul who has during 
 that time, in obedience to the burden that was laid upon his 
 shoulders with the chasuble of his priesthood, sacrificed the 
 one true Sacrifice of Righteousness. Upon him and upon you 
 his people, there has been sealed in consequence, the Light of 
 God's Countenance, the unction of that Spirit by which we 
 know Jesus in the Eucharist, and come mysteriously and 
 strangely close to Him, in the daily and most sacrosanct rite 
 of his indefectible Church. You therefore, not less than he, 
 have a right to say this morning that in the thought of that 
 High Mystery your heart will take its rest. The seed of the 
 spirit is never planted in vain. You and I and the children 
 of the church of God who have shared in his ministry, or been 
 recipients in any way of his mystical bounty during that period, 
 have been singularly multipUed by the " corn and the wine and 
 the oil" of the Church's fullness and gladness. Therefore, 
 to-day, we are "singularly established in hope." 
 
 At the end of the Mass standing on the altar where he 
 had stood twenty-five years before on his return from 
 Rome, Father Tom, now the beloved pastor of a devoted 
 flock, turned to his people and in these feeling words 
 expressed his gratitude to God in being privileged to stand 
 in a place which he valued more that many higher ecclesi- 
 astical honors — pastor of the Blessed Sacrament in dear 
 old New Rochelle. 
 
i8o Father Tom 
 
 There are times in a man's life when he finds it hard to dis- 
 cover words to express the emotions of his heart. Words fail 
 to express the joy, and at the same time the humiliation I feel 
 standing before you to-day. Joy beyond measure because of 
 the honor done to the Christian priesthood so beautifully 
 spoken of by my friend and classmate Father Clifford, humili- 
 ation because of my utter unworthiness of any praise that has 
 been spoken or may be spoken of me during this sacerdotal 
 jubilee. 
 
 I feel honored by the presence of so many friends. I am 
 certain that your minds go back to that beautiful day in 
 August, some eight years ago, when the venerable jubilarian 
 of fifty golden years stood in this same temple and rendered 
 thanks after a blameless life which I could not begin to imitate. 
 After Almighty God and a good father and mother it was he 
 who made this celebration to-day possible. May they rest in 
 peace. 
 
 I feel particularly honored by the presence of my venerable 
 uncle Dr. McS weeny of Emmitsburg, and of one who may be 
 termed the last of the old guard, Monsignor Burtsell. Their 
 presence to-day brings back to many of us the early days of the 
 Catholic Church in New Rochelle, the days that are associated 
 with old Father McLoughlin, Dr. Patrick McSweeny, Father 
 Nilan, Dr. McGlynn, Father McCarthy, and Father Thomas 
 Farrell. 
 
 There is one other present to-day who is connected with the 
 days of my childhood. I passed from the hands of the beloved 
 Sister Marguerite into the hands of Brother Isidore, under him 
 was made more and more perfect and by his guidance my 
 footsteps were directed in the path that led me to the foot of 
 God's altar. 
 
 There are amongst you many who in the old days in New 
 Rochelle were companions of mine, when we roamed the fields 
 together and played as children. To-day some of you have not 
 only your children but your grandchildren here and you, with 
 them, unite in calling me by the sweet name of father. That 
 alone causes me to rejoice beyond words to-day. We are 
 gradually growing old together but I think that our hearts are 
 
Twenty-Five Years a Priest i8i 
 
 about as young as they were in the happy days of Drake's 
 Lane. 
 
 I was deeply touched by the rendition of the Juravit Domi- 
 nus the Lord has sworn — the Lord has sworn and he will not 
 repent. Thou art a priest forever according to the Order of 
 Melchisedec. Twenty-six years ago that solo was written by 
 the present Archbishop of Boston, my classmate, who would 
 be here to-day but for his enforced absence in Rome. It has 
 been sung in the American College at the ordination of stu- 
 dents ever since and it brought back tender memories of that 
 day, twenty-five years ago, when we knelt tremblingly before 
 the feet of the Vicar General of Rome, Cardinal La Valletta 
 and heard him pronounce the words that mado us priests for- 
 ever according to the order of Melchisedec. 
 
 During these years I have had many misgivings, many fail- 
 ures, many faults, and many sins in the sight of Almighty God, 
 but I do not think that any one could ever accuse me of being 
 false to a friend. I have made many dear friends among the 
 clergy and laity and I have held them all because I never made 
 a friend except of one whom I could trust with all my heart 
 and who trusted me in the same measure. 
 
 I rejoice with you, my dear people, of the Blessed Sacra- 
 ment whom I can truly call my joy and my crown. This 
 magnificent church, its decorations, its windows, and marble 
 altars and its ornaments are proofs of your generosity; and 
 your response, when called upon to approach the sacraments, 
 is evidence that the faith handed down to you by your an- 
 cestors is strong and active and that you in turn are handing it 
 down with the same firm and practical belief in Jesus Christ, 
 in the Blessed Sacrament, by teaching your children the prac- 
 tice of frequent Communion. It is in that Blessed Eucharist 
 that you and I and your children are united and made one 
 body here, and it will be by putting into practice the teachings 
 that you hear regularly from this altar concerning the frequent 
 reception of the Blessed Sacrament that you and I will one 
 day be united in the heart of Jesus Christ. 
 
 Every Sunday since I have become your pastor, whether 
 at home or abroad, I have offered up the sacrifice of the Mass 
 
1 82 Father Tom 
 
 for you and your families, living and dead, and I felt that I was 
 but returning the prayers that you, as a people, were offering 
 for me. If the Lord spares my days, spares me for many 
 years to come I hope the same relationships will continue, 
 that we may persevere, perfecting ourselves in the spiritual 
 life until we shall appear before the great throne of God when 
 I shall be able to say, "These are my children whom I have 
 taught the way and the truth and the light and they are with 
 me returning. " 
 
 My dear friends from the bottom of my heart I wish you 
 God's blessing in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy 
 Ghost. 
 
 At the silver jubilee banquet held in the rectory Rt. 
 Rev. Patrick J. Hayes, Chancellor of the New York 
 diocese, brought greetings from Archbishop Farley: 
 
 I am here as a member of the Archbishop's immediate family. 
 His Grace charged me in the following words: "When the 
 jubilee of Father McLoughlin comes along you take care of 
 this little souvenir that I am sending him. I regret that I 
 cannot be there myself, but extend him my good wishes for 
 many years of life in the priesthood, to accomplish great good 
 for souls. " The Archbishop's feeling towards Father Mc- 
 Loughlin is one that is well known. He has the confidence of 
 his ecclesiastical superiors. The strength of a diocese is meas- 
 ured, not by the number of its institutions, not by the number 
 of its clergy, nor again by the character of a great Bishop; but 
 rather by the priest in the parish, and the kind of a parish 
 spirit he fosters, determines its spiritual well-being. I loiow 
 what we all feel in a man like Father McLoughlin, we have a 
 true priest who measures up to the requirements demanded 
 by this great arch-diocese. The Archbishop is the watchman 
 in the tower looking out upon an immense field; he commis- 
 sions his priests to go forth into that field; if they do well, the 
 responsibility of the Bishop is all the lighter; if they fail, the 
 Bishop's responsibilities and difficulties increase. When this 
 
Twenty- Five Years a Priest 183 
 
 beautiful charge was assigned to Father McLoughlin, his su- 
 periors were not apprehensive of even the possibility of failure ; 
 they knew all would be well; the flock would be carefully 
 tended ; the lost sheep brought home ; the little ones instructed 
 properly, and the fold kept fast and secure against the enemy. 
 
 On Monday evening, June 7th, in the New Rochelle 
 Theater there was a public celebration, arranged by the 
 citizens of the town, in honor of Father Tom. Mr. Robert 
 Emmet, one of New Rochelle's distinguished citizens pre- 
 sented Mr. George G. Raymond, Mayor of the City and a 
 parishioner of the Blessed Sacrament, as Chairman. Dr. 
 Conde B. Fallen, the eminent Catholic historian and pub- 
 licist delivered an address on the dignity of the priesthood, 
 which was so comprehensive and illuminating on the sub- 
 ject of the divine origin of the church and the sublimity 
 of the priestly office, that it inspired and thrilled all who 
 were privileged to hear it. 
 
 In the divine economy of the church [said Dr. Fallen] the 
 priest stands in most immediate and most intimate relations 
 to the people as an ambassador of Christ. In her divine 
 economy the priest is the sacred channel of the treasures of her 
 graces. He is the dispenser of her sacramental life to the 
 faithful. From his hands flow the regenerating waters of 
 baptism releasing the soul from the original bondage of the 
 primal sin and recreating it in the divine image of the second 
 Adam. It is his hand that is raised in blessing, as by the power 
 of Christ he absolves the repentant sinner from the stain and 
 burden of sin. It is the power of his voice that brings down 
 the Incarnate Son of God upon her altars, and it is his holy, 
 hands which dispense to the faithful the sacred flesh and blood, 
 of which if we do not eat neither shall we live. It is he who 
 blesses and ratifies the solemn nuptial when man and woman 
 are made twain in one flesh ; it is he who comes to the departing 
 soul with the sacred Viaticum when it is about to face its 
 
1 84 Father Tom 
 
 God; it is he who anoints with the holy oils the failing members 
 of the body, that the spirit, alone and beyond the aid of any 
 human agency, may go forth divinely consoled and fortified 
 on that last and solemn journey into the dread abyss of 
 eternity; it is he who pronounces the solemn requiem above 
 the lifeless clay and consigns it to earth with the last farewell 
 of mortality, dust unto dust again. It is he, indeed, who is 
 man's divinely appointed guardian from the cradle to the 
 grave, the father of his people, the shepherd of his flock. 
 
 He is set up as a sign for us, a light to our feet and a voice 
 to our understanding; in tribulation and in sorrow a father; 
 in perplexities and darkness a counselor; in struggles and 
 temptations, a tower of strength. He is at the same time our 
 channel of grace and our intercessor, and as he stands at the 
 altar robed for the solemn consecration and the Supreme 
 Sacrifice which he offers for his people, he is the epitome of the 
 Church immolating the living God for the sins of mankind and 
 the salvation of the world. 
 
 This is why Catholics honor, revere, and love their priests. 
 This is why on an occasion like this, we, the flock, gather 
 around the shepherd to acclaim him and offer our testimon- 
 ials of reverence and affection from our heart of hearts. For 
 in him we indeed found a shepherd who gives his life for his 
 flock, a shepherd whose constant care and tender solicitude 
 has guarded his flock from all harm, guided them through all 
 ways, prepared for them a bountiful and divine pasture. For 
 a quarter of a century has he trod the way of Christ in the 
 service of the people ; true to his great vocation, faithful to its 
 solemn vows, constant in his duty, and loyal to that heaviest 
 of all burdens, the responsibility of the priestly office. 
 
 To-night we rejoice with you. Father, on this the silver 
 jubilee of your ordination, knowing you as we do, and loving 
 you as a faithful priest, than to say which there can be no 
 greater praise from the lips of man to man. We pray for you 
 many fruitful years yet to come in your great ministry, and 
 pledge to you a thousand times our loyal support and our 
 happy obedience, for we know full well that your single 
 thought is your people's service and their eternal welfare. 
 
Twenty- Five Years a Priest 185 
 
 Rev. Daniel J. Quinn, President of Fordham University 
 brought greetings from that great institution and in clos- 
 ing said: 
 
 Father McLoughlin understands better than anyone else 
 that when he entered the priesthood it was not because he 
 chose to do so, it was because he responded to a call from on 
 high; he understands, "You have not chosen Me, I have chosen 
 you that you go forth, bring forth good fruit and that your 
 fruit shall remain." He has been a priest twenty-five years, 
 but he has not grown old — the heart of a true priest never 
 grows old, because he has children always around his knee, 
 and he feels that he is still young, young even as the little ones 
 that he is preparing for first communion. After he has spent 
 twenty-five more years in the priesthood and still other years 
 beyond that, he shall have the consolation of knowing that his 
 work has not ended there, that his fruit shall rrmain and that 
 the generations to come, more than fifty years hence, yes 
 one hundred years hence, will tell of the good deeds done 
 by a faithful priest here in New Rochelle, Father Thomas 
 McLoughlin. 
 
 Rev. Benjamin T. Marshall said: 
 
 The tribute which I bring is not only my own, but the tribute 
 of my people of the First Presbyterian Church of New Rochelle. 
 As I seem to be the only representative of that element of our 
 population that was so unfortunate as to be born outside of 
 the pale of your Chvu-ch, let me bring also the congratulations 
 and greetings of all the non-Catholic people of New Rochelle. 
 We are on common ground and our hearts are beating to-night 
 in tune with the Infinite. What a blessed thing to bring our 
 tribute to this dear man, not only for the heritage that is his 
 in his noble uncle, but for himself. 
 
 I shall never forget the words he spoke in the High School a 
 few weeks ago, when on the tenth anniversary of the incorpora- 
 tion of this city, a popular occasion which might call for wit 
 and hirnior and bright remarks of which he would be a master. 
 
1 86 Father Tom 
 
 he chose with wisdom, grace, and force, to preach one of the 
 soundest sermons on civics. National and City righteousness, 
 that I have ever had the pleasure to listen to. Though I was 
 born a New England Congregationalist, I have never seen the 
 day that I could not grasp hands with a Roman Catholic and 
 tell him that I honor his Church, and never more so than to- 
 night, when I see it personified in its best phase, the Catholic 
 Church in America, in the person of the man we honor. 
 
 Hon. Martin J. Keogb, Justice of the Supreme Court 
 said: 
 
 It is a great pleasure to us all to have this opportunity of 
 telling Father McLoughlin what his neighbors and friends and 
 flock think of him and of his work. Since he became a priest 
 in 1884 until he became pastor of New Rochelle in 1902, he 
 has served as working curate and zealous pastor in three New- 
 York parishes and in Yonkers and Newburgh. But whether 
 he was called to work amidst squalor and the haunts of vice, 
 or in the beautiful sister city on the Hudson, cheerful glad- 
 ness, modest and efficient industry everywhere marked his 
 priestly work. 
 
 You know better than I do how it was he came to New 
 Rochelle. Father McLoughlin — I mean old Father Tom Mc- 
 Loughlin, as he was affectionately called — ^had died, had died 
 on the very altar from which for upwards of fifty years he 
 had blessed you and your fathers. He was a militant priest, 
 he was the best of citizens ; in the Nation's affairs his patriotism 
 glowed like sunshine; his flock were the hewers of wood and 
 the drawers of water, and he was proud of them. 
 
 It was while the whole community was mourning his loss 
 and we heard on every side the familiar lamentation, "it is a 
 long time before we shall see his like again"; it was then that 
 the present Father McLoughlin was sent here to take up the 
 burden his good uncle had laid down. How well he has borne 
 that burden, how well he has done his duty, this great meeting 
 is the splendid answer. But we must not forget that he was 
 fortunate in the town to which he was sent; planted as it was 
 
Twenty- Five Years a Priest 187 
 
 by the sturdy race of liberty loving and tolerant Huguenots, 
 from that day to this the tradition and the spirit of our town 
 has been one of complete religious toleration to every man who 
 has sought an honest living within its borders — that spirit 
 Father McLoughlin practiced, that tradition he respected, 
 and of both this meeting is the very flower. 
 
 To have spent twenty-five years at any good work is praise- 
 worthy, but to have spent twenty-five years as Father Mc- 
 Loughlin has done, in teaching honesty and truth and purity 
 and charity, in visiting the sick and comforting those who 
 sorrow, and all without hope of earthly reward, is to have spent 
 a life modeled on that of the Master himself. 
 
 To-night, as he looks back upon his work, it recalls happy 
 days, faithful friends, and daily reward with blessed and abund- 
 ant fruit, but over no flock that he ever tended has he ever 
 received gratitude more genuine, or affection more pure than 
 from those who surround him to-night. 
 
 As an earnest of that gratitude and as proof that we mean 
 what we say, his people, men, women, and children have united 
 in a testimonial which I am now about to present him, but 
 before doing so let me tell you, Father McLoughlin, that its 
 value lies altogether almost in the loving spirit in which it was 
 given. Your people, mostly poor people, vied with each other 
 for the pleasure and the honor in taking part in it, and the very 
 poor, those who could give nothing, never knew what an 
 affliction poverty was until they were compelled to be content 
 with sending you their blessings. 
 
 Father Tom, in expressing his gratitude said: 
 
 When I was very young, my lot was cast in a great measure 
 with a man who has been reverently spoken of here to-night, 
 old Father McLoughlin — or old Father Tom, as he was 
 affectionately called — and I learned from him the principles to 
 which Judge Keogh has referred. He was a man of liberal 
 views in the strict sense of the word, liberal, inasmuch as any- 
 thing that was of faith as defined by his church he was ready to 
 give up his life for it, but apart from that on open questions 
 
1 88 Father Tom 
 
 such as single tax or abolition of slavery, political or semi- 
 religious questions, he was free to adopt his own opinions and 
 he freely expressed them. The result of it was that under his 
 tuition, when I was quite a little chap I learned to stamp my 
 foot for good old Abraham Lincoln, and even in those days I 
 imbibed not exactly a spirit of republicanism in the sense of 
 partisanship, but a great deep seated love for the republic. 
 I learned from him the lessons of patriotism which sank so 
 deeply into my heart that they became a part and parcel of my 
 religion. It was my good fortune even in those days to come 
 in contact with brilliant minds in the circle of his near and 
 dear friends. 
 
 In their company, even as a boy I was never urged in the 
 slightest way. I will say here that my good deceased uncle 
 neither directly not indirectly urged me one way or the other 
 to become a priest. As was pointed out so eloquently to-night 
 by the orator of the evening, I had nothing to do with it. It 
 was God's voice I heard speak and I followed that voice, even 
 as did Matthew when Christ said to him, "Come and follow 
 Me." 
 
 I had the privilege of being associated during the first three 
 years of my ministry with one of the most brilliant scholars and 
 one of the most saintly men it has been my fortune to meet, a 
 man who was honored and respected and loved by the people 
 of all creeds and classes, because he was the champion of the 
 poor, the Rev. Dr. McGlynn. According to my views of 
 estimating men in those days if there was a saint amongst the 
 priests it was that same good man. It was from him I learned 
 the deep seated devotion to the Eucharist, the manifestation 
 of that devotion by daily communion, and if the present Pon- 
 tiff has surprised the world by his recent discourses on that 
 subject I could point out with pride that I resided with a 
 priest in the City of New York years ago, twenty-five years 
 before that was promulgated, where we had over two hundred 
 people coming every day to receive the Body and Blood of 
 Christ at the altar. If I have been a success at all with the 
 grace of God and the prayers of the people, it has been owing 
 to the example that good man set me. 
 
Twenty- Five Years a Priest 189 
 
 I cannot find words to express my gratitude for this testi- 
 monial that you have given me. I have not the remotest 
 notion of how much it is, but I never judge anybody by the 
 monetary standard. When I hear words of praise spoken of 
 me, I don't think of myself, but I think of the priesthood in 
 general whom you are honoring. I learned with holy joy that 
 an immense congregation came to offer up their Holy Com- 
 munion for me on my jubilee day 
 
 I talked to the dear little children, the lambs of my flock, 
 this afternoon in school and I told them that I had learned out 
 of the Bible from Christ's example how to treat little children, 
 and I said Christ, when they wanted to put them away, simply 
 told the apostles that the little children were to come and sit 
 on his knee; he held them close to his heart and embraced 
 them and kissed them. I love, with all the power of my heart 
 and soul, the little children of my flock, and this I will say to 
 you, that if it were necessary for me to-night to yield up my 
 life to save one of them from a grievous sin, I, as a priest, would 
 feel bound to do it. 
 
 Only a few weeks ago when I was in Mexico, one of the little 
 boys of the congregation all unhelped by anyone else, sent me 
 a postal card. On the postal card was a picture of a shepherd 
 leading a lot of sheep in a pasture, and the little fellow wrote 
 on the front of the card, " Dear Father, you are the shepherd, 
 we are the sheep ; I hope you will be home soon. " 
 
 I know I have, and I can see it in the faces of my congrega- 
 tion, the love and the good will of my people ; I know from what 
 I have heard from various sources that I have, in general, the 
 esteem of the people of this town. I hope to God that by His 
 grace my life will always be so regulated as to deserve their 
 esteem, affection and love. 
 
 I want to thank one and all of you for the part you have 
 taken in this jubilee. I feel honored in the presence of the 
 Mayor, Mr. Raymond, and also in the presence of the Ex- 
 Mayor, Mr. Clark. I feel honored too, in the presence of Dr. 
 Canedy, Mr. Marshall and the other gentlemen who have come 
 to pay this tribute of respect to me. From my heart of hearts, 
 one and all, I thank you. As the years go on and I find myself 
 
I90 Father Tom 
 
 going towards the setting sun, I hope that my heart will re- 
 main always young, and as I see the various generations of 
 children growing up around me that they will make me young 
 until the end and then when the end comes I trust that it will 
 be like the end of my predecessor. There would be no more 
 glorious death than dying at the foot of God's altar in His 
 active service, and if that end is destined to be mine it will be 
 a glorious one. God bless you all. 
 
 In closing the meeting Mayor Raymond said: 
 
 I might state here that it was hoped that $2500 would be 
 collected, but those who worked so zealously to get that 
 amount together were somewhat disappointed, and instead of 
 raising $2500 they, raised $3500. It should be a source of 
 great gratification to Father McLoughlin to know that that 
 amount was donated by Catholics and non-Catholics as a 
 genuine tribute of the love that they hold for him. 
 
 The prettiest feature of the celebration took place on 
 Tuesday afternoon, on the lawn in front of Judge Keogh's 
 residence, when one hundred little children of the school 
 presented a fairy pantomime called Golden Locks and the 
 Bears. There were over a thousand spectators and abun- 
 dant refreshments were provided for all by the gracious and 
 hospitable wife of the Judge. At the conclusion of the per- 
 formance the children marched in single file past Father 
 Tom. They each carried a big bouquet and as they passed 
 every one of them tried to place his or her flowers in the 
 hands of the pastor. The result was that when the last 
 tot had passed the guest of honor was simply smothered 
 with the blossoms. On Wednesday afternoon there was a 
 reception at the rectory for the residents of New Rochelle 
 and hundreds came and paid their respects and offered 
 congratulations. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 ALL IS VANITY 
 
 When Father Tom read of the death of his Eminence 
 Cardinal Vaughan, Archbishop of Westminster, in 1902, 
 he remarked to a friend: "I remember distinctly an 
 occasion in 1880, while I was a student at the American 
 College in Rome, when we were favored by a visit from 
 His Lordship, Rt. Rev. Herbert Vaughan, then Bishop 
 of SaLford. He was a striking figure of perfect physical 
 manhood. More than six feet tall with handsome fea- 
 tures, and a voice of rare sweetness, he excited our intense 
 admiration. He afterwards became a Prince of the 
 Church and the head of one of the most important dio- 
 ceses in the world. He had the highest ecclesiastical 
 honors, he mingled in royal circles, he was an eloquent 
 pulpit orator, and had most everything the heart could 
 desire. And now he is dead. That majestic figure in our 
 church has been stricken down. Omnia vanitas!" 
 
 How like his own case. Beloved by an affectionate and 
 , united family, esteemed by his non-Catholic fellow citi- 
 zens, having attained a pastorate in New Rochelle, which 
 he far preferred to some higher honors, gifted with a sweet 
 voice that had charmed thousands, surrounded by a loyal 
 and devoted flock, having the loving smiles of little chil- 
 dren, and their daily prayers, this good priest was afHicted 
 with a disease which seemed to baffle all medical skill, and 
 this after all, was the great disappointment of his life. 
 
 191 
 
192 Father Tom 
 
 He had consulted many eminent specialists in various 
 parts of the country and had received treatment from 
 celebrated masseurs, but the disease which was diagnosed 
 as arterio-sclerosis seemed to persist, and affected his 
 lower limbs to such an extent that he was unable to genu- 
 flect even at the most solemn moments of the holy sacri- 
 fice of the Mass. In 1910 he undertook a trip to Europe 
 in search of a cure at the famous baths in Aix-les-Bains, 
 France, and Bad Nauheim, Germany. Writing on board 
 the German liner Cincinnati, on which he sailed in April, 
 1910, he pathetically speaks of the waning powers of his 
 remarkable voice : 
 
 "We have a delightful orchestra on board and a fine 
 brass band and several excellent musicians, vocalists, and 
 instrumentalists. Pdre Crowley told one of the ladies 
 that I was a singer, but I have resisted aU persuasion to 
 sing on board. Why? Because I don't care to for want 
 of a better reason and I no longer care to sing except for 
 those I love, my family, my congregation. I gave my 
 best years of song to worldly music, the remainder shall 
 be for God and His church. When I reach Rome, if my 
 throat is in good order, I shall make the American College 
 boys give me the old time applause that I rejoiced in long 
 years ago when I sang Funiculi, Funicula, VAddioa Na- 
 Poli, Santa Lucia, and other favorites. 
 
 Writing from Aix-les-Bains on June 13, he said: 
 ' ' We had a delightful trip to Annecy yesterday, about 
 an hour's ride from here by train and visited the combs of 
 St. Francis de Sales and St. Jane Frances de Chantal. 
 The immense convent with its high walls and presumably 
 beautiful cloistered gardens has been seized on (of course) 
 by the government and its peaceful inhabitants thrown 
 out on the street. It makes one's blood boil. The whole 
 thing is as mysterious as the crucifixion of Our Lord. 
 Maybe a glorious resurrection awaits the church in France 
 
All is Vanity 193 
 
 as a result of the agony, the scourging, the crowning with 
 thorns, through which she is going at present. " 
 
 It was while taking the cure at Bad Nauheim that a 
 German physician told him bluntly of his true condition of 
 health. In a letter from that health resort he speaks of 
 meeting Archbishop Riordan of San Francisco and talks 
 of his daily routine : 
 
 "I rise about six forty-five, say Mass at seven -thirty, 
 breakfast about eight-thirty, read my Office, walk slowly 
 to the baths at ten-fifteen, come home and lie down till 
 twelve thirty. Dinner at one, class in German with the 
 professor at two, sleep from three till four. At four a 
 visit to the Blessed Sacrament where we say our beads, 
 then a slow walk through the park, or the Inhalatorium 
 (Ozone); a drink of milk, supper at six- thirty or seven, up 
 to the band concert from eight till ten. Home in five 
 minutes, read in bed, sleep. The doctor has forbidden me 
 the Zandor mechanical exercises at present, and says I 
 must have absolute rest, with the exception of a short 
 slow walk. He says I ought to eat a little white meat, 
 such as chicken or veal every day, and adds that if I find 
 myself very weak it is because I have stopped all meat 
 suddenly for two months, after being used to it all my 
 life. He stiU keeps me on a milk and vegetable diet. As 
 forthemeat, I have become so accustomed to omitting it, 
 that I don't care for it. I would rather a dish of macaroni 
 or risotto d la Milanese any time. I do hope and pray 
 that I shall return home better than when I left, but at 
 present I am making slow progress. The doctor here tells 
 me the same as Doctor Brennan of New Rochelle and Dr. 
 Blanc of Aix-les-Bains, namely, that I have enlargement of 
 the heart brought on by kidney trouble. Nauheim is the 
 most celebrated place in the world for the cure of such 
 trouble and I look upon it as a duty to remain here as long 
 as the doctor suggests, no matter how it may affect my 
 
194 Father Tom 
 
 personal wish regarding a return home. I am cheerful 
 because I suffer little or no pain and I am confident of a 
 cure." 
 
 Again full of faith and devotion to the Blessed Mother 
 Father Tom made a pilgrimage to Lourdes, and from there 
 he wrote: 
 
 " It is one continuation of thrills here, and I have a lump 
 in my throat most of the time. Comparisons are odious, 
 but all the same Lourdes, like Coney Island is at its best 
 in the summer time when the large crowds make things 
 more interesting and exciting, and miracles occur fre- 
 quently. A pilgrimage of some four hundred Belgians 
 has just left and edified us by their manifest piety and 
 splendid singing. They were under the direction of a 
 zealous young priest. When I saw him leading the sing- 
 ing I said to myself, ' It is only a few short years ago that 
 I could do that just as well as he. ' I tried to do it during 
 Holy Week this year and it played me out. I am fuU of 
 ambition yet, however, and will I hope, die in the harness. 
 What is my constant prayer at the grotto? It is the only 
 prayer befitting a Christian priest, 'Father if it be possible 
 let this chalice pass, nevertheless ' ' Thy will be done !" ' 
 I'll go down now to the grotto and look up into the sweet 
 smiling face of Our Lady and say, 'Be merciful to me a 
 sinner and cure my poor soul. ' " 
 
 Of his visit to Pope Pius X. he wrote most interestingly 
 to his devoted assistant Father Hughes and this letter was 
 read to the people of the Blessed Sacrament : 
 
 "Rome, June 30, 1910. 
 
 "My dear Father Hughes: 
 
 "As I have just returned from an audience with the Holy 
 Father, I think it well to write you while the event is fresh 
 in my mind, and I wish you would read this letter for the 
 congregation the Sunday after you receive it. I owe a 
 
All Is Vanity 195 
 
 debt of gratitude to Bishop Kennedy for his kindness in 
 obtaining me an interview with the Holy Father such as is 
 accorded only to Cardinals, Bishops, and other dignitaries. 
 But let me tell you the whole story in detail. Before 
 going to the Vatican I thought of the love and devotion of 
 my flock in New Rochelle, and I went to a store where they 
 sell religious articles and bought a little scapular medal for 
 every one in the parish who received Holy Communion for 
 me in my absence. These medals were afterwards blessed 
 and indulgenced by the Pope, and they may be carried in 
 the pocket, or attached to the dress and all the privileges 
 of the five scapulars are attached to them, so that those 
 who wear them or carry them need no longer wear the old 
 style scapular. 
 
 "Well, to come back to our journey. We called at the 
 American College and I donned a cassock, and a feriola 
 or Roman cloak, and a three-corned hat, and Bishop 
 Kennedy put on his purple sash and purple feriola, and his 
 three-corned hat, with its green stlk cords and tassels, and 
 we drove off in state to the Vatican. Instead of having to 
 climb a hundred and fifty steps, we were driven around St. 
 Peter's into the Piazza of San Damaso, and there, instead 
 of having to climb a hundred steps more, I was privileged 
 to ascend in the elevator, reserved for Bishops and Car- 
 dinals. When we arrived in the first ante-room we found 
 a large number of people, lay and cleric, standing around 
 the walls waiting. A second crowd awaited in another 
 large hall, priests, monks, ladies, and gentlemen, all wait- 
 ing to see the Holy Father. In a third hall were a lot of 
 girls in white who had made their first communion yester- 
 day, and were accompanied by their teachers. 
 
 "Bishop Kennedy led the way and said to our party, 
 consisting of a lady and gentleman from Philadelphia, my 
 sister and myself: 'Follow me closely.' We walked 
 through fully half a dozen more elegantly furnished 
 
196 Father Tom 
 
 marble halls till we came to the throne-room. This was 
 where Leo XIII received King Edward of England and 
 King "William of Germany. The Pope's golden chair 
 rested on an elevated dais with a canopy all draped in red 
 damask, and some of the noble guard and monsignori in 
 their purple robes stood around and chatted as we did 
 ourselves. 
 
 "After about half an hour, a Monsignor beckoned to the 
 Bishop, and he turning to me, said: 'Father Tom come 
 with me.' We walked through two more beautifully 
 tapestried rooms, and on entering the third — there at his 
 private desk, in his own private sanctum, where he receives 
 only Cardinals and Bishops — there sat the Holy Father 
 busy writing; and the Head of the Church, Christ's Vicar 
 on earth, rose up from his seat and stood to receive the 
 homage of the little parish priest of New Rochelle. Oh! 
 how awfully small I felt in that great presence: 'Holy 
 Father, ' said I after the Bishop presented me, 'pardon me, 
 but I cannot kneel because of a rheumatic muscular affec- 
 tion of the knees. ' ' My dear Parroco (parish priest) 
 don't let that worry you, sit right down beside me and 
 make yourself at home. ' I was so taken back at this won- 
 derful familiarity, so much in contrast with the severe 
 kingly dignity of Leo XIII that I started right in to talk. 
 I told him all about the parish in New Rochelle, and our 
 church and school and Sunday School, and our instructions 
 in Christian doctrine for the children three times a week, 
 and how mostly all the parishioners received Holy Com- 
 munion for my recovery, and how the people built a pretty 
 little chapel for the soldiers at Fort Slocum, and what good 
 work was being accomplished there by the priests of the 
 parish, and how we called it after St. Sebastian the Roman 
 captain. I rattled all this off in Italian, and His Holiness, 
 I dare say, was astonished if not amused at the American 
 parish priest that had so much to say. I told him that 
 
All is Vanity 197 
 
 we had quite a number of Italians in our parish and that 
 we were trying to do what we could for the children. 
 When I spoke of my health, he asked me where I had been. 
 I told him that I had spent a week at Lourdes and three 
 weeks at Aix-les-Bains. 'Do you suffer much?' said he. 
 'No, Holy Father, very little.' — 'Don't be discouraged, 
 my son, you'll go home cured.' Oh! for a strong and 
 mighty faith that I could have answered: 'Thou art 
 another Christ. I believe the words thou hast spoken. 
 Be it done unto me according to thy prophesy. ' 
 
 "The Holy Father then talked with the Bishop for a 
 while, and at length, turning to me again he said: 'Well, 
 pastor, don't go back to your country and your people till 
 you are entirely cured. Impart to all your people, young 
 and old, the Apostolic benediction, and tell the soldiers 
 and their captains that I send them my special blessing. ' 
 As he stood, I dropped on my knees, regardless of con- 
 sequences, received his blessing, and he helped me up on 
 my feet. 
 
 "Thus was the pastor of the Church of the Blessed 
 Sacrament honored by Pius X — the Pope of Rome and 
 the Vicegerent of Christ on Earth. 
 
 ' The Holy Father then went into the throne room where 
 he blessed the rest of our little party, and then proceeded 
 to the general audience. 
 
 "In the room where the first communicants were he 
 gave the children a short address and presented to each 
 one a medal (the exact counterpart of the ones I am 
 bringing home). 
 
 "It may be a good while yet before I return to my be- 
 loved people, and therefore do I wish to send them in 
 advance the story of my audience with the Holy Father. 
 At the same time I wish to congratulate them on the 
 magnificent tribute of esteem and affection they have 
 shown in my absence to one who is filling my place so 
 
198 Father Tom 
 
 admirably. With Father Hughes and Father Maxcy 
 in charge I have no fear but that all will go well till my 
 return. 
 
 "My love and my blessing to one and all, and renewed 
 thanks for their continued prayers. Thank God, I am 
 gaining strength every day. 
 
 " Faithfully yours, 
 
 "Thos. P McLoughlin." 
 
 In September, 1910, Father Tom returned to New 
 Rochelle and on the Sunday evening of his arrival home 
 a public reception was tendered him in the New Rochelle 
 theater, where again, as at his silver jubilee, prominent 
 citizens of the city, as well as the people of his own flock, 
 paid him a tribute of affection and returned thanks to 
 God for his safe return in what seemed to be a very much 
 improved condition of health. He resumed his manifold 
 duties as pastor and struggled to maintain his cheery dis- 
 position, although he knew that he was afflicted with 
 a most serious disease. The sudden and unlooked for 
 death, in 1912, of his young assistant Father Joseph Maxcy, 
 to whom he was devotedly attached, affected him greatly 
 especially as his own physical strength at the time did not 
 allow him the consolation of officiating at the solemn 
 requiem Mass, at the church of the Blessed Sacrament. 
 The months passed, and from time to time Father Tom 
 sought the most noted specialists in the hope of finding 
 some one who could cure his ailment and lengthen his life, 
 but in vain. He spent the summer months of 1912 at 
 Point o' Woods, Long Island, which was recommended 
 on account of being at sea level, and it was hoped that the 
 bracing salt air would benefit his heart action. 
 
 One of the last works which Father Tom undertook, and 
 completed in December, 1912, was the erection of a stone 
 over the grave of his uncle, and the placing of a bronze 
 
All is Vanity 199 
 
 tablet upon it with an inscription which would remind the 
 coming generations of the zeal and worth of one of the 
 pioneer priests of Westchester County. 
 
 Again it was Christmas morning in New Rochelle and 
 once more the church of the Blessed Sacrament was 
 crowded with pious worshipers to rejoice on the birthday 
 of the Savior of mankind. Their beloved pastor extended 
 to them Christmas greetings and referring to his own 
 physical ills told his people that if his health and strength 
 would not permit him to work with them and for them he 
 did not want to linger, but would accept with resignation 
 the will of God. 
 
 Writing to his eldest sister on January 23, 1 913, he said : 
 
 I ought to have known when the doctor ordered me two 
 months' absolute rest in June, that my case was a serious one, 
 or at least that I was not fit to undertake such work as I at- 
 tempted at Christmas. I am conscious now that I worked as 
 faithfully as I could until I had to give up. My breathing is 
 fairly good some days and a little difficult other days. This is 
 caused by the change in the atmosphere, as well as the effects 
 of the strong drugs that I am taking in small doses as a means 
 of keeping the heart going and they accomplish the desired re- 
 sult, but accompanied by a constant dozy feeling. Whatever 
 be the result I am thoroughly resigned to the will of God, and 
 my prayer all along has been "Father if it be possible let this 
 chalice pass from me, nevertheless not my will but Thine be 
 done." Monsignor Stafford who died this week in Jersey City 
 succeeded me in the American College as the singer of the 
 college and so we go one by one. When your work is done, 
 the lingering on is the hard part, yet I managed to do some 
 more work while lingering. 
 
 Father Tom faced the end bravely and with the true 
 spirit of a Catholic priest. He had a sinking spell on 
 February ist and speaking to his sister who was seated at 
 his bedside he said ; 
 
200 Father Tom 
 
 Will you see that everyone gets a little souvenir? I thought 
 I was hardened enough but I must talk a little when I get the 
 chance. I saw our dear Ed (his younger brother) die and I'm 
 not afraid to die. I have always had great devotion to the 
 Blessed Virgin and defended her on every occasion when 
 others spoke against her, especially to our Lady of Lourdes. 
 I always spoke of her on her feast days and I have been pray- 
 ing to die on her feast the second of February. 
 
 This was not to be, Father Tom rallied and lingered until 
 the early morning of Monday, February 17th, when he 
 quietly breathed his last, after receiving the last sacra- 
 ments at the hands of his assistant, Rev. James T. Hughes. 
 
 The tolling of the bell on the Church of the Blessed Sacra- 
 ment carried to the people of the city the sad tidings that 
 Father Tom, the beloved priest, had "gone home." There 
 was genuine sadness in the town, and among his friends 
 everywhere, at the news of his death. Many tributes were 
 paid to his memory. From them only a few are selected. 
 
 During his long and trying illness he showed the same gentle- 
 ness, patience, and fortitude that ever characterized him. He 
 bravely and uncomplainingly faced the end. His memory is 
 enshrined in many a loving heart. I lost in him not only a 
 gentle and kind superior but a very true friend. How happy 
 we were together for the past ten years. And how fortunate 
 I was to have had during those early and formative years of 
 my ministry the example and encouragement of so earnest, so 
 zealous, and so true a priest. — (Rev. James T. Hughes, Assist- 
 ant, Blessed Sacrament, New Rochelle.) 
 
 It was at Tannersville in the Catskills, during the siunmer of 
 1889, that I had the pleasure of meeting Father Tom McLough- 
 lin for the first time. The circumstances attending that 
 meeting have left in my mind one of the most delightful pic- 
 tures and one of the most pleasing memories of my life. 
 Strolling down the road one afternoon I saw, under the shade 
 pf a big tree in an adjacent field, a great crowd of merry young- 
 
All is Vanity 201 
 
 sters. An Italian with his tamed bear I imagined the source 
 of this merriment until I reached the spot and found, seated on 
 a rock, a sweet-faced priest in the midst of an all-absorbing 
 fairy tale. I endeavored to remain unobserved but the 
 curiosity of the youngsters revealed my presence and Father 
 McLoughlin stepped forward with a warm greeting. I 
 quickly learned how the children loved him by their chorus of 
 protesting "Oh-ohs" when I remarked that I had expected to 
 find a bear the great attraction. Their regret at that day's 
 parting was softened by the hope of the morrow's meeting as 
 he said: "Run along now, children, and don't forget to be 
 here again to-morrow at the same time." 
 
 "Are those all Catholic children?" I asked, as the young- 
 sters were going forwards but looking backwards. "I don't 
 know; to me they are just children into whose innocent faces 
 I love to look and whose guileless prattle is music to my ear. 
 It is easy to understand," he said, "why Our Lord commanded 
 the Apostles to 'Suffer little children to come unto Me, for of 
 such is the kingdom of heaven.'" 
 
 That such was not a pleasing, passing fancy, but a genuine 
 love for children, I had good reason to know during my ten 
 years as his assistant. Only once did he permit me to have 
 the coveted honor of giving children their first communion, 
 and then only because he was confined to his room by sickness. 
 He loved children and children loved him. 
 
 The evening of our first meeting I spent with him at La 
 Touraine where he was stopping with his mother and two sisters. 
 I was glad I had accepted his kindly invitation, for it gave me 
 an opportunity to observe another beautiful trait in that grand 
 character, the great respect and love Father Tom bore his refined 
 and saintly mother. That filial attention he constantly showed 
 to his mother until God was pleased to call her to Himself. 
 
 To know a man you have to live with him. I did not think 
 then that I would ever again meet Father McLoughlin, but 
 six years later, in 1894, with a letter from Archbishop Corrigan 
 in my pocket I walked into Chinatown. I confess now that I 
 was not at that moment the happiest mortal, even though I 
 felt that I was a zealous young priest ready to convert the 
 
202 Father Tom 
 
 whole world. The thought that Father McLoughlin was the 
 pastor of Transfiguration did not take the lump out of my 
 throat nor raise my heart to its normal heights. I would have 
 smiled at anybody who might have said that I would refuse 
 an offer to any other parish in the diocese, yet I refused three 
 of the best. My refusals were caused by my admiration for 
 Father Tom, a true gentleman and an ideal priest. I learned 
 to know him more and more and to love him more and more, 
 and experienced a real sorrow when his promotion to New 
 Rochelle in 1902 separated us. 
 
 I found him on that day of my first visit to Transfiguration 
 at the school gate with Irish, Italian, and Chinese children 
 clinging to him. They may have been jealous of one another 
 but they dared not show it, for he was impartial. There 
 would be no possible doubt of a universal peace if the nations 
 looked to the Church as those children of different races looked 
 to Father McLoughlin, her priest. 
 
 He was a most zealous, faithful priest and the people idolized 
 him. When they said: "God love you. Father Tom," they 
 really meant to say: "I love you, Father Tom." The faith 
 and faithfulness of those good people made him happy. With 
 marvelous tact he multiplied their joys and lessened their 
 sorrows. "The poor have a special claim on the sympathy of 
 the priest," he said, and he gave it to them generously. He 
 gave it to them in material assistance and spiritual consolation. 
 His big heart went out to all: 
 
 "A heart that can feel for another's woe. 
 With sympathies large enough to enfold 
 All men as brothers, is better than gold. " 
 
 He was an eloquent, convincing preacher and a sweet, charm- 
 ing singer. The congregation at Transfiguration had dwindled 
 down to the hundreds, still the famous old church was crowded 
 by people from far and near anxious to hear him sing or preach. 
 He had the great happiness of admitting many Protestants, 
 including ministers, to the faith. I expected on one occasion 
 to hear him order out of the rectory a prominent English 
 
All is Vanity 203 
 
 Protestant who cursed God for the death of his beautiful little 
 daughter. Father McLoughlin remained silent while the 
 unfortunate man poured out his wrath and sorrow in words 
 
 and tears and then quietly said: "Mr. P , I am grieved 
 
 by your sorrow but pained by your language. Don't you 
 know the surest way to God is up the lonely stream of tears ? 
 Christ himself passed over the Via Dolorosa and Calvary to 
 the glory of His resurrection. Now you loved your little girl 
 and planned for her a happy future; God loved her, too, and 
 has made that future certain. She is now asking that same 
 good God to bring her daddy up to heaven after all his trials 
 shall have ended." Two weeks later I saw that gentleman 
 receive his first holy communion. In a like simple, gentle 
 manner he touched the hearts of all and won people to God 
 and to himself. 
 
 His friends were many. With his cheerful manner and 
 winning disposition he could not avoid making friends, and 
 to worthy friends he was enthusiastically loyal. The humble 
 rectory in Mott Street did not deter men, prominent in the 
 affairs of the world or high in the ranks of the Church from 
 seeking his company. To them the most frugal fare with 
 Father McLoughlin as host was a sumptuous banquet. 
 Among those frequent visitors were Monsignors Wall, Cannon, 
 Donnelly, and Stafford. The ones, however, to whom he 
 seemed most devoted were his former American college class- 
 mates, Fathers Curry, Duhigg, Crowley, Galvin, and Conboy; 
 all grand men, but I consider it no disparagement to them or 
 fulsome praise for him when I say: "He was the finest Roman 
 of them all. " 
 
 "His true friends in sorrow will honor 
 His grave; every tear is a gem, 
 And their prayers round his brow in the heavens 
 Will brighten his fair diadem. 
 I kneel at his grave and remember 
 In love, I am still one of them. " 
 
 (Rev. W. J. DoNOHUE, 
 Father Tom's Assistant at Transfiguration.) 
 
204 Father Tom 
 
 The friendship of the much beloved Father Tom and that of 
 his venerable uncle was always to me one of the choice graces 
 of my life, while their example was a constant and effective 
 inspiration of all that was best and holiest in the priesthood. 
 To their people they stood for sixty long years as other Christs 
 in the redemption of numerous immortal souls. No eulogy 
 can surpass their unstained record. As we look heavenward, 
 with tear-dimmed eyes, we find comfort in the thought that no 
 one is too good for God and the blessed company of the just 
 made perfect. Heaven is made brighter by their advent. 
 Ours, indeed, is the blessedness of those who mourn, as our 
 comfort will come from on high from Him who said, "I am 
 the resurrection and the life. " — (Rev. Isidore Meister, Pastor 
 Holy Trinity, Mamaroneck.) 
 
 Seldom does a man pass from life's mortal existence with a 
 greater meed of praise from people of all and no faiths than is 
 given to the late rector of the Church of the Blessed Sacra- 
 ment. He was as large of soul as he was of frame. He was as 
 kindly of spirit as he was vigorous in his detestation of what 
 he regarded as mean and unmanly. How many men are there 
 in this "City of Parks," whose passing on to the other life 
 would elicit such an outpouring of genuine respect and esteem, 
 even outside his own parish, as the late Thomas P. McLough- 
 lin? Loyal to the faith he espoused and whose tenets he 
 taught, he was a man among men. He was a Catholic in heart 
 as he was a Catholic in his faith and practice. Broad minded 
 himself, no one could think of him from a bigoted standpoint. 
 The tributes of business and professional men show the broad- 
 mindedness of Christian brotherliness and neighborliness. 
 The life of Father McLoughlin in this city and the spontaneous 
 testimonies of love and affection from Protestant and Catholic, 
 Jew and Gentile, make for Christian charity. The name and 
 fame, coupled with good works of "Father Tom" will long 
 live in the hearts and memory of New Rochelle's Catholics as 
 well as of other good people in this beautiful city, and the 
 Holy Sepulchre cemetery will long be the Mecca for the faith- 
 ful and devout Catholic. — (New Rochelle Standard.) 
 
All Is Vanity 205 
 
 New Rochelle needs such men as Father McLoughlin and 
 is impoverished by his passing away. Men of his mold are 
 all too few. Those intimate with him know of his kindly na- 
 ture and of the love he bore for the members of his congregation. 
 His friends were legion and no one in trouble or distress ever 
 appealed to him in vain. The' gentleness of his nature and the 
 warmth of his smile are things that will live long in the hearts 
 of those that knew him and valued his counsels. 
 
 The courteous Christian gentleman, gifted preacher, tender 
 pastor, broad-visioned citizen, sympathetic friend and brother, 
 will be held in grateful memory by the pastors and churches of 
 every name in New Rochelle. — (New Rochelle Pioneer.) 
 
 Father McLoughlin had many noble virtues, particularly 
 his great love of children. He was loved by people of all 
 denominations and was most untiring in his efforts to uplift 
 mankind by acts of kindness, charity, and brotherly love, a 
 true disciple of Christ, spreading good will among men. — 
 (Mayor George G. Raymond.) 
 
 Father McLoughlin was known as the beloved priest. He 
 was loved not only by people of his own parish, but by members 
 of other sects and creeds, and even by those who are not 
 members of any church. If he had a known fault it was his 
 generosity. Of all the money given him in presents it was 
 said he left about $2000 or perhaps a little more. Most of it 
 he gave away to those who needed it more than he did. There 
 is not a poor family in his parish, and there are few in other 
 parishes, who will not remember Father McLoughlin for the 
 help he has given them. — (New Rochelle Press.) 
 
 I cannot speak too highly of Father McLoughlin. Per- 
 sonally I had a very high regard for him, for he v/as one of the 
 finest men in New Rochelle. I took a deep personal interest 
 in him and spent many pleasant and happy hours in his com- 
 pany. He was a broad man in every sense and had the con- 
 fidence of every one who knew him. His death means a great 
 loss to the city. Even his church will not appreciate the 
 
2o6 Father Tom 
 
 measure of the loss until it tries to realize his absence. He 
 was one of the great men of the city. — (Henry M. Lester, 
 President of the Huguenot Association.) 
 
 It is good to know such men as the late Rev. Thomas P. 
 McLoughlin [said Howard R. Ware, President of the Y. M. C. 
 A.]. I count it a great privilege to have had that opportunity 
 diu-ing all the years that he was in charge of the Church of the 
 Blessed Sacrament. I am glad to add my tribute to the ster- 
 ling worth of the man who was not only beloved by his parish- 
 ioners, but who was held in the highest esteem by all who knew 
 him. In the loss of such a man, all citizens of oiu" city, of 
 whatever creed or nationality, cannot help being deeply 
 grieved at the taking away in the prime of life, of one so use- 
 ful as a citizen and a leader of men, into the higher and more 
 spiritual life that is the common heritage of us all. 
 
 For thirty-six years it has been a privilege to admire him. 
 And to know him was to believe him worthy of more than the 
 commonplaces of mere surface appreciation. Stereotyped 
 phrases, in speaking of him, are to be regretted. 
 
 The elder priest of the name, will long be remembered for 
 his fearlessness of character, for his passionate desire to 
 reach the roots of poverty in order to apply a radical remedy, 
 and for his ceaseless activities in the interests of all the people 
 of his cure. His interpretation of personal friendship, with 
 one and another of his own order, gave him honor. Above all 
 the ceaseless shepherding of his flock brought him their deep 
 affection which in turn influenced the whole community. 
 These qualities of blood and training were in the nephew whose 
 all too brief life here is now ended. For the nephew were 
 provided, by the uncle, the very chiefest advantages of educa- 
 tion and travel and long residence at Rome. It must suffice 
 to say that, in turn, the nephew, honoring the uncle, blessed 
 New Rochelle by exhibiting the same manly qualities with 
 added brightness and grace. — (Rev. Charles F. Canedy, Pastor 
 of the Episcopal Trinity Church.) 
 
All Is Vanity 207 
 
 During those years, 1902 and 19 12, the bonds of affection 
 between pastor and people became stronger and stronger. 
 He often prided himself that his parish was the best in the 
 archdiocese and it gave him great joy to see thousands of 
 people receive Holy Communion in a single day. He loved 
 his God, his flag, his city, and his people. He did his work well, 
 he was prepared to meet his God and who can doubt that he 
 has earned the reward of the Just. — (Robert L. Forbes, editor 
 of the Paragraph.) 
 
 The influence he exerted in his parish was great beyond 
 question. Seldom has it been my privilege to minister in a 
 city where a priest was more popular or more generally be- 
 loved. His genial spirit, his readiness to appreciate good 
 qualities in others, his devotion to his people and to his church, 
 endeared him to those to whom he ministered, while the pub- 
 lic ovations tendered him, indicate his hold on citizens of all 
 faiths. — (Rev. W. Wofford F. Duncan, pastor of St. John's 
 Methodist Church.) 
 
 A number of students from Cathedral College formed a 
 guard of honor beside the body of Father Tom in the 
 rectory on Monday night. Tuesday night the guard was 
 formed of members of New Rochelle Council, Knights of 
 Coltmibus, and Wednesday night's guard, when the body 
 lay in state in the church, was from the Holy Name 
 Society. 
 
 On Thursday morning, February 20th, at the hour set 
 for the Solemn High Mass of Requiem the church was 
 overcrowded and hundreds of people stood in front of it 
 during the time Mass was being celebrated. The Gre- 
 gorian music was rendered by a double quartet from the 
 Priests' choir, led by its director, the Rev. James E. 
 DriscoU, rector of St. Gabriel's Church. Richard V. 
 Mooney sang Father Tom's favorite hymn, There is a 
 Green Hill Far Away, by Gounod. The recessional was 
 Chopin's funeral march, played by Professor Bock. 
 
208 Father Tom 
 
 The Mass was celebrated by Rev. James Crowley, 
 rector of St. Mary's Church, Brooklyn, Rev. Thomas J. 
 Lynch, director of the Catholic Protective Association, 
 deacon; Rev. Wm. J. Donohue of Port Jervis, Father 
 McLoughlin's assistant at Transfiguration, subdeacon. 
 Rev. Henry Tracy of St. Stephen's New York, was master 
 of ceremonies, Bishop Cusack and two hundred priests of 
 the diocese were present in the sanctuary to pay their last 
 tribute of respect to the memory of their fellow laborer 
 in the vineyard of the Lord. 
 
 The eulogy was delivered by Rev. Thomas S. Duhigg, 
 Father Tom's life long Iriend, and now pastor of the church 
 of St. John the Evangelist, Brooklyn, the parish which 
 Father Tom attended as a boy, where he received his early 
 training at the hands of the Franciscan brothers, where he 
 received his first Holy Communion and was confirmed. 
 
 EULOGY 
 
 By Rev. Thomas S. Duhigg 
 
 My soul hath thirsted after the strong, living God; when shall I come 
 and appear before His face . . for I shall go over to the place of the 
 wonderful tabernacle even to the very house of God. — Ps. 41. 
 
 The words just quoted and taken from the 41st Psalm were 
 suggested by what happened about two weeks ago. Father 
 McLoughlin had come out for a little while from the valley 
 and shadow of death and I was admitted to see him. I told 
 him that I had said Mass for him the day before, and had asked 
 the people to pray for him. There was no mistaking his ap- 
 preciation in the quiet, gentle "Thank you. My friends have 
 all been very good to me." With a suddenness that was 
 startling he asked, "Have you ever been near death and asked 
 God to take you home? I have. " Then, after a short pause, 
 he added, "Omnia vanitas — we do not realize it soon enough. " 
 And so ended our last conversation in life : a fitting climax to a 
 friendship entwined in boyhood's days and kept until now 
 
All is Vanity 209 
 
 unchangeable. A message to all, to you, Rt. Rev. and Rev. 
 Fathers, and to you, beloved brethren of the laity. "All is 
 vanity ! " the soul-cry of Solomon, the wisest of men. " I wish 
 to be dissolved and to be with Christ, " the heart's desire of 
 Paul, the vessel of election. Can any one doubt the first say- 
 ing, and why do we find it so hard to enter into the spirit of 
 the second? Why is it that we do not more ardently desire 
 to be with Him, Who is the Author and Finisher of our Faith? 
 
 Let no one assume to himself the honor of the priesthood 
 unless he be called by God as Aaron was. There can be no 
 doubt but that entrance into the priesthood depends upon a 
 call from on high. ' ' Set apart Saul and Barnabas for the work 
 to which I have called them" is the voice of God throughout 
 the ages calling certain souls into the work of His ministry. 
 It is not easy to determine how this call is manifested in the 
 individual, but if God's work is to be properly done, it must be 
 in every one who aspires to so great and exalted a dignity. 
 With it the harvest of souls is gathered, the mysteries of God 
 are dispensed and the work of salvation is carried on ; without 
 it, ruin, havoc, and desolation. I know not the day nor the 
 hour when Father McLoughlin first realized that he was called 
 unto the Eternal Priesthood of Jesus Christ. Many years 
 have passed since he heard the voice of the Spirit of God 
 saying, "I have chosen you," and he answered, Ecce venio, 
 Behold I come. Yielding to the inspirations of Divine Grace 
 and sustained by the example set him by members of his own 
 family, great men and priests of the Archdiocese of New York, 
 he never faltered nor doubted that he was called unto the part 
 of the Gospel. 
 
 There is no need to speak of the years of preparation in 
 school, college, and seminary, although hallowed memories 
 gather about them all. In June, 1884, a Cardinal Prince of 
 the Church in the Mother Church of the city and the world 
 placed upon his shoulders the chasuble of the priesthood and 
 in his hands the chalice of blessing and salvation. At last the 
 ambition of a lifetime was realized, a dignity than which there 
 is none greater finally attained. What tongue can fittingly 
 describe the emotions in the heart and soul of the fervent young 
 14 
 
210 Father Tom 
 
 priest as he stands for the first time at the foot of the altar 
 and begins his Introibo ? God and His holy angels alone can 
 tell. We know, however, that at that moment there can be 
 no room for any thought except to serve God and be a fit- 
 ting instrument in His hands for the salvation of souls; not 
 where is he to go to begin his work in the ministry; no personal 
 selection or desire for any particular place, letting the matter 
 rest entirely in God's hands. 
 
 ' ' Let men so esteem you as ministers of Christ and dispensers 
 of the mysteries of God."' "Ministers of Christ" implies 
 association with our Blessed Lord and Master in work; "dis- 
 pensers of the mysteries of God" spells service. Work, there- 
 fore, and service are the standards and ideals of the priesthood; 
 from the day of ordination to the end of life constant, unremit- 
 ting work ; nothing else is of much account except to spend one- 
 self and be spent in the service of souls. 
 
 To place personal ease, and honor, and comfort as dominant 
 motives is nothing short of sacrilege. Fatigatus in itinere 
 sedet was said of the dear Lord. The more mental and physical 
 energy we can use for the glory of God in our vocation, the 
 more fruitful our ministry and the greater the reward. There 
 are times when one is inclined to grow weary and impatient 
 because of unreasonable demands upon our time. The call 
 will come at an inconvenient hour, our attention will be de- 
 manded for what appears to be trifling, while seemingly more 
 urgent matters are pressing their claims upon us. "I have 
 compassion on the multitude, " is the answer. The Scriptures 
 furnish us with examples of impatience on the part of the 
 Apostles; but the Master was "meek and humble of heart." 
 "Then were little children presented to Him, that He should 
 lay His hands upon them and pray. Which, when the dis- 
 ciples saw, they rebuked them that brought them. And when 
 Jesus saw it. He was much displeased, and calling them to- 
 gether, said to them : Suffer the little children to come to Me, 
 and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of God. Amen, 
 I say to you, whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God 
 as a little child, shall not enter into it. And embracing them, 
 and laying His hands upon them, He blessed them." The 
 
All is Vanity 211 
 
 Apostles rebuked — Jesus blessed ! " And they came to Jericho; 
 and as he went out of Jericho with His disciples, a great multi- 
 tude followed him. And behold blind men sitting by the way- 
 side begging (one of whom was) ; Bartimeus, the blind man, the 
 son of Timeus. And when he heard the multitude passing by, 
 he asked what this meant, and they told him that Jesus of 
 Nazareth was passing by, they began to cry out and say: 
 O Lord Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on us. And many 
 that went before rebuked them, that they might hold their 
 peace. But they cried a great deal the more: Son of David, 
 have mercy on us. And Jesus stood still and commanded 
 them to be called. . . What will ye that I should do to 
 you ? They say to Him : Lord, that our eyes may be opened. 
 And Jesus having compassion on them, touched their eyes and 
 saith: Go your way: your faith hath made you whole. And 
 immediately they received sight, and followed Him in the way." 
 Haughty and angry rebuke of the poor unfortunates from the 
 disciples, compassion and cure from the Master. 
 
 The lesson is plain. Is it hard to learn and practice? Let 
 no one think that when a man receives the priesthood he 
 assumes a light and easy burden. The contrary is so. Heavy 
 and difficult is the burden, many the responsibilities and severe 
 the judgment. But the helps are great and wonderful. 
 "And when the morning was come Jesus stood on the shore: 
 yet the disciples knew not that it was Jesus. That disciple, 
 therefore, whom Jesus loved, said to Peter: Dominus est, ' It is 
 the Lord.'" On the shore of the priest's day stands the In- 
 carnate Son of God. The world cannot see through the veils 
 of the Sacrament and understand Who is really and truly there : 
 the disciple knows that it is the Lord. With hands uplifted he 
 stands in the Holy of Holies and offers Sacrifice to the living 
 God. He prays for the people that they may be preserved in 
 righteousness, that the grace of repentance may come to them 
 and that they may be spared from the consequences of their 
 sins. In a little while, he holds in his hands the King of 
 Glory; yet another little while and he receives Him for the 
 food and nourishment of his soul. And with brightened coun- 
 tenance and soul strengthened by the vision of faith he comes 
 
212 Father Tom 
 
 down from the holy mountain whereon he stood for a time and 
 is ready for the work of the day. The thought of the morning 
 Mass should never be altogether absent from the priest's whole 
 day. It will give him the spirit of counsel, so that his advice 
 may carry along with it a more than human wisdom ; it will give 
 the spirit of prudence when dealing with difficult problems pre- 
 sented for solution ; it will provide strength against weariness, 
 courage against trials, and a peace which the world cannot give. 
 Whilst strength and health permitted. Father McLoughlin stood 
 daily at the altar. You recall now the dignity, without affecta- 
 tion, of his bearing as he celebrated the Divine mysteries morn- 
 ing after morning. His was an intelligent appreciation of what 
 he was called upon to do. His understanding of the beautiful 
 prayers of the Missal, his reverence in every action, his strong 
 faith in the Presence of his Master, his fervent reception of 
 Holy Communion, stamped him before the people as one who 
 had learned much of the secrets of the Sacred Heart. It was 
 good to watch him as he said Mass, and I am store that in this 
 respect he was always a source of edification to his people. 
 
 "I adjture you by the living God; Preach the Word." In 
 such strong words did St. Paul impress the lesson of the impor- 
 tance and necessity of preaching. It is an essential part of the 
 pastoral office — it is the ordinary means of sanctification. It 
 requires knowledge, for "the lips of the priest shall keep 
 knowledge"; zeal for the betterment of souls, earnestness, be- 
 cause he is "ciu-sed who doeth the work of the Lord negli- 
 gently. " In this are we Ambassadors of the King conveying 
 His messages to His people. Not our opinions, not our ideas, 
 but the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Our language must be not 
 the persuasive words of htmian wisdom, nor loftiness of speech, 
 but the showing forth of the spirit and power of God. And 
 through all our preaching must ring the note of earnestness, 
 else we become as sounding brasses and tinkling cymbals. 
 Thoughts of self must be put aside as damaging to the very 
 work we are trying to do. Our very best endeavors must be 
 given to the doing of the work. It would be well, when that 
 best is done and the sermon is over, not to forget that after all 
 we are "unprofitable servants." Nor should the holy fear, 
 
All is Vanity 213 
 
 "lest having preached unto others we ourselves might become 
 castaways, " be long absent from our minds. In such spirit 
 did Father McLoughlin appear before his people to instruct 
 them. The sound of his sweet voice still rings in your ears as 
 he spoke the words that " become th sound doctrine." Not 
 without serious thought and earnest preparation did he ap- 
 proach this important work. He did not believe in trusting to 
 the impulse of the moment. Too much depends upon God's 
 Word to justify such action. And as he spoke, his strong faith 
 and earnestness communicated themselves to you, and you are 
 better men and women for having heard and listened to him. 
 "God hath placed in us a ministry of reconciliation." 
 There is a Divine institution committed to the care of the 
 Church which is not understood by the world. Its influence 
 is misrepresented, its power denied and its effect ridiculed. 
 The unbelievers make a scandal of it, but the man of faith 
 knows that it contains the mercy and goodness of God. 
 "When the secrets of all hearts are revealed" we shall know 
 how wonderful were the things accomplished through the 
 Sacrament of Penance. In the exercise of this office how com- 
 plex the obligations of the priest ; how many duties rolled into 
 the performance of this one action! He must be a father, a 
 judge, a physician, a mediator, a teacher, and a guide of souls. 
 As a father — not with stem visage, but with kindness of mien 
 must he welcome back from the far-off land of sin the children 
 who have squandered their substance living riotously; as a 
 judge, while exposing the enormity and malice of sin, his de- 
 cisions must be on the side of mercy; as a physician, he must 
 be able to distinguish between leprosy and leprosy and must 
 know the remedies and how to apply them; as a mediator, he 
 must be a man of prayer, making up in himself the deficiencies 
 of the sinner, grieving that God is so often offended, beseech- 
 ing God to keep his penitents in innocence and holiness of life 
 or grant them true soirow and perseverance ; as a teacher, his 
 words must make for the coming of the Kingdom of God and 
 the doing of His will on earth as it is in Heaven ; as a guide, he 
 must be sure of the directions he gives, and must lead the way. 
 Who would be able for all this if the grace of ofJSce did not 
 
214 Father Tom 
 
 supply every need? And from the exercise of this duty does 
 the priest realize "the iniquity and contradiction in the city, " 
 while, on the other hand, sounds as if of angels' voices reach 
 his ears. How Father McLoughlin performed this duty you 
 know better than I. But I do know that he was the faithful 
 keeper of the consciences of his people, that he had the grace of 
 sympathy without which the hearing of confessions is an intoler- 
 able burden, and that he rejoiced and sorrowed with his people. 
 "When I was sick j^ou visited me. " Let me plead for the 
 Apostolate of devotion to the sick and those who are in afflic- 
 tion. Our ministrations to the sick should be performed in the 
 genuine spirit of love and sympathy; not the hurried giving of 
 the Sacraments, and then forgetfulness, but real interest and 
 anxiety. The end, upon which so much depends, is coming — 
 the soul must be strengthened for the journey. The thought 
 and prayer of the priest must be with that soul until the sum- 
 mons comes, and it passes on to judgment. It may not be a 
 question of immediate danger, yet there is pain and suffering. 
 The hours of the day and night are so long, it is so easy for those 
 who are about the sick to grow weary and tired. There is no 
 danger — therefore the attention need not be too exact. The 
 people have a right to expect from their priests real considera- 
 tion, the encouraging word and the wonderful messages of our 
 holy Faith. I believe that many imperfections will be forgiven 
 the priest who loves to visit the sick. And how pleased the 
 people are to welcome us to their homes as we go on these 
 errands of mercy! Let not, therefore, any consideration deter 
 us in the performance of this important duty. Let us give 
 freely of our time; let us put aside the thought of comfort 
 and convenience and rest and recreation. God is calling us to 
 the bedside of the sick and dying, and we must go. Father 
 McLoughlin was kind to the sick. You were glad when you 
 knew that he was coming. His cheery presence was like a 
 tonic to all the household. The right words were said by him 
 because he felt for those who were in affliction. And when the 
 Angel of Death knocked at the door and sorrow came into the 
 homes of his people, he knew how to comfort and console and 
 to inspire the spirit of resignation to God's Holy Will. 
 
All is Vanity 215 
 
 What shall be the reward of the priest who performs all 
 these duties well? Surely, at least, the grateful affection of his 
 people. I know of few men in the priesthood who received so 
 large a measure of praise as did Father McLoughlin. He de- 
 served it. He liked the kind word and he appreciated the good 
 will of the people. Four years ago the citizens of New Rochelle 
 honored Father McLoughlin on the occasion of his Silver 
 Jubilee. They paid him a splendid tribute, they honored him 
 as a leader of his people, a model citizen and an earnest priest. 
 He often spoke to me of the great kindness shown to him at 
 that time. And to-day the people gather to honor him in 
 death. If he had his share of appreciation, he did not escape 
 blame and censure in his life, and I am glad that it was so. 
 The priest of all men must be conformed to the image of the 
 Son of God. How can that be unless the Cross comes into his 
 life? And so when blame did come, I do not think that Father 
 McLoughlin was surprised. He knew the life of his Lord and 
 Master too well to wonder at his being misjudged and mis- 
 understood. At the very time the dear Lord was promising 
 to the people His greatest Gift "they shook their heads and 
 walked no more with Him. " The memory of all that He had 
 done for them had grown dim, and they sought to cast stones 
 at Him. " Many good works have I wrought among you; for 
 which of them do you desire to stone Me?" "Hosanna to the 
 Son of David, blessed is He that cometh in the name of the 
 Lord, " was quickly followed by "Crucify Him! His blood be 
 upon us and upon our children." The Prastorium of Pilate 
 should teach a lesson to every priest. The praise of the world 
 is of little moment — for the "Euge, serve bone" of the Master 
 must we work. 
 
 I am afraid that I was not as resigned to God's will as I 
 should have been. I know now that I should have prayed 
 that God would give him the grace of a happy death. I hoped 
 and prayed that He would let him stay with us yet a little 
 while longer. But the good fight had been fought, the faith 
 had been kept, and the just Judge was waiting to give the 
 crown. And so ex umbris et imaginibus in lucem et veritatem 
 there passed a genial companion, a good friend, a splendid man 
 
2i6 Father Tom 
 
 and an earnest priest. We loved him during life, we shall not 
 desert him until by our prayers we have brought him to "the 
 place of the wonderful tabernacle, even to the very house of 
 God." Spare him, therefore, God! Sweet Jesus, Lord, 
 grant him rest. Amen. 
 
 As the funeral procession passed through the streets of 
 the town on its way to Holy Sepulchre Cemetery the post 
 band from Fort Slocum played Nearer My God to Thee, the 
 bells in the towers of churches of all denominations rang 
 out a requiem in solemn tones, and the sidewalks were lined 
 withhis sorrowing parishioners, whose bowed heads and tear- 
 stained eyes testified to the sincerity of their grief at the loss 
 of Father Tom. His grave was made in a spot selected by 
 himself fronting the main entrance to Holy Sepulchre Ceme- 
 tery. When the last prayer had been said, a soldier from 
 Fort Slocum sounded taps, and Father Tom was at rest. 
 
 On Decoration Day, 1915, a magnificent granite monu- 
 ment, the generous tribute of the members of New Ro- 
 chelle Council of the Knights of Columbus, was unveiled 
 with appropriate ceremonies and now marks the last rest- 
 ing place of the beloved pastor of the Blessed Sacrament. 
 
 The sweet voice of the Singing Priest is stilled and is 
 heard on earth no more, but who can doubt that he who so 
 gloriously sang the praises of the Almighty while here has 
 realized the hope so often expressed by him in his favorite 
 song. The Chorister. 
 
 Last night I dreamt of harps of gold; 
 Heaven's gates were rolled asunder. 
 I saw the dear sweet face of old 
 Upraised in joy and wonder. 
 He sings among the angels now 
 Beside the crystal river, 
 The light of God upon his brow 
 Forever and forever, 
 
THE MONUMENT IN HOLY SEPULCHRE CEMETERY, NEW ROCHELLE 
 
LECTURES 
 
 217 
 
ARCHBISHOP HUGHES CHURCHMAN AND STATESMAN ' 
 
 On the twenty-fourth of June of the present year there was 
 witnessed a spectacle seldom, if ever, seen in the annals of the 
 church in the United States. In the open air, under the lofty 
 Cathedral arch of the grand old elms at Fordham College, with 
 heaven's blue vault for a dome, a Pontifical Mass was sung 
 by the Archbishop of New York, surrounded by large numbers 
 of the hierarchy, the clergy and the laity. Standing in mili- 
 tary array were the cadets of the college in their gray uniforms, 
 and when at the consecration, the Bishop elevated the Sacred 
 Host in the air they, at the word of command, presented arms 
 to their God made man, and the only sounds heard in that vast 
 assemblage were the sweet tinkling of the censer as it fell 
 against its silver chains, and the chirping of the birds that flew 
 about in the waving foliage overhead. It was a scene never to 
 be forgotten. Nature's God, worshiped in Nature's temple 
 surrounded by all that was beautiful in Nature, and the odor 
 of the incense was outrivaled by the perfume of a thousand 
 flowers that grew everywhere around. The spot on which we 
 stood was hallowed ground. Here, over one hundred years 
 ago, Washington had made his headquarters. Here the 
 ground was made sacred by the blood of patriots who fought 
 and died in the skirmishes which preceded the battle of White 
 Plains, in the War of the Revolution. Here were the old and 
 ever honored elms that have listened to the farewell speeches 
 of the graduates of St. John's College. Here was the old 
 Seminary that sent forth so many zealous missionaries in the 
 
 ' Delivered in the Church of Our Lady of Mercy, Roseton, Orange Co., 
 N. Y., Sunday, July 12, 1891. 
 
 219 
 
330 Father Tom 
 
 by-gone days whose lives are an honor to the church of God. 
 Here was to be seen the old Rose Hill Mansion whose broad 
 parlors once echoed to the sound of revelry, where brave men 
 and fair women in the old colonial days danced the stately 
 minuet, but which are now consecrated to prayer and quiet 
 by the saintly sons of Ignatius Loyola. With veneration do 
 we gaze upon these ivy covered walls for they bring forcibly to 
 our minds the memory of the man whose praises are sounded 
 on every lip to-day. It is not the memory of the Father of His 
 Country nor the memory of the founder of the Society of Jesus, 
 that brings together these thousands of people. No! for— 
 look! The Archbishop pulls a slender cord, the Stars and 
 Stripes fall and amidst the plaudits and bravos of the multi- 
 tude, the waving of handkerchiefs, and the booming of cannon, 
 there stands unveiled the magnificent bronze statue of one of 
 the grandest heroes of our age — a man who was a shining light 
 in the Church of God in days of darkness and bigotry ; a man 
 who was the able champion and defender of religion in days of 
 persecution; a man who was the advocate and founder of 
 christian education in this State; a man who was a genuine 
 American to the core, and who, when his country needed his 
 services in the sad days of rebellion, undertook an arduous 
 mission abroad, for the sake of bringing about peace and union 
 to our afflicted country; a man who in the days when kingly 
 power, subject to the church, held sway through Europe, would 
 have been another Richelieu or Ximenes— a man — the greatest 
 churchman and statesman that the Catholic Church in Amer- 
 ica has ever possessed, and this man was John Hughes, the 
 first Archbishop of New York. Let us gaze but for a moment 
 at the statue as it stands unveiled before us. Everything 
 about it seems to recall to our minds something in connection 
 with the man and with his character. It seems to spring up 
 from a beautiful green mound of earth, just as he had his origin 
 in the green Isle of Erin. It rests upon a large block of pol- 
 ished granite, which well serves to indicate his sterling, lasting 
 good qualities and faith, firm as the rock of Peter, while at the 
 same time he had all the polish that should characterize a 
 Christian gentleman. He stands upon a square block of bronze 
 
Archbishop Hughes 221 
 
 on which are engraven figures of the four evangelists, to show 
 the gospel truths that John Hughes preached, the eternal 
 unchanging truths of the Catholic Church. Look at the 
 figure, you see him standing erect with head thrown slightly- 
 back, not afraid to look any man in the face, even his deadliest 
 foe. Look at that noble, handsome, classic face, that piercing 
 eye, that firm set yet gentle mouth. See the graceful gesture 
 of his hand. One almost feels like Michael Angelo, when he 
 stood before his masterpiece, the statue of Moses and struck 
 it with his hammer saying, "Speak," so lifelike is the statue. 
 One cannot help saying as he looks upon this great work of 
 the sculptor, "God always raises up great men to defend his 
 church in the hour of need. " To the Israelites of old, he gave 
 a Moses, an Aaron, a Saul, a David, and a Judas Maccabeus. 
 To the Christian Church in trying times he gave a Hildebrand, 
 a Pius V and a Leo XIIL In this age of trial he gave to 
 Protestant England a Cardinal Manning, a Newman, and a 
 Faber; to persecuted Germany a Windthorst, who fought 
 singlehanded against an immense host of unbelievers; to Ire- 
 land has he given an O'Connell, a McHale, and a Croke; while 
 in the United States has he raised up a Bishop Kenrick, a 
 Bishop England, and the great Archbishop Hughes, great 
 because whether we regard him as the defender of his faith, 
 or as the champion of Christian education, or as the lover of 
 his country, we shall find him a leader amongst men, always 
 having the courage of his convictions, always honest and 
 candid, always a true son of the church, a true lover of his 
 country and the sincere friend of justice, truth and righteous- 
 ness. Who was he? For the information of the younger 
 generation I may state that he was the first Archbishop of 
 New York and died about twenty-six years ago. Did he come 
 from some great rich family? No! The greatest men of 
 ancient and modern times have sprung from the people. 
 Read the lives of the great men who have left an indelible mark 
 of their individual character on the pages of the world's his- 
 tory, and you will find that they were all self-made men. 
 They boasted no long lineage of Knighted ancestors; all that 
 their fathers bequeathed to them was life, an honest name, and 
 
222 Father Tom 
 
 honorable ambition. Read the life of the apostles who 
 founded the church. Read the lives of nearly all the great 
 saints and bishops and doctors of the church, read the life of 
 Napoleon or of Washington or of Lincoln and you will find that 
 they all sprang from the people, and many of them from the 
 very poor. 
 
 So it was with John Hughes, destined by the will of Divine 
 Providence to be a leader in Israel, and to guide the church's 
 bark through the stormy days of persecution, he was of humble 
 origin. 
 
 Listen to the story of his boyhood, and it may prove an 
 incentive to some of our young friends here who, if they have 
 the brains and the pluck to use well their God-given talents, 
 may yet occupy prominent positions in the church or in the 
 legislative halls of the nation. 
 
 John Hughes was born in Annaloghan, County Tyrone, 
 Ireland, on the 24th day of June, 1797, and was the third of a 
 family of seven. His father was an industrious Irish farmer 
 and he brought up his children in the fear and love of God. 
 John's childhood was passed in the midst of the harrowing 
 scenes of the rebellion of '98, and the consequent bitter per- 
 secution of the Catholics by the English government, which 
 seemed only too glad of an excuse to persecute this struggling 
 people. The Archbishop used to tell a little bit of history of 
 this time of his life to some of his intimate friends. "I re- 
 member," he says, "when I was quite a little boy, my sister 
 Mary died, we walked to the dear old graveyard where our be- 
 loved departed lay, and the priest blessed a handful of earth and 
 gave it to a layman to throw on the coffin of little Mary," and 
 ' ' Why ? " he used to ask indignantly. ' ' Because the cruel penal 
 laws of England forbade the priests to enter into God's acre." 
 
 John Hughes went to school every day and studied hard, 
 for even in early childhood he felt the call of God and longed 
 to consecrate his life to Him. We may imagine how down- 
 hearted he felt when, because of hard times, he was obliged to 
 leave school and work on the farm with his father. He was 
 then eighteen years old and he tells us that, when he was work- 
 ing on the farm, in order to help keep the wolf from the door, 
 
Archbishop Hughes 223 
 
 "Many a time have I thrown down my rake in the meadow 
 and kneeUng behind a hayrick begged of God and the Blessed 
 Virgin to let me become a priest. " 
 
 God heard the fervent prayer in a way that he did not anti- 
 cipate. At the age of twenty he set sail for America where his 
 faith would prove no obstacle in the way of his advancement, 
 and after laboring at building roads and bridges he went 
 bravely one day to the college doors of Mt. St. Mary's in 
 Emmitsburg, and was greeted by the kindly face erf Father 
 Dubois, whom he was one day to succeed as Bishop of New 
 York. "Father, " said he, " I am poor and I wish to become a 
 priest. I will work my way through college if you only let 
 me study." Dubois was pleased with him, and made him 
 assistant gardener. Here the future Archbishop worked faith- 
 fully with the hoe and spade and the rake, and to this day 
 they point out with pride at the old mountain the flower-beds 
 once tended by Archbishop Hughes. 
 
 He studied very hard and even at meal times he would 
 hasten away to store his mind with that knowledge that was 
 to be of such great service to him in after life. Even here 
 he began to show that spirit of controversy which afterwards 
 distinguished him and made him worthy of the title of ' ' De- 
 fender of the Faith." It seems the college took fire and he 
 acted very bravely in trying to save the furniture and books. 
 Not content with this he started out one day to collect for the 
 repairs needed on the building. He entered a tavern in 
 Chambersburg and stated his mission to a number of Mary- 
 land farmers and others seated around the stove. "Why," 
 said one big fellow after expectorating across the floor, "do 
 you think I'd give a cent to Anti-Christianity and Popery, no 
 siree, I don't believe in no idolaters, I don't." — "Neither do 
 I," said Hughes, "but I believe in God, the father of all Christ- 
 ians, and I believe we are all his children and I think if you 
 were thrown out on the street to-morrow by a fire, I would 
 not ask what your belief was but I'd lend you a helping hand. " 
 He then in a few words explained the general teachings of the 
 church and received a substantial collection from all these men 
 for the rebuilding of the college. 
 
224 Father Tom 
 
 A story is told of Mr. Hughes when he was yet a deacon, 
 that he went with Bishop Conwell through the diocese when he 
 was giving confirmation. The Bishop said, "Mr. Hughes, be 
 good enough to preach to the people to-day, I am not feeling 
 well." Hughes, glad to get the opportunity, mounted the 
 altar steps and preached a very fine sermon. The Bishop was 
 so pleased that when they came to the next town, he said, 
 "Mr. Hughes, you had better preach again to-day for it will 
 give you* practice. " The poor deacon Hughes had only the 
 one sermon so he gave it again and again and again for several 
 days at the end of which time the Bishop said, "Well Mr. 
 Hughes you are like a cuckoo, you have but the one note. " 
 
 But John Hughes had more than one note, and he proved 
 it shortly afterwards when he was sent to be Rector of St. 
 Mary's Church, Philadelphia. At this time there was a steady 
 infiux of Irish emigrants to the hospitable shores of America. 
 They were fleeing persecution and famine and hastened to settle 
 in a land where 
 
 They say there's bread and work for all, 
 And the sun shines always there. 
 But [they added] we'll not forget old Ireland 
 Though it's fifty times as fair. 
 
 The native Americans, who were in the majority, viewed with 
 alarm the increasing numbers of Catholics or Papists as they 
 tauntingly called them, and the spirit of bigotry became so 
 violent, that the poor emigrants were forced to believe that 
 they had stepped out of the frying pan into the fire. They 
 were insulted on the streets, they were jeered at and made 
 fun of even as the youngsters of to-day molest the unoffending 
 Chinamen, but with the spirit of hatred not of the race but of 
 their creed. 
 
 One of Philadelphia's ministers, a strongly bigoted Presby- 
 terian, flung down the gauntlet, and challenged any Catholic 
 to enter into controversy with him on these two questions. 
 
 What is the true rule of faith? 
 
 Is the Protestant religion the religion of Christ ? 
 
 Mr. Hughes accepted the challenge, and stood as the able 
 
Archbishop Hughes 225 
 
 champion and defender of his Mother Church. Oh ! how proud 
 the Catholics of Philadelphia were when they saw him stand 
 upon the platform in the crowded hall and saw there the 
 "soggarth aroon" handling his opponent without gloves. 
 How they loved him, and would have died for him, as they saw 
 him demolish one after another the arguments of his adversary. 
 They listened with rapture as their quick minds grasped his 
 arguments in defense of the Catholic rule of faith. They 
 heard him prove the absurdity of the Bible alone as a rule of 
 faith and asked his hearers to look upon the fruits of that rule 
 in the dissenting spirit visible in the hundred and one sects 
 into which Protestantism was divided by private interpre- 
 tation of the Scriptures. They followed him closely as he 
 showed the necessity of adhering to Christian tradition handed 
 down from Peter and Paul to Gregory XVI. They applauded 
 vigorously when he told them of the infallible Church estab- 
 lished by Christ. How He promised He would be with His 
 church all days even to the consummation of the world, and 
 that the gates of hell would never prevail against that Church. 
 He showed to them that Christ made Peter head of his Church, 
 and that where Peter is there is the church. Where Peter's 
 successor is there is the Church. He proved that the Pope of 
 Rome was considered the successor of St. Peter for sixteen 
 centuries. He pointed out that the principal Protestant sects 
 were founded in the sixteenth century, not by Christ. On, no ! 
 but in Germany by a renegade monk, in England by a sensual 
 king, who had murdered several of his wives, in Switzerland by 
 a religious bigot, who burned a man at the stake because he 
 refused to embrace the doctrine of Presbyterianism. But 
 when he came to speak of the endeavors of the reformers to 
 introduce their new beliefs into Ireland their enthusiasm knew 
 no bounds. He gave historical facts to show how the people 
 suffered every kind of persecution that the ingenuity of man 
 could invent rather than give up the old faith . He showed that 
 they clung tenaciously to the faith handed them by Patrick 
 in the fourth century. He showed them that the horrors of 
 the Spanish Inquisition and St. Bartholomew's Massacre 
 were as nothing compared to the centuries of systematic per- 
 
226 Father Tom 
 
 secution inflicted on the Irish people and then he added, these 
 faithful willing honest people, ready to work, ready to become 
 peaceful law-abiding citizens of this free republic, emigrate, 
 and instead of finding Columbia opening out her wide spread- 
 ing mantle to receive the persecuted of every nation, she finds 
 her with a scourge in her hand and her tongue filled with 
 reproaches. Why? Because they are Catholics and sup- 
 posed to be hostile to the government. Were not the Pilgrims 
 that landed on Plymouth Rock obliged to flee from the persecu- 
 tions of the same tyrannical government. Was it not the 
 same story with the Huguenots? And who, the Archbishop 
 would exclaim, who has a better right to this country than the 
 Catholics? Did not Columbus discover this land? He was a 
 Catholic, so were his sailors. A Catholic Mass was said in this 
 land long before a Protestant service was held. Amerigo 
 Vespucci who discovered North America was a Catholic, so 
 were all the settlers he brought with him. On the Declaration 
 of Independence we find the honored name of Charles Carroll 
 of Carrollton, who was a staunch Catholic. Several of General 
 Washington's aides in the War of the Revolution were Irish- 
 men and Catholics. His Catholic soldiers acted so bravely in 
 the war, that he as President of the United States wrote them 
 a letter thanking them and praising their bravery. They have 
 always proved a peaceful law-abiding people, and they practice 
 the teachings of their Church and I have proved to you that 
 that Church is the Church instituted by Christ. By such 
 language as this did the priest succeed in vanquishing his 
 adversary. The controversy was long and bitter on both sides 
 and finally Breckenridge threw up the sponge defeated and in 
 bad humor. Even the faculty of Princeton College are on 
 record as having declared "Hughes had the best of the con- 
 troversy, because Breckenridge was not the proper man to 
 stand up as the exponent of Presbyterianism ' ' and yet Brecken- 
 ridge was by all odds the most learned and eloquent divine at 
 that time in the city of Philadelphia. 
 
 "But even though conquered he could argue still, " Brecken- 
 ridge retired, but the party he represented were not going to 
 allow themselves to be defeated and they said, "You may beat 
 
Archbishop Hughes 227 
 
 us in argument and brains, but we will beat you by brute 
 force," the argument of a wounded animal. Then began a 
 sad day for Philadelphia and the other large cities which 
 followed her example. Pardon me, my dear dissenting friend 
 if there be any such present, if I touch upon this subject painful 
 to both of us, but I speak of it only to bring out in a clearer 
 light the true character of Rev. Mr. Hughes. 
 
 For several days organized mobs of Know-Nothings were 
 around the city of so-called brotherly love, burning the 
 churches and convents of Catholics, throwing into the flames 
 most valuable libraries, the people were left without Mass on 
 Sundays, the priests obliged to flee from the city or conceal 
 themselves from the violence of the mob. The good Sisters 
 left without a home to shelter them. The little orphans cry- 
 ing in the streets. This was the spectacle presented in Phila- 
 delphia in 1844, forty-seven years ago. Not so in New York, 
 for Father Hughes had been transferred from Philadelphia and 
 was now Bishop of New York. The spirit of what was called 
 native Americanism was spreading to New York. Organi- 
 zations were being formed having in view the same object as 
 the Philadelphians ; but they little imagined the leader they had 
 to deal with. Bishop Hughes, seeing the turn affairs were tak- 
 ing, called a meeting of Catholics and told them to prepare for a 
 struggle and be ready to fight in defense of their churches. A 
 priest who had escaped from Philadelphia hearing of this, 
 came to the Bishop and begged him to counsel peace to the 
 Irish and ask them to be quiet, and this was his magnificent 
 answer worthy of Saint Paul, "No, never. If a single chturch 
 is burned in New York, this city will become another Moscow. 
 I will not restrain my people in a just fight and Philadelphia 
 Catholics should be ashamed of their cowardice in not defend- 
 ing God's Church. Theology tells us, we can resist violence 
 by violence and if necessary kill an unjust aggressor. Go my 
 men, arm yourselves, set guards in the churches, and if these 
 violators of the rights of God and man lay unjust hands on you 
 or God's Church, do your duty, only remember, don't strike 
 the first blow." 
 
 As a result of this speech four thousand men guarded the 
 
228 Father Tom 
 
 chiirches of New York City. The mob passed in procession 
 but did not dare lay a hand on one of the Catholics or a single 
 torch to their churches. Bishop Hughes well knew this, for he 
 wrote to the Freeman's Journal at this time: "We well know 
 the nature of a mob. They are cowards when met even by an 
 inferior force. They won't dare to act in New York as they 
 did in Philadelphia. My advisors and abettors are members 
 of the Catholic Church who are just as much Americans in 
 birth, in ancestry, and in liberal ideas as the Know-Nothings 
 themselves, and more so because they are in favor of peace and 
 believe in the true spirit of freedom and liberty, and the more 
 intelligent Americans cannot but admire our courage. " 
 About this time a delegation from Philadelphia came on to 
 New York with a flag which they said had been trampled on by 
 savage foreigners. A large meeting of indignation was called 
 to be held in City Hall Park. Bishop Hughes felt the crisis 
 had come. If this meeting were held, he feared he would be 
 unable to restrain the anger of his people. He went to Mayor 
 Robert Morris, and spoke to him about suppressing the meet- 
 ing. "Are you afraid," said the Mayor, "that some of your 
 churches will be burned?" "No," answered the Bishop, "I 
 am not a bit afraid of that, but I am afraid that if you don't 
 stop this meeting, many of yours may be burned. We can 
 protect our own, but I warn you for your own good. Call out 
 the militia and stop this meeting or I cannot be responsible for 
 my people. They have stood too much already. " The meeting 
 was stopped, there was no riot, and thus did the leader of his 
 people bring about peace to the city and crush out the spirit of 
 bigotry, before it had a chance to develop. There is one picttire 
 of the grand Archbishop, whose praises we are sounding to-night. 
 Was he not a God sent man ? Was he not an ornament to his 
 church? Have we not reason as members of the Catholic 
 Church to be proud of so noble and great an Archbishop? 
 
 Before I pass to other phases of his character and other 
 works accomplished by him, some of you may ask, Was he 
 always thus grave and serious? Always defending the 
 Church, always fighting for his religion ? No, not all the time. 
 In his leisure moments after dinner, he was fond of a light con- 
 
Archbishop Hughes 229 
 
 versation; he told many a good joke and story and would even 
 sing a song for the entertainment of his immediate friends. 
 
 Let us consider for a moment John Hughes as the champion 
 of Christian education. When he arrived home from Europe 
 in 1840 he found the Catholics of New York agitated over the 
 school question. He immediately took up the question and 
 presided at a series of meetings held in St. James' Church and 
 Carroll Hall. What were those Catholics complaining about 
 now? Simply this. The school funds were in the hands of 
 religious corporations and the Catholics were obliged to send 
 their children to these schools or else have them grow up in 
 ignorance. Rather than have them educated in a faith which 
 they believed false, they established schools of their own and 
 asked for a division of the funds — this was refused them. 
 They objected to paying taxes for the common schools and 
 supporting their own schools at the same time. The meetings 
 referred to were crowded and enthusiastic and the speeches 
 made by the Bishop were the best of his life. His whole soul 
 was in the work. The eternal salvation of his children was at 
 stake and he did not hesitate to expose himself to ridicule and 
 sarcasm and insult for their sake. A friend advised him to 
 remain away from a meeting where some of the Protestant 
 ministers were prepared to attack him, and he answered, "I 
 will go to the meeting, for so important is the question that I 
 cannot be anywhere more in keeping with my character as 
 Bishop than when I stand before you pleading the cause of the 
 poor and the oppressed, and so near is the question to my 
 heart, that I can bear insult from morning till night. " 
 
 Some of his speeches occupied three hours and a half and 
 these discussions went on for two years. A synopsis of them 
 all may be made in a few words, "We as Catholics maintain 
 that secular education and religion should go hand in hand. 
 Divorce one from the other and you come naturally to atheism 
 and infidelity. You say, ' Teach the common belief of all men 
 in the schools, founded on the teaching of the Sermon on the 
 Mount. ' Absurd ! for you cannot even say the Our Father in 
 common because it is the teaching of Christ. Numbers of the 
 scholars are Jews who do not believe in Christ. Teach a 
 
230 Father Tom 
 
 common religion and you teach deism, but deism is not Chris- 
 tianity, yet we profess to be Christians." "We protest," he 
 said moreover, "against the reading of the King James version 
 of the bible to our children with or without comment, for it is 
 an injustice to them. We protest against the histories and the 
 stories in the reading of the former of which we know to be 
 false, the latter in many instances calculated to make a Catho- 
 lic child ashamed of his faith, because of the slurs and libels on 
 his religion. We protest on conscientious grounds against this 
 spirit of indifference in religion, and looking out for the spiritual 
 interests of our children, we demand in justice for our schools, 
 a share of the school funds, not to be used to further our church 
 but for the education of the children. We promise that no 
 religion shall be taught in school hours, and that the teachers 
 shall be examined by the board and found competent before 
 appointment. " The proposition seemed a just and fair one 
 but for the broaching of it the Archbishop had to undergo the 
 scathing sarcasm and deliberate insults of several of New 
 York's prominent ministers. A final meeting was held in 
 Washington Hall, and the Archbishop told his people that the 
 only way to settle the question was to make it an issue at the 
 polls by nominating an independent ticket. The nominations 
 were made and the Archbishop read the list of names of the 
 candidates to an enthusiastic throng amidst thunders of 
 applause. Of course they had no chance of electing their 
 ticket but they took the same stand as the Prohibitionists 
 take, they stood for a principle, and if the genuine sentiment 
 of the American people was against them, it was for want of 
 foresight, and because of the then existing prejudice against 
 foreigners. But, my friends, the day will come, and is fast 
 approaching when true Americans, wiser in their generation 
 than their forefathers, will vindicate the stand taken by 
 Archbishop Hughes and will see the necessity of uniting 
 religion to secular education. He fought the hardest battles 
 of his life to gain this point and his successors will keep it 
 before the minds of the people of the United States until some 
 equitable solution of the problem is reached. Prominent 
 ministers of New York are agitating the question of denomi- 
 
Archbishop Hughes 231 
 
 national schools, for their eyes are being opened to their 
 absolute necessity. What do they behold? They ask them- 
 selves and the public: Why are the benches in our churches 
 empty? What can we do to make our services attractive? 
 How can we encourage our young folks to attend church? 
 
 Now, on the other hand we Catholic clergy ask: " How shall 
 we accommodate these crowds that come to Mass every Sun- 
 day?" Already we have five, six, and in some churches, 
 eight services on Sunday morning, and yet at some of the 
 Masses there are two or three hundred standing. There are 
 thousands of Italians and Bohemians in New York City who 
 do not go to church simply because we have not accommo- 
 dations for them. What is the secret of all this? It is because 
 we have united our religion to our education; it is because we 
 teach the child that faith and the Kingdom of Heaven are to be 
 esteemed before all the treasures of this life, and that success 
 in this life is of no value whatever if the happy hereafter is not 
 attained. The public school system, as far as secular training 
 goes, is up to a high standard of perfection, but when you 
 leave out dogmatic religious teaching you have nothing left 
 but religious indifferentism, and reUgious indifferentism 
 quickly degenerates into deism and deism into infidelity. 
 The cry is: Teach the children morality; teach them to be 
 honest, teach them to be good and obedient to their parents; 
 teach them to do good to their fellow man. Leave out religion 
 in its stricter sense. Let that be taught in the chiurches. Or 
 if you must have it, read a chapter or two from the Bible, 
 picked out at random. Now, my dear friends, I protest again 
 that I respect every man's religion and honor him for wor- 
 shiping God according to the dictates of his conscience; but 
 I must say that if the different Protestant churches expect to 
 hold together their congregations and make their children 
 interested in church work there must be denominational teach- 
 ing in the schools, or the result will be that in a hundred years 
 from now this country will be divided into two large hostile 
 camps— the Catholics and the infidels. These are only the old 
 arguments given out by the Archbishop forty years ago, and 
 his prophecy is becoming more and more true every day. 
 
232 Father Ibm 
 
 Fair play is all we ask and if it is not granted us for the 
 asking, then we must beg for it. If it is not given as an alms, 
 then we must demand it as a right. If it is still refused us 
 then we can only wait patiently for twenty years more till we 
 number four million in this state and then secure by force of 
 ballot our God-given rights. 
 
 We now turn from the defender of his church and look upon 
 the patriot, the lover of his native land, the greater lover of 
 the land of his adoption — the defender of his country in the 
 time of her trial. 
 
 Archbishop Hughes was a genuine American in every sense 
 of the word. He loved with all the ardor of his soul her 
 Declaration of Independence and her Constitution. He loved 
 her as the orphan child loves the mother who takes him to her 
 bosom and nourishes him. He loved her as the drowning man 
 loves the hero who saves his life. He loved her with that love 
 as deep-seated as the hatred which he bore toward England. 
 He told the emigrant on his arrival here: "Renounce forever 
 all allegiance to every foreign power and take out your papers 
 as an American citizen. Remember now you are an Ameri- 
 can. Love Ireland and never forget the mother country that 
 gave you life, but your country now is the United States and 
 your flag is the Star Spangled Banner and you must be as 
 ready to fight and die in defense of that flag as you were once 
 ready in defense of the " Harp and the Shamrock. " No won- 
 der that these brave fellows coming over enlisted in our army 
 in defense of the integrity of the States. No wonder that they 
 marched bravely to the front, and that their bleached bones 
 might be seen on every Southern battlefield. No wonder that 
 for their bravery many of them rose in the ranks and became 
 captains and lieutenants and majors. No wonder that the pet 
 of the army and the one who in reality was the Napoleon of 
 the war of the rebellion was the gallant Phil Sheridan. And 
 yet although the Bishop who gave this advice to the new- 
 comers was thoroughly an American, still he dearly loved the 
 land of his birth and often wept over her sad trials and mis- 
 fortunes. If a word of disparagement were said in his presence 
 concerning her his eye would flash with indignation and he 
 
Archbishop Hughes 233 
 
 would stoutly defend his native land. He would say: "Yes, 
 she is poor and wretched and down trodden and backward, 
 but it is owing to the cruel and accursed laws of her oppressor 
 who chains her to the earth with heavy chains of iron ; but look 
 upon her past history; look upon the magnificent ruins scat- 
 tered everywhere about you in the green isle, and you can read 
 in these stones that she must have been at one time the grand- 
 est nation in Europe." Give an Irishman the proper oppor- 
 tunity and he rises to the highest point in every profession, 
 whether it be in Church or State. The time was when Irish- 
 men were looked upon in this country as we now look upon the 
 Italians or the Chinese, but that day is gone. Sons of Irish- 
 men have been Governors of the States. Sons of Irishmen 
 have been and are mayors of the largest cities in the country. 
 Sons of Irishmen are found in large numbers in the legislative 
 halls in the state and national capitol. Sons of Irishmen are 
 found filling themedical, legal, and ministerial professions. Sons 
 of Irishmen are among the most prominent actors on the stage. 
 Sons and daughters of Irishmen are numbered by thousands as 
 teachers in the public schools throughout the land and are the 
 teachers of the descendants of the "Know-Nothings." 
 
 These are only a few facts to prove to you that if Ireland 
 was given the opportunity she could be once again the 
 greatest nation intellectually in all Europe. 
 
 To show the love he bore to Ireland I will give but one 
 example. In 1847 Archbishop Hughes took up a collection 
 for his new seminary at Troy, which institution he regarded 
 as the apple of his eye. The sad news came across the sea that 
 there was a famine in Ireland and that the people were starving 
 by the wayside. The bishop took the whole collection, four- 
 teen thousand dollars, and sent it over to the suffering people 
 saying : "They are our brothers and need it more than we do. " 
 
 When the time of the rebellion of '48 came on he took a 
 decided stand and said: " No — in theory it is all right but it is 
 the height of absurdity to take up arms against such fearful 
 odds and by their rebellion destroy the work of the patriots for 
 fifty years to come. If Ireland is to obtain redress, it can only 
 be by peacefvil means, such as O'Connell employed, and if 
 
234 Father Tom 
 
 they persevere at it as he did they will have before long, not 
 only Catholic emancipation, but Home Rtde and freedom. " 
 And yet when, according to the rosy-pictured accounts that 
 came across the sea, there appeared to be a general uprising 
 and a chance of victory, he attended a large meeting in New 
 York and spoke before the people and gave a donation of five 
 hundred dollars saying: "I have no scruples in aiding the 
 cause worthy of a patriot and a Christian, I will not buy a 
 sword, but my donation shall go towards buying a shield where- 
 with to protect her breasts from the darts of her enemies." 
 In this the Archbishop resembled a certain Irish priest that 
 lived in his own town and whose church was struck by light- 
 ning and destroyed. A great deal of sympathy was excited for 
 him and a large sum collected for the building of a new church. 
 Amongst others the Protestant minister gave five pounds. It 
 happened a year or two afterwards that the Protestant church 
 was struck by lightning and partially destroyed so that the four 
 walls were left standing. They resolved to tear them down 
 and build a new church and went about collecting for the pur- 
 pose . When the minister came to the priest for a donation he was 
 afraid of scandalizing his people by contributing to the Church 
 of England, so he said to the parson, "My people will never 
 forgive me for contributing to build a Protestant church, but 
 here is ten pounds for tearing down the walls of the old church." 
 
 So it was with the archbishop. He did not wish to sanction 
 the rebellion with his episcopal authority, but all the same he 
 wished to help it in another way. 
 
 We can imagine how well he was known in Ireland by the 
 letters which he received from the people there, some of which 
 show a degree of simplicity in regard to our country. For 
 instance he would receive a letter directed: "Bp. Hughes, 
 United States of America, " and in it the writer would tell him 
 that her son John had gone to America some six years ago to a 
 place called California, and would the bishop please look after 
 him and tell him to send some money home or come home him- 
 self. This was before the days of the Pacific Railway, of course. 
 So we can imagine how hard the Bishop's time would be taxed if 
 he tried to work all the miracles that the§e letters demanded. 
 
Archbishop Hughes 235 
 
 Back as far as 1846 the United States Government appreci- 
 ated his qualities as one of the most prominent citizens of the 
 American Republic, and President Polk said of him : "He is one 
 of the ablest, most accomplished and energetic men I have ever 
 known and possesses prudence and firmness enough to make 
 the mission successful. " This he said of him at the time of the 
 Mexican War when he proposed to send the Archbishop to 
 Mexico to bring about peace between the two countries. But 
 the bishop was diplomat enough to know the responsibility 
 of his position, so he answered the President when requested 
 to go: "Yes, your Excellency, provided I go as an accredited 
 envoy from this country." The President was doubtless 
 afraid of complications arising from such a step. So the 
 Archbishop did not go. He was on intimate terms with the 
 greatest statesmen of the day and prominent amongst these 
 were Governor Seward and President Lincoln. He was a 
 statesman not a politician; he voted but once in his life and 
 that was for Henry Clay in 1832, and never tried to influence 
 the vote of any man except when the school question was an 
 issue. When the great Henry Clay visited New York he was 
 one day seated in the hotel surrounded by some of the most 
 prominent statesmen and politicians in the whole country. 
 When the Archbishop made his appearance Clay made them 
 all leave the room that he might have a talk with the Bishop 
 alone, for he considered his advice of more value than all the 
 rest put together. 
 
 And — listen attentively you who would wish to know what 
 part the Catholics took in the days of the Civil War, when the 
 life of the nation was threatened by her own rebellious children. 
 Away back in '61, Archbishop Hughes, the friend and private 
 counsellor of Lincoln and Seward, the far-seeing statesman 
 sent a letter to Lincoln saying: "Gather a hundred thousand 
 troops around the National capitol at Washington; if you do 
 not, we will lose everything. Let the rights of the Federal 
 Government be settled once and forever. " He communicated 
 regularly and frequently with Secretary Seward and his 
 letters were read with great interest by Lincoln who frequently 
 followed the sage advice of one whom he looked upon as the 
 
236 Father Torn 
 
 greatest statesman in the country. It was in '6i also that 
 President Lincoln sent him in company with Thurlow Weed on 
 a mission of peace to Europe. It was a well-known fact that 
 the South, by means of her representatives abroad, had already 
 won a great deal of sympathy from the nations of Europe, for 
 in the disintegration of the Federal Goveroment they saw a 
 lessening of the formidable power shown in the Union. Bishop 
 Hughes went to France on this mission,. not as the partisan of 
 North or South but as the loyal citizen of the United States 
 of America. He told Lincoln : " I will take no written instruc- 
 tion; give me carte blanche to do and say what I think best 
 for the good of the country. " Why was he, a Bishop of the 
 Catholic Church, chosen for so high and important a service 
 to his country ? It was because Lincoln knew full well that he 
 as a Christian Bishop could do more than an ordinary layman 
 towards the bringing about of peace and by this act the Presi- 
 dent put down his foot on the Know-Nothing party, and 
 declared to the people of the United States that the Catholic 
 citizen as such is not hostile to the Government; that the 
 Catholic citizen is the equal of any other man before the law; 
 that the Christian Bishop by virtue of his high position and 
 influence is more than the ordinary citizen. 
 
 While abroad he mingled in the highest society in France 
 and England and Ireland, and everywhere he went he spoke of 
 the Union and did his best by forcible arguments in season 
 and out of season to prevent a recognition of the Confederacy. 
 He showed them that every State has its own rights and that 
 one State has no business to interfere in the laws of another 
 State. But if any State dares to assume to itself the right of 
 secession, then it is the duty of every good citizen to appeal to 
 the Federal Government and stand by her decision. 
 
 He was kindly and graciously received by the Emperor 
 Napoleon III and his beautiful wife Eugenie, and used all 
 his endeavors to make the Emperor become an arbiter of peace 
 between America and England in a war just brewing. He was 
 treated with the greatest kindness and respect by all the great 
 men of Europe, even by Pius IX himself. 
 
 Sometime after his return home he delivered a powerful 
 
Archbishop Hughes 237 
 
 semion in St. Patrick's Cathedral, Mott Street, in which he 
 made one more appeal in favor of the Union, and called upon 
 the young men of the country to volunteer in defense of their 
 country in large numbers and thus bring a speedy end to the 
 ravages of war which was bringing desolation everywhere. 
 His return to New York was greeted with delight by the people 
 of all denominations, and he was royally entertained by the 
 President and Mr. Seward. His health, which was none the 
 best, gradually gave way under such untiring efforts for God 
 and his country and he finally gave up all work, and after 
 bearing patiently a lingering sickness, the valiant soldier went 
 to his reward — the grandest bishop that the United States has 
 ever seen — the man who devoted all the energies of his life to 
 the glory and honor of God's church and the defense of his own 
 beloved country, the self-sacrificing priest whose chief care was 
 the little children and the orphans, and as a proof of this love we 
 have but to look upon the Catholic orphan asylums and pro- 
 tectories which he founded. Was he zealous for the honor of 
 God's Church? Look at St. Patrick's Cathedral. That is his 
 monument, and it is emblematic of the man. For, as it stands 
 out peerless amidst all the churches in this country for its 
 grandeur and beauty — uniting as it does the useful to the 
 beautiful, so he stands out the grandest figure in the American 
 hierarchy. Elevated to the highest rank, he was always proud 
 of his humble origin and felt that his ancestors must have been 
 always true to the Church. Eminently fitted for his high 
 position, he was from the beginning an instrument in the hands 
 of God for the building up of the material as well as the 
 spiritual edifice of the church, and when he died both Church 
 and State mourned one of their greatest sons. 
 
 Now, my dear friends you have patiently listened to this 
 unworthy eulogy of the subject of our discourse, pardon me 
 one last word. The poet says : 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make otir lives sublime, 
 And departing leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time. 
 
238 Father Tom 
 
 Not without profit, I trust, have you listened to this imper- 
 fect sketch of his life, for everyone may learn from it a salutary 
 lesson. Children may learn that the foundation of true great- 
 ness is obedience to father and mother and truthfulness. 
 Youth may learn that the stepping stone to promotion in life 
 must be honesty, sobriety, suppression of the animal passions, 
 natural good humor, and honest labor. An honest man is the 
 noblest work of God. An honest laborer is one of God's noble- 
 men. John Hughes was not ashamed because he was an hon- 
 est fanner's son. John Hughes took pride in being the son of 
 a gardener — for if it comes to the fine point we are all descended 
 from a gardener and his wife. John Hughes made use of aU 
 his God-given faculties and opportunities and from his early 
 youth he learned to fear the Lord. So with you, if there be 
 one among you that feels called by God to embrace the ecclesi- 
 astical state and to serve Him in the sanctuary, remember the 
 boyhood days of the Archbishop. Persevere faithfully. If 
 God wants you he will give you the means to attain your end. 
 
 The full grown man may learn from his life the lesson of 
 courage. "Be sure you are right, then go ahead." Love 
 and cherish the memory of your fatherland, but love still more 
 the land of your adoption. Be faithful to her at all times. 
 Stand by the Constitution and by the Union as did Bishop 
 Hughes. Be an enemy to every kind of slavery. Be proud of 
 the old Church and never listen to a word said to her discredit. 
 Defend her by your words; defend her by your deeds; defend 
 her, if necessary, by your life; but above all defend her by 
 your good example, for it is good example that will bring the 
 American people at large to appreciate the truth and beauty of 
 our Church. It is good example that will lead them into the 
 fold of Christ and bring us all together in a common brother- 
 hood. 
 
 Finally be true to your God as was Archbishop Hughes in 
 every hour of his life, so that like him you may be ever ready 
 to obey the final summons. Let your ambition be to serve 
 the cause of God, your country, and of truth. 
 
II 
 
 IRELAND, THE HOME OF MUSIC AND SONG' 
 
 The delicious strains of the immortal melodies of Tom 
 Moore, still ringing in our ears, form a most appropriate and 
 inspiring introduction to the subject of our evening's discourse, 
 "Ireland the Home of Music and Song." 
 
 When we call Ireland by this beautiful title, let it be dis- 
 tinctly understood from the beginning that we are not speak- 
 ing of the Ireland of to-day. We wish rather to call to memory 
 those more ancient days in Ireland's history and to show that 
 for many centuries, while Germany and nearly all northern 
 Europe was in a state of barbarism, Ireland was looked up to as 
 a sacred spot, wherein music and poetry were brought to a 
 high state of cultivation, and we shall endeavor to prove that 
 the melodies handed down by tradition for over nineteen 
 hundred years, and newly wed in our own times to words that 
 seem inspired of Heaven, are amongst the sweetest sounds that 
 have ever charmed the ear or moved the himian heart. 
 
 "Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast," so saith 
 the poet. 
 
 Every nation, be it never so barbarous, has its own peculiar 
 kind of music. Even the savage Africans or the wild American 
 
 ' A musical Lecture first delivered in Mt. Kisco, March i6, 1892, after- 
 wards given in Yonkers, N. Y., Highland Falls, N. Y., Washington 
 Heights, N. Y., St. Rose's, N. Y., Tuckahoe, N.Y., Cathedral School HaU, 
 N. Y., St. Raphael's, N. Y., RhineclifE, N. Y., St. Mary's, Brooklyn, 
 Transfiguration, N. Y., Tompkin's Cove, N. Y., Bijou Theater, Brooklyn, 
 Cooper Union, N. Y., Amphion Theater, Brooklyn, St. Joseph's Hall, New- 
 ark, Chickering HaU, N. Y., St. James HaU, Newark, St. Veronica's, N. Y., 
 Holy Rosary, N. Y., St. Cecilia's, N. Y., Holy Innocents, Wilbur, ComwaU, 
 N. Y., Long Island City, Poughkeepsie, N. Y., St. Mary's, Charleston, S. 
 C, Savannah, Georgia. 
 
 239 
 
240 Father Tom 
 
 Indians or the Arabs of the desert sands of Arabia, all have 
 their singular wild chants and have had them from time 
 immemorial. To what we consider a musical ear, they would 
 bear small resemblance to harmony and melody it is true, but 
 to their uncultured ears, these wild tunes are perfectly capable 
 of arousing within them all the emotions of which the human 
 breast is capable. 
 
 I have said that all nations possessed these crude notions 
 of music from time immemorial, but mark, how striking is the 
 contrast, when we speak of Holy Ireland. You may think it is 
 a broad assertion to make, but it is nevertheless true, that up 
 to the fifteenth century there was no nation that stood out 
 preeminently as the land of music and song, but the Island of 
 Innisfail. 
 
 Do you doubt this? Then take for a comparison Italy, 
 which, under the Romans, came to a high state of civilization, 
 and which under Pope Gregory I in the sixth century came to a 
 systematic notation of music. Take some one of the graduals 
 and tracts supposed to be written and composed by this Pontiff 
 and contrast them with such an ancient air as Eileen Aroon or 
 the Coolin, and remember that these enchanting airs were 
 written and composed long before Patrick brought to Ireland 
 the chants of Pope Gregory, nay, long before Peter brought to 
 Rome the faith of Christ, and you will appreciate the truth of 
 my assertion ; for on the one hand, you will see a crude attempt 
 at stringing together a few notes, and on the other you will 
 perceive the perfection of melody, such as has never been sur- 
 passed even in this nineteenth century when music has been 
 brought to such a high standard of perfection. 
 
 Let me call your attention to one important fact so beauti- 
 fully described by an eminent preacher of our own times. 
 "There was a time when Ireland was a free nation; and when 
 her national banner floated proudly over the favored island, 
 in times of peace as well as in times of war. On that banner of 
 brightest green was not the cross of faith, nor yet the star of 
 hope, nor the powerful conquering lion. No! The only 
 emblem that shone resplendent thereon was a golden harp to 
 proclaim to the nations of the earth, that for over a thousand 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 241 
 
 yeaxs, before France or Germany or even Italy tuned the lyre 
 with any skill, she was to be regarded as the home of music and 
 the land of song. ' ' And is this anything to be proud of ? Yes, 
 for the Normans came and the brutal Saxons, and they ruth- 
 lessly tore down the flag of Erin and trampled it in the dust. 
 They snatched the harp from the hands of the ancient min- 
 strels and they tore its cords asunder, but they could no more 
 crush out the love of music from the children of Ireland, than 
 their descendants the Saxons of to-day can crush out the faith 
 or their desire for national independence. Is it something for 
 us, the sons and daughters of an exiled race to boast of when 
 we gaze upon this brilliant gem, in the crown of our mother 
 country? Ah! yes, truly it is for if we ask ourselves what is 
 music, it would be hard to give an exact definition, except to 
 say that it is the science of harmony, but without giving a 
 definition of it, we all know its effects. Is there any refined 
 pleasure on earth that we can compare with it? Is there a 
 delight here in this valley of tears that draws us nearer to hea- 
 ven than this divinely sent gift? Is it hard to believe that one 
 of the greatest pleasures of the celestial kingdom will be to 
 listen to the choirs of the angelic host as they sing the praises 
 of the Lord of all and as they make the heaven of heavens 
 resound with their cries of Hosanna, Alleluja, and Benedictus? 
 Nineteen hundred years ago the soul stirring strains of the 
 Gloria in Excelsis, harmonized by the voices of God's angels, 
 rang out upon the midnight air of the hills of Judea and an- 
 nounced peace and goodwill to all of God's children, and since 
 that night they have reverberated down through the centuries 
 from nation to nation, from city to city, from hamlet to hamlet, 
 from brother to brother; and whether it be the low, sweet 
 lullaby of the mother, as she gently rocks the child of her bosom 
 to sleep, or the grand choir in some vast cathedral as it swells 
 the loud Te Deum to God to celebrate a victory, or the shrill 
 trumpet blast as it calls the warrior to the field of battle, to 
 shed his blood in defense of the land that gave him birth, it 
 always exercises an influence more or less powerful that appeals 
 more directly to the heart than any other force in nature. 
 The sensations produced on the sense of hearing, by the 
 16 
 
242 Father Tom 
 
 sounds of music, are the most refining, most spiritual, most in- 
 nocent of all. The sound passes away quickly, the notes come 
 and go in rapid succession but the impression made, remains 
 deeply stamped on the memory of the listener, and if these 
 sounds be heard again after many, many years, they awake the 
 same feelings that were experienced when we first heard them. 
 There is not one of us, perhaps, that has not proved the truth 
 of this in his own experience. It may be that in childhood 
 while at the vesper service a boy listens to some evening hymn 
 to the Virgin, Hail, foamy ocean star, or The Salve Regina, or 
 it may be the solemn chant of the Tantum Ergo. Years 
 may roll by, the boy becomes a man, the man forgets the devo- 
 tions of early youth, he forgets his church and his God, and 
 wandering in foreign lands, for many years, forgets entirely 
 the days of childhood. Let him return to his native village. 
 The friends of his youth have grown old or have left the earth 
 forever. The old houses have been torn down and new ones 
 erected to take their place. Changes greet his eye everywhere. 
 He meets new faces wherever he goes. He enters the old 
 church, and finds it all newly decorated. The old parish priest 
 has long since passed to his reward, and a young man, a stran- 
 ger comes out to give the service. The old cracked organ has 
 been replaced by a new one and it gives forth in its sweetest 
 tones the air of the old familiar hymn Hail, Heavenly Queen. 
 Oh ! the hallowed memories that the song brings back to him. 
 The innocent days of childhood. The happy home. The fond 
 father and the tender mother. The vows of plighted love long 
 since broken ; the happy days of youth that can never return. 
 Instinctively the returned wanderer kneels and as the great 
 organ rolls out its delightful harmonies from its mouths of gold, 
 it speaks to him words of sweetest comfort and consolation. 
 Oh! the wonderful power of a song! The days of bloody 
 strife are o'er, the North and South are now one, thank God; 
 the generals that took part in those memorable battles from 
 '6i to '65, and who cheerfully braved the dangers of shot and 
 shell for the cause of Union and Liberty, are nearly all dead. 
 Fifty years from now the G. A. R. will be but a memory. But 
 the music begotten of the war can never die, and a hundred 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 243 
 
 years from now, if the American youth shall hear the stirring 
 strains which are so familiar to you all, Ring the good old bugle 
 boys, or Then we'll rally round the flag boys, their young ardent 
 spirits will be fired with an enthusiasm and a love of Columbia 
 equal only to that which was displayed by our gallant heroes, 
 Americans, Germans, and Irish who died to save the Union. 
 
 Oh! the wonderful power of a song! Let but the German 
 hear the majestic strains of the Watch on the Rhine. Let the 
 Frenchman hear the most inspiriting and exciting of all mar- 
 shal airs, the Marseillaise. Let but the Scotchman hear the 
 Campbells are Coming. Let but an Irishman hear the Wearing 
 of the Green, and let these men be Americans to the core having 
 foresworn all allegiance to Kings, Queens, and Emperors, as 
 every foreigner ought to do, who makes this land of liberty his 
 home, and in an instant the German is once more back on the 
 banks of his beloved Rhine, the Frenchman is ready to fight for 
 his beloved France, the Scotchman is again climbing the green 
 hills of his native land, and the Irishman has aroused in his 
 soul all the love of country, of which only an Irish heart is 
 capable, and he is ready to fight and die for fatherland. Music 
 has held and ever must hold a powerful sway over the human 
 heart. Therefore is music a great civilizer. The more civil- 
 ized a nation is the more perfect must be its music, softening our 
 harsh natures, bringing peace and tranquillity to our troubled 
 souls, leading us away from the grovelling thoughts of earth, 
 and gently raising our minds to the contemplation of all that 
 is noblest and purest and best in nature, guiding us ever on- 
 ward and upward to God. It is the grandest, the noblest, 
 the most Godlike of all the sciences. Therefore, when we 
 claim for Ireland the right, preeminently, to the title of the 
 "Home of Music and Song," because she has received the 
 homage of the world for having made a deep study of music 
 for over two thousand years, we say that she has more to be 
 proud of than the nation that has won honor for her flag by 
 spilling the blood of thousands of her loyal subjects. When we 
 speak of the music of Ireland, I would like to remind you that 
 there are various kinds of music. The ancient Irish certainly 
 never composed an Opera on the Wagnerian plan, for if they did, 
 
244 Father Tom 
 
 it is very likely the King would order the composer to be be- 
 headed or banished for life, for such music would set the King 
 and his court asleep or perhaps drive them wild with melan- 
 choly. Such music appeals only to the severe critic and to 
 the utterly utter fin-de-si&cle musician who thinks that music 
 should appeal to the head first, and afterwards if you wish to 
 be sentimental, to the heart. 
 
 The kind of melodies that the Irish composed were those 
 simple melodies that the multitudes can understand, popular 
 music that speaks to the ear and to the heart even of little 
 children, melodies that are easily learned and never forgotten 
 even by the ignorant and lowly ; national melodies that incite 
 men to a love of country by their patriotic sentiments, and 
 love ballads that awaken the most pure and tender emotions ; 
 pathetic music, that tells of sorrow and suffering and awakens 
 pity; songs without words whose music is of such a nattire 
 that the ear can tell by the very movement or tune, the differ- 
 ent emotions that the musician wishes to excite. Such is the 
 music that existed in its perfection for centtuies before St. 
 Patrick brought to Ireland the light of Christianity. 
 
 Ireland had her days of peace and glory, her days of war and 
 suffering, and her long nights of sorrow while she awaits the 
 dawning of a brighter day. To the first period belong her 
 songs of love, to the second her songs of war and patriotism, 
 to the third her sentimental and romantic ballads of retrospect 
 and hope, which also breathe an undying love of native land. 
 The old song says : 
 
 When Ireland was founded by the Mc's and the O's 
 
 I never could learn for nobody knows. 
 But history says they came over from Spain, 
 
 To visit ould Granuale and there did remain, 
 Their fathers were heroes of wisdom and fame. 
 
 For multiplication they practised that same. 
 St. Patrick came over to hear their complaints 
 
 And very soon made them an island of Saints. 
 
 It makes very little difference, however, when Ireland was 
 founded, suffice it for us that for many centuries before it 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 245 
 
 became christian, it was inhabited by a noble race of men who 
 had attained a remarkable degree of civilization when com- 
 pared with their neighbors, and who possessing an excellent 
 code of laws, established a form of worship called Dniidism 
 which closely resembled in many respects the ancient religion 
 of the Jews, inasmuch as they worshiped one invisible God 
 and offered to him a sacrifice of praise and song. The cele- 
 brated but rather bigoted Welsh historian, Giraldus Cam- 
 brensis, gives us a picture of the civilization of the Irish people 
 in the twelfth century, and tells us, that though he had traveled 
 as the companion of King Henry II all through the different 
 countries of Europe, he did not find one nation that could begin 
 to compare with the Irish people in the perfection to which they 
 had brought the divine art of music. He likewise tells us in 
 regard to the ancient Irish who lived prior to and at the time 
 of St. Patrick that they were a noble race of men governed by 
 wise and upright kings. In the King's court he informs us 
 (to show the high place music held in the nation), the place of 
 honor nearest to the King's throne was given to the bards. 
 And who were the bards? some of you may ask. The bards 
 were men who were thoroughly trained from youth in the play- 
 ing of the harp, and in composing poetry. They were at once 
 musicians, poets, secretaries, and historians of the King. It 
 was their duty to write down and commit to parchment as well 
 as to memory, the annals of the King's reign ; and so perfect was 
 their memory that it is chiefly to the oral traditions handed 
 down by these bards from sire to son, that we have any real 
 knowledge of the ancient history of Ireland. In times of 
 peace, they in their hours of leisure composed their songs and 
 romantic ballads which are unsurpassed for beauty and tender- 
 ness of feeling by any songs that have ever been written. In 
 time of war they buckled on their armor and with harp in 
 hand marched before their King at the head of the army to 
 battle, singing the praises and recounting the virtues of the 
 King and encouraging the soldiers by recalling to their minds 
 the victories gained by their sovereign in former battles. In 
 later times when conquered and having lost their former posi- 
 tion of leader among the nations, the bards spent their time in 
 
246 Father Tom 
 
 singing the glories of former times and in trying to arouse the 
 people to an undying love of country and inspiring their heart 
 to a love of freedom, so deep-rooted that all the tyranny of a 
 brutal conqueror hap not been able to take it away from them 
 after four hundred years of bitter persecution. 
 
 Let us try to form an idea of the beauty of her love songs, — ■ 
 but first we must picture to ourselves the green isle in times of 
 peace. When did the true spirit of peace first spread its soften- 
 ing influence over this noble race? It was over four hundred 
 years after Peter first preached Christianity to the people of 
 Jerusalem and Antioch and Rome. The proud pagans of the 
 Roman empire resisted the preaching of the gospel. The 
 emperors on the throne used all their power of fire and sword 
 and torture to prevent the spread of the new religion. They 
 instituted during those first three centuries ten general per- 
 secutions and from the time of the impious Nero down to the 
 infamous Diocletian the whole Roman empire was continually 
 flowing with the blood of the followers of Christ. Astounding 
 miracles had to be worked to remove their hardness of heart, 
 but they were harder than that of Pharaoh. At the prayers of 
 the Christians the gigantic statues of the idols fell to the 
 ground broken in a thousand pieces. Children were placed in 
 fiery furnaces and in caldrons of boiling oil, but came out unin- 
 jured. The lame, the blind, and the sick were cured of all 
 manner of diseases; but all to no purpose; the hatred of the 
 Romans to the true faith was so great that it took three hun- 
 dred years to convince them of it, and even in that length of 
 time there were numbers of schisms and heresies amongst the 
 multitude of converts. Then came a reign of peace and 
 missionaries began to go abroad to the heathen lands and the 
 lands of the barbarians, as if there could exist barbarians worse 
 than the so-called civilized people of Rome. Amongst them 
 was one, a bishop of the Church, who was sent out by Pope 
 Celestine to bring to the people of Ireland a knowledge of the 
 faith of Christ. And how did the natives receive the messenger 
 of the gospel of peace ? Not as the civihzed Romans did, with 
 persecution and the sword, but like reasonable, intelligent, 
 open-hearted men they extended to St. Patrick the right hand 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 247 
 
 of hospitality and friendship and said, we will listen to your 
 doctrine and if we find it to be true we shall adopt it. Oh ! 
 the fervid eloquence with which our saint must have spoken on 
 that day. Oh ! the burning words that came from those puri- 
 fied lips as he spoke to them of the One Father in Heaven and of 
 the sufEerings of his Son. Oh ! the miraculous light of God that 
 must have entered into their hearts at that moment and caused 
 them to go on their knees and ask for baptism in the name of 
 Christ. Oh! what a happy gay-hearted people when the sun- 
 burst of Christianity shed its effulgent rays over that beautiful 
 island. The reign of peace had begun; Patrick had reechoed 
 the hymn of the angels, Peace on earth to men of good will, and 
 here at last were found men of good will who heard the word 
 of God and kept it in their hearts. In a short time was the 
 whole island converted and for three hundred years did the 
 blessing of peace remain with her. 
 
 During those years Ireland became the land of saints and 
 scholars. Thousands of students from Spain and Italy and 
 Germany and France and even England, which was still in a 
 semi -barbarous condition, flocked to her shores to drink in 
 wisdom and knowledge and the divine art of music. And 
 remember this occurred hundreds of years before the univer- 
 sities of Oxford or Salamanca or Leipsic were even dreamed of. 
 These were the happy days of peace when she sent out hun- 
 dreds of missionaries to convert the barbarians of continental 
 Europe and to found monasteries and convents in Germany, 
 France, Switzerland and Italy. These were the peaceful days 
 when on the banks of the Liffy and the lordly Shannon, and in 
 every town and every city arose those grand monasteries 
 within whose sacred walls thousands of men and women sang 
 day and night the praises of the true God in psalmody, the 
 sweetest that has ever been heard. Listen to a sweet old Irish 
 air that bids us recall the glories of those ancient days. 
 
 Let Erin remember the days of old 
 E'er her faithless sons betrayed her. 
 
 When Malachy wore the collar of gold 
 Which he won from the proud invader 
 
248 Father Tom 
 
 When her Kings with standard of green unfurled 
 
 Led the red branch knights to danger, 
 E'er the emerald gem of the western world, 
 
 Was set in the crown of the stranger. 
 
 Ah! yes, this was truly the golden age of Ireland's history. 
 In those days she sang aloud the bold anthem of Erin Go Bragh. 
 In those days did she teach the divine art of music to the 
 scholars who flocked to her shores, and they going back to their 
 own country brought with them a knowledge of the harp that 
 astonished their people with the delicious sounds of music and 
 song such as they had never heard before. Even the kings of 
 England and Scotland came over there to secure bards and 
 minstrels for their courts and raised them to the highest honors. 
 So great was the love of chivalry and virtue in those days of 
 peace, that an ancient Irish story tells of a lady beautiful 
 beyond compare, who made a tour of the whole island alone 
 and though covered with jewels and encountering men upon the 
 lonely roads and in the forests through which she passed, she 
 was not once molested in all her journey. A noble knight, a 
 stranger in the country, happened to meet her and marveling 
 at the beauty of the woman asked her if she were not afraid to 
 travel alone through so many dangers ; and listen to her answer : 
 
 Sir Knight I feel not the least alarm. 
 
 No son of Erin will offer me harm, 
 For though they love women and golden store. 
 
 Sir Knight, they love honor and virtue more. 
 
 Such is the tribute the poet pays to the valor and chivalry 
 of his countrymen in the olden time. And it is the same to- 
 day. There is no nation under heaven to-day, where woman 
 holds such a high position as she does among the people of 
 Ireland. Figures and facts and statistics by learned men of 
 to-day, and which need only be hinted at, will bear me out in 
 what I say. There is no nation that has such a deep-seated 
 respect and sacred veneration and love for a virtuous woman 
 as they have. Why they look upon an Irish maiden, who has 
 been true to her God, as little less than an angel, and if there 
 is a crime on earth which they abhor it is infidelity. There is 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 249 
 
 no wife in the world more faithful than the Irish wife. There 
 is no mother more tender or loving to her children than the 
 Irish mother, and if it were not for the cursed invasion of the 
 Saxons into that sacred isle, the invasion that brought with it 
 poverty and alcohol, one of Erin's women could go through that 
 same island as fearlessly as did the lady spoken of by the poet ; 
 for a true Irishman cannot, would not, and never will insult, and 
 never permit another to insult, a virtuous woman. 
 
 The land therefore being in the happy prosperous condition 
 I have pictured and the bards, having plenty of spare time on 
 their hands, it is not wonderful that they set themselves to 
 singing of love, that most sublime, most tender, most elevating 
 of the passions. Before I ask you to listen to one of these 
 enrapturing strains, let me add one word as to their origin. 
 They are called Moore's Melodies. Now Moore, although an 
 exquisite poet, as far as I know never composed an air in his 
 life. The airs that I intend to present to you this evening are 
 as old as the hills, that is to say many of them date back 
 beyond Christianity and have been handed down by tradition, 
 altered more or less from one generation to another by the vari- 
 ations of the bards, but still possessing enough sweetness to 
 remind us of what the original must have been. Now the 
 Poet Tom Moore, so dear to every Irishman and whose name is 
 more familiar to the people of the English-speaking world than 
 that of any other lyric poet, for the reason that he speaks 
 directly to the heart, he, I say, went around the island at the 
 beginning of the present century and made a collection of these 
 ancient melodies. With the true genius of a poet and a musi- 
 cian, he studied out carefully the sentiments expressed by the 
 music and then wedded them to words of the most exquisite 
 poetry that has ever been written. Listen to the words of one 
 of these love songs : 
 
 Ah, the days are gone, when Beauty bright 
 
 My heart's chain wove; 
 When my dream of life, from mom till night. 
 
 Was love, still love. 
 New hope may bloom 
 
 And days may come 
 
250 Father Tom 
 
 Of milder, calmer beam 
 
 But there's nothing half so sweet in life 
 
 As love's young dream, 
 
 No, there's nothing half so sweet in life, 
 
 As love's young dream. 
 
 Now I ask you to listen to anpther of these love songs and 
 see if the poet and the musician cannot arouse in your soul 
 some tender recollections of days gone by, of old loves long 
 forgotten, and if he succeeds in moving your heart even a little 
 by the thought of childhood or budding manhood and brought 
 you one moment of pleasure, he will not have written in vain. 
 The song I refer to is: 
 
 Believe me if all those endearing young charms. 
 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day. 
 Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms 
 
 Like fairy gifts fading away, 
 Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art 
 
 Let thy loveliness fade as it will 
 And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 
 
 Would entwine itself verdantly still. 
 
 It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 
 
 And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear. 
 That the fervor and faith of a soul can be laiown 
 
 To which time will but make thee more dear; 
 No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close. 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets. 
 
 The same look which she turned when he rose. 
 
 But the Irish people loved not only the women of their coun- 
 try, they dearly loved their native land ; and you never yet met 
 an Irishman who did not think his part of Ireland the most 
 beautiful, even if he came from the wilds of Kerry. Let the poet 
 describe for us the beauty of the place that he thought the most 
 charming spot on the Island, and let each of you, if he can, and 
 why can't you, apply it to some dear spot that you love better. 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
 
 Oh! the last rays of feeUng and life must depart. 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 251 
 
 Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene 
 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green, 
 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
 
 Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still. 
 
 'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom were near. 
 Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
 
 And who felt how the best charms of nature improve, 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 
 
 Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest. 
 
 In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best, 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 
 
 No wonder that their hearts went out in tender love to the 
 green hills and valleys of Ireland, for under heaven's bright 
 sky, there is not a country that can boast of such an immense 
 variety of beautiful scenery in so small a space as does this 
 favored land. Who that has traveled through the country 
 can ever forget her rugged mountains and wooded hills; her 
 charming lakes and crystal rivers, her waterfalls of surpassing 
 beauty and her romantic bays, her green fields and wild plains ; 
 her round towers and ruined abbeys. Truly she is a land 
 favored by nature ; truly she possesses the fatal gift of beauty. 
 
 It is a strange fact but nevertheless true, that although the 
 Irish were such a music-loving people; although they were 
 such a God-fearing people ; although their monks for centuries 
 made the hillsides resound with sacred chants in praise of the 
 true God, day and night, in a psalmody of their own, we have 
 none of the sacred music handed down to us by which they 
 expressed their ardent love of God. Oh! how glorious must 
 have been the sacred music of Ireland by which their harpers 
 gave expression to that earnest love of God and Christ which 
 filled their noble souls. What magnificent chants there must 
 have been coming from the harps and voices of those who sang 
 of earthly love so beautifully. 
 
 How heavenly must have been that music that gave expres- 
 sion of thanks to the great Creator for the blessings He so 
 abundantly poured out upon his chosen people for three hun- 
 dred years. But alas! it has all been lost, and we can only 
 
252 Father Tom 
 
 judge of its beauty by comparing it with the worldly songs that 
 have been spared. We can get a faint idea of it, however, from 
 an old air (which I am informed was stolen almost bodily a 
 few years ago, and appeared under another name), and the air 
 is one that sings the praises of the Soggarth Aroon, Soggarih 
 Aroon (the dear priest). The love of the Soggarth was second 
 only to the love of God and his saints. There never was a 
 Christian people since the days of Peter that had such reverence 
 and love for her priesthood as the people of Ireland. They 
 loved the priest because of his high and holy office. They 
 loved him because they looked upon him as another Christ. 
 They loved him because they knew that in time of persecu- 
 tion their priest stood by them and gave up his life for h's 
 flock. They loved him because he was to them a father and if 
 famine or sickness or pestilence came to their dwelling, he was at 
 all times their consoler, their helper, their friend. And we can 
 say it again to-day that there is no body of clergy in the whole 
 world more learned, more holy, more obedient, and mere 
 devoted to the See of St. Peter than the priesthood of Ireland. 
 When the. Sassenach and the stranger told them that they 
 were priest-ridden and slaves to a horde of petty tyrants; they 
 answered him in language that expressed more affectionately by 
 the sounds of the music than even of the words, that as long 
 as their Soggarth stood by them in their struggle to free Ireland 
 from the hands of her English oppressors and make her once 
 more a free and independent nation they would stand by him. 
 
 Am I the slave they say, while you did show the way, 
 
 Their slave no more to be, while you would work with me. 
 Old Ireland's liberty, Soggarth Aroon. 
 
 Why not our poorest man, try and do all he can, 
 
 Thy commands to fulfil, with all his heart and will. 
 Side by side with you still, Soggarth Aroon. 
 
 Who in the winter's night, when the cold blast did bite. 
 
 Came to my cabin door, and on the earthen floor 
 Knelt by me sick and poor, Soggarth Aroon. 
 
 Who as friend only met, never did flout me yet. 
 
 And when my heart is dim, gave while his eyes did brim, 
 What I should give to him, Soggarth Aroon. 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 253 
 
 Like all other nations, however, Ireland had a time of trial 
 and persecution; and if it be true that whom the Lord loveth 
 He chastiseth, then the Lord must love Ireland more than any 
 other nation in the world. From the time of the Danish 
 invasion in the eighth century until to-day, the pages of her 
 history are written in blood or marred by the record of perse- 
 cution and tyranny. When we consider the pagan condition 
 of the neighboring countries and their consequent lawlessness, 
 it is a wonder that the spirit of peace rested on them as long 
 as it did. The Danes waited, however, till they felt that their 
 numbers warranted them a sure victory over this peace-loving 
 people and then they, filled with a savage desire for plunder 
 and thirsting for blood, made a descent on the shores of Ireland 
 and for three hundred years, with only a few breathing spells 
 was the warfare continued. The hordes of barbarians enter- 
 ing in, plundered all the monasteries of their treasures, set 
 fire to the libraries and brutally butchered the peaceful inhabi- 
 tants. In their greed for spoil they spared neither women nor 
 children, but cruelly put to death every one who opposed 
 them in the slightest way. The land which was flowing with 
 milk and honey became impoverished. The fields that were 
 covered with corn, wheat, and flax and vegetables were tram- 
 pled and made red with the blood of those who planted them. 
 Imagine, if you can, this state of things for three hundred 
 years. We thought the War of the Rebellion was endless, 
 because it lasted four years. Now, suppose that it was still 
 going on; that the battles of the late rebellion were being re- 
 peated for the last twenty-five years, and suppose that North 
 and South received constant fresh recruits from across the 
 seas, as the emigrants landed; and suppose we had to look for- 
 ward to years to come and say to ourselves, this war is going 
 to last for two hundred and seventy-five years more. What, I 
 ask you, would be the condition of our country ? What would 
 become of our boasted civilization? Where would be our 
 public libraries and great public schools and universities and 
 colleges? What kind of discipline would exist in our army? 
 What degree of intelligence would our people possess? Pic- 
 ture the misery and poverty and degradation and ignorance 
 
254 Father Tom 
 
 that must necessarily follow, and you will have some faint idea 
 of Ireland's condition after her three hundred years of warfare. 
 Nay more, you will have an explanation of the intellectual 
 and moral blight that seems for centuries to have settled 
 on her people, and you will marvel that she preserved any 
 intelligence or morality whatever. You will be obliged at the 
 same time to admire the courage and valor of her soldiers, who 
 fought so bravely in defense of their native land; and we, the 
 children of that persecuted race can say it boastingly, that the 
 same spirit of valor and chivalry has never left that land. The 
 Dane came and the brutal Saxon and they crushed Ireland 
 under their heels and they drove the remnant of the people into 
 Connaught, but do their worst, they could no more crush out 
 from the hearts of the Irish people their faith and their love of 
 liberty than the Saxon of to-day can do it in the House of Com- 
 mons. The fight still goes on, the tactics have merely been 
 changed. The war is still waging in the English Parliament. 
 The tongue and the pen are the weapons and it is not for a 
 mere petty Home Rule or a petty land tax, her sons are fighting. 
 It is for her God given rights, the right for which Robert Emmet 
 bled and died, the right to take her place once more amongst the 
 nations of the earth. It was but natural that the musicians of 
 the country should tune their harps to martial airs. Their coun- 
 try's honor was at stake and they showed that they could not 
 only soothe the spirits of their countrymen in time of peace, but 
 they could rouse them to deeds of valor in time of war. We can 
 easily picture them at the head of the army playing upon their 
 harps, and singing aloud the glories of their ancestors. We 
 can imagine the powerful words of exhortation that came from 
 their lips, and encouraged the troops to fight bravely and not 
 hesitate to give up their lives for fatherland. The burden of 
 their song as taken from an old manuscript was as follows: 
 
 Remember, Oh men of Innisfail, that this day you strike for God and 
 Fatherland. It is not merely to save your country from the ravages of the 
 Sassenach, or your wives and daughters from dishonor. It is for your 
 altars and sacred shrines, it is for God and his church! Oh! children of St. 
 Patrick forget not the valor of your forefathers. Remember how they 
 fought and died for Erin's glory. 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 255 
 
 No wonder that under the influence of such inspiring words 
 they rushed into the heat of the fray, and with a desperation 
 that is characteristic of an Irishman even to-day, no matter 
 under what banner he fights, whether it be for the lilies of 
 France or the olives of Spain or the lion of England or for the 
 preservation of our own beloved Star Spangled Banner. 
 
 But let us listen to one of these battle songs, as handed down 
 to us by the poet : 
 
 Remember the glories of Brian the brave, 
 
 Tho' the days of the hero are o'er; 
 Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave, 
 
 He returns to Kinkora no more, 
 That star of the field which so often hath poured, 
 
 Its beam on the battle is set ; 
 But enough of its glory remains on each sword, 
 
 To light us to victory yet. 
 
 Mononia ! when nature embellished the tint 
 
 Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair. 
 Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print 
 
 The footstep of slavery there? 
 No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign. 
 
 Go, tell our invaders the Danes, 
 That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age, at thy shrine, 
 
 Than to sleep but a moment in chains. 
 
 Forget not our wounded companions, who stood 
 
 In the day of distress by our side; 
 While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood. 
 
 They stirred not, but conquered and died. 
 That sun which now blesses our arms with his light. 
 
 Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain; 
 Oh, let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night, 
 
 To find that they fell there in vain. 
 
 Listen again to the vehement language of the harpers, as 
 they swear a mighty vengeance on the treachery of some of 
 their enemies who betrayed the brave sons of Usna : 
 
 Avenging and bright falls the swift sword of Erin 
 
 On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed. 
 For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in, 
 
 A drop from his heart- wounds shall weep o'er her blade. 
 
256 Father Tom 
 
 By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling, 
 When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore, 
 
 By the billows of War, which so often high swelling, 
 Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore. 
 
 We swear to revenge them! — no joy shall be tasted. 
 
 The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed. 
 Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted 
 
 Till vengeance is wreaked on the murderer's head. 
 
 Yes, monarch, tho' sweet are our home recollections, 
 Tho' sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall, 
 
 Tho' sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections, 
 Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all. 
 
 But the bards of Ireland did not merely sing their war songs 
 and urge the men on to battle ; they themselves when they saw 
 their country in danger slung their harp over their shoulders 
 and with a good stout sword in hand led the way to the fight. 
 Of all the martial airs, there is none so majestic, none so inspir- 
 ing, none better loved by the sons and daughters of Erin than 
 that where the poet gives us a picture of a young minstrel, 
 who has kissed his mother a fond farewell, slung his harp over 
 his shoulders, taken his father's sword down, buckled it on 
 him, and goes forth to fight and die for fatherland. This song 
 is called the Minstrel Boy. 
 
 In times of war as well as in times of peace the Irishman is 
 ever fond of a comic song and the livelier the music, and the 
 more devilment and fun in it, the better he likes it. I find, in 
 looking up the records of ancient Irish comic songs, that the 
 titles alone remain. The words have been lost, but if we may 
 judge from the rhymes of more modern writers, the ideal comic 
 Irish song was one that gave an account of a party or a ball or 
 a picnic, and the last verse generally winds up with an account 
 of the number of heads broken. 
 
 These songs have brought us down to latter days a^ad modern 
 music in Ireland's history. For the last three hundred years, 
 since the cruel laws of Elizabeth put to death all the bards of 
 Ireland, her music has never had the same international repu- 
 tation as it had in the past. The spirit of hatred and religious 
 bigotry had such a hold over England's so-called Virgin Queen, 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 257 
 
 that she cruelly ordered her soldiers to put to death by hanging 
 hjm up to the nearest tree every bard or musician in the whole 
 island. She knew full well the power and influence of music 
 over the Irish people. She knew that the bards were keeping 
 alive the spirit of rebellion and the love of the old church 
 among the people. Therefore was she determined to root out 
 from them every incentive of resistance to her brutal and dia- 
 bolical laws. But try as she would by means of torttire of 
 every kind, she could not crush out of the hearts of the Irish 
 their love of music. How sad, and yet how exquisitely delight- 
 ful is the music that expresses the sentiments of the men of 
 Ireland in later times when filled with apparent submission to 
 the laws of the usurper, they looked forward to the dawning of 
 a brighter, happier day. One of the sweetest songs ever writ- 
 ten gives expression to these ideas, and the great composer 
 Handel said he would rather be the author of Erin the tear and 
 the smile in thine eyes than of any opera he ever composed. 
 
 Thank God the spirit of sadness and gloominess is slowly 
 but surely passing away and the present century has shown 
 what may be the possibihties of the music of Ireland in the 
 future. Even a hundred and fifty years ago, Handel, one of the 
 greatest composers that ever lived, when his labors were rejected 
 by the English, went over to Ireland, and there, under the inspira- 
 tion of Irish scenery and Irish faith, and who knows perhaps an 
 occasional drop of Irish mountain dew or diluted goat's milk, 
 composed the famous Oratorio of the Messiah, to my mind the 
 most sublime religious composition ever given to the world. The 
 first time that this piece was produced was in April, 1 742, before 
 an Irish audience in the city of Dublin and was received by that 
 large and enthusiastic assemblage with immense applause. 
 
 At the beginning of the present century, therefore, when the 
 star of Carolan, the last of the Irish bards, had set, there arose 
 a new light in the person of Tom Moore. His exquisite songs, 
 sung to the ancient airs, served to revive the spirit of patriotism 
 everywhere, and being taken up by the English, served to soften 
 them in some small degree towards their neighbors, and paved 
 the way for the concessions wrung from the British Parliament 
 by the immortal Daniel O'Connell. Nay more, these songs 
 
258 Father Tom 
 
 when played in foreign lands served to keep alive the fire of pa- 
 triotism and the love of Irish freedom. Who can doubt the effect 
 of the national airs of Ireland on the Irish exiles fighting for King 
 Louis of France. And if it were not for those inspiriting airs that 
 revived the old memories, perhaps Fontenoy had been a Water- 
 loo. And let me tell you right here that the Irish marches are 
 not written in the time of Lohengrin march or Tannhauser, they 
 are written in a time that makes you feel like skipping along 
 with yoiu- feet scarcely touching the ground. Don't you believe 
 it? Then listen to Garryowen or listen to St. Patrick's Day. 
 
 After Tom Moore came Balfe, and shall the sweet ntimbers of 
 the Bohemian Girl ever die? Who has ever tired of the Heart 
 Bowed Down, and the ever popular Killarney? Do not the 
 words and melody of this charming song bring vividly before 
 our minds this most enchanting spot on earth ? 
 
 KILLARNEY 
 
 By Killamey's lakes and fells, 
 
 Emerald isles and winding bays. 
 Mountain paths and woodland dells 
 
 Memory ever fondly strays. 
 Boimteous nature loves all lands, 
 
 Beauty wanders everywhere. 
 Footprints leaves on many strands 
 
 But her home is surely there. 
 Angels fold their wings and rest. 
 
 In that Eden of the west, 
 Beauty's home Killarney 
 
 Ever fair Killarney. 
 
 But you may ask me how do the Irish stand before the world 
 to-day in regard to music ? Are you not content to rest upon 
 the laurels of the past ? If not and you force me to answer the 
 question, then will I answer that your appreciation of her songs 
 to-night, shows, that though scattered over the face of the earth, 
 the love of the Irish and their descendants for music is as 
 deep-seated as in centuries gone by. What they need is the 
 all-healing hand of time and freedom of action and education 
 such as our government gives us, to become again, in the course 
 of years, the leaders of the world in music and song. If you 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 259 
 
 force me to answer the question, I may give you an Irishman's 
 answer by asking another. Who is England's greatest musical 
 composer to-day who has been honored with Knighthood by 
 England's reigning sovereign? He bears the Irish name of 
 Arthur Sullivan whose operas of Pinafore and the Mikado and 
 numerous other works have made him famous the world over. 
 Who is England's most popular ballad writer that has made 
 the world sing and dance with him? He is the author of the 
 Kerry Dance, and bears the Irish name of Malloy and he is 
 known wherever the English language is spoken. Give the 
 Irishman but a fair chance and he is bound quickly to mount 
 to the top of his profession no matter what it may be, but in 
 music he must excel for there is no one by nature more capable 
 of being influenced by music than an Irishman. 
 
 And can we wonder at this? Music is, we are taught, the 
 language of Heaven where all is harmony and love, and the 
 echoes of those eternal hymns, as they are chanted around 
 God's white throne, may be heard in the deep roaring of the 
 waves of old ocean as they dash upon the shore. They may 
 be heard in the delightful murmurings of the brook as it comes 
 tumbling down the mountain side. They may be heard in 
 the sweet voice of the little birds, or in the majestic roar of the 
 King of the forest, the lion, as he stands there monarch of all the 
 animal kingdom. They may be heard in the nimiberless string 
 and wind instruments which the art of man has perfected, but 
 nowhere on earth can they be heard to such perfection as in 
 the himian voice, the instrument which God has made. 
 
 Music and singing have been brought to a high state of 
 cultivation to-day. The instruments are as near perfection 
 as we can imagine. The grand operas and oratories of to-day 
 are supposed to have reached the height of musical possibilities. 
 Great honor and praise is due to the men of genius who 
 have brought these arts and sciences to such a high state of 
 perfection. Great honor and glory and praise and thanks- 
 giving to the men of Italy and Germany who lead the whole 
 world to-day by the magic of their harmonies, but nevertheless 
 we say for Ireland to-night, honor to whom honor is due. We 
 honor Robert Fulton and Benjamin Franklin more for their dis- 
 
26o Father Tom 
 
 coveries than we do the thousands who have improved upon 
 their original ideas. We honor Columbus and Washington 
 more than all the discoverers and heroes that came after them. 
 Why? Because these men laid the foundations others have 
 built upon them. So must it be witli music. The nations of 
 Europe have testified that Ireland laid the foundations of 
 harmony for the civilized world, and therefore we say, "Honor 
 to whom honor is due. " If you make a comparison this will 
 appear all the more true. Place side by side the music of 
 to-day with the ancient Irish airs, and I care not whether it be 
 the grand operas of Wagner or Verdi, the popular ballad, or 
 the sensuous dance music that comes to us from over the Rhine, 
 our verdict must be, that for a perfect combination of simpli- 
 city and sublimity of sounds there is no music to-day that can 
 surpass the music of Ireland composed two thousand years ago. 
 The works of great composers will last, and will be a delight to 
 students of music for many years to come, but a single opera 
 will seldom be learned by one individual and even if he does 
 master it and memorize it, it must soon fade from his memory 
 if he does not continually practice it, but the old Irish melodies 
 that speak to the heart first and then to the head afterwards, 
 and which are learned almost after a single hearing will live 
 forever, and while there exists a memory of the green isle they 
 will be sung by her children in every part of the world. 
 
 To-day we see the land of our forefathers weeping and in 
 chains and struggling for Home Rule and freedom and we ask 
 ourselves, what is the explanation of this long continued 
 struggle? Why has she not long since received that for which 
 she so constantly fought. It is for the same reason that our 
 own ancestors were defeated by the Normans and the Saxons. 
 It is the same reason that brings the blush of shame to the 
 cheek when we think of the collapse of Grattan's Parliament 
 and militia and the defeat of the Fenians and the defeat of 
 Home Rule year after year in the British Parliament, and the 
 reason is because she will not listen to the voices of her bards 
 and poets and minstrels calling on her to be united. 
 
 Would to God they would listen to the words of Thomas Davis 
 a poet of later days when he thus appeals to his countrymen. 
 
Ireland, Home of Music 261 
 
 What matter that at different shrinei 
 
 We pray unto One God? 
 What matter that at different times, 
 
 Our fathers won this sod? 
 In fortune and in name we're bound 
 
 By stronger hnks than steel, 
 And neither can be safe or sound 
 
 But in each other's weal. 
 
 And oh! it were a gallant deed 
 
 To show before mankind. 
 How every race and every creed 
 
 May be by love combined. 
 Might be combined, yet not forget, 
 
 The fountain whence they rose, 
 As filled by many a rivulet. 
 
 The lordly Shannon flows. 
 
 We do not hate, we never cursed. 
 
 Nor spoke a foeman's word. 
 Against a man in Ireland nursed, 
 
 Howe'er we thought he erred; 
 So, start not, Irish bom man. 
 
 If you're to Ireland true 
 We heed not race nor creed nor clan. 
 
 We're hearts and hands for you. 
 
 Oh! if the men of the north and south of Ireland would 
 listen to these noble words of a noble poet, the day would not 
 be far distant when we would once more see the glorious sun- 
 burst of freedom shedding its beams over a united and inde- 
 pendent nation. Then would the dark night of slavery and 
 ignorance be forever banished, then would that sacred isle 
 become once more the land of saints and sages, the Home of 
 Music and Song. Then once more would the harp be taken 
 down and tuned to triimiphant airs. Then would the poet 
 and musician of the future compose a Te Deum of thanksgiving 
 to the great God and Father of all. A hymn of thanksgiving 
 that would be taken up by millions of the exiled sons and 
 daughters of our sainted fatherland in all parts of the world, a 
 hymn of thanksgiving such as has never been heard in the 
 history of the world. 
 
Ill 
 
 FOSTER S NEGRO MELODIES 
 
 Philadelphia, according to the testimony of those who 
 live outside of Pennsylvania, is a proverbially slow place, and 
 if this be true, then do they enjoy life all the more and set a 
 good example to New York and Chicago which are leading the 
 world in the pace that kills. 
 
 For the very reason of her quiet Quaker habits, Philadelphia 
 has been able to devote much time to the study of the fine 
 arts and more particularly to the art of music. This being so, 
 we need not marvel that one of her loyal sons became so con- 
 vinced of the great powers of music over matter that he pro- 
 posed to set the machinery of a large factory in operation by 
 having a man play Yankee Doodle on the violin. This at first 
 sight seems ridiculous, and men are inclined to make fun of the 
 Keely Motor, nevertheless this original genius showed by act- 
 ual experiments in the use of delicate machinery that it was 
 possible to set a large wheel in motion by the sound waves pro- 
 duced by the drawing of a bow across the strings of a violon- 
 cello. And, if one wheel, why not the machinery of a whole 
 factory? 
 
 The inventor may not be blamed for attributing too great 
 powers to music, for what power, moral or physical, have we in 
 the world that can excel it ? It speaks a language that peoples 
 of every clime can understand, and thus is able to unite, for the 
 moment, in harmony, men who because of racial or religious 
 prejudices hate one another cordially. The hunter may with 
 a shotgun kill the venomous snake, but can that physical 
 
 • Round Table Talk at Catholic Summer School, Clifi Haven, July 
 14, 1898. 
 
 262 
 
roster s iNegro Melodies 263 
 
 force be compared to the spiritual power of the musician who 
 plays a simple air on his flute, and thus not only averts the 
 poisoned fangs of the reptile but so charms him, that he forgets 
 his natural inclination to wound and kill, and follows the 
 charmer like a child whither he may lead him. The great 
 King Saul was not the first nor the only one whose spirits were 
 soothed by the sounds of music. Neither was King David 
 the only one who was so carried away as to forget his kingly 
 dignity and dance in front of the ark when he heard the 
 rh}i;hmic measures of the musicians. If a regiment band 
 comes marching down the street, what a change comes over the 
 whole neighborhood. The ragged urchins in their bare feet 
 rush from the neighboring alleys and walk in front of the pro- 
 cession with their shoulders thrown back and exhibiting all 
 the stateliness of drum-majors. The police officer walks 
 with as much importance as if he owned the town. The 
 butcher and the baker and the candlestick maker rush out to 
 the doorway and smile with a joy they cannot explain and 
 beat time with their feet on the ground. The cobbler plying 
 the awl and the hammer on his bench, and not having time to 
 leave his work, glances out the window while he instinctively 
 beats a rattattoo on the sole of the new boot on which he ;s 
 working. The hired girls in the hotels and private houses 
 madly rush from their work of dusting the bric-4-brac, and 
 perhaps smash a vase or two in their endeavors to get to the 
 windows, there to wave a white cloth, or with their arms 
 akimbo, jauntily toss their white-capped heads from side to 
 side and hum to themselves the well-known air that they hear 
 floating around them. The poor invalid recovering from a 
 long illness casts his eyes in the direction of the music, and 
 feels better than if he had taken a tonic. Even the unsym- 
 pathetic tramp and the loafer are roused from their lethargy 
 and wish they had a drink to testify how happy the music has 
 made them feel. And oh! the pain of the children in school 
 when they hear the band coming down the street. Their little 
 hearts are jumping with delight at the sounds, the teacher is 
 taking a side-long view of the soldiers from her desk near the 
 window, but the poor urchins! Alas! She won't even let 
 
264 Fa 
 
 mci X uiiJ. 
 
 them beat time with their feet on the floor, and threatens to 
 box the ears of one little fellow who cannot resist the tempta- 
 tion to drum on the desk. Mark even the change in animal 
 life when the music of the band is heard. The birds all warble 
 merrily, trying to drown the music. The very few dogs who 
 are left bark out their delight and the ancient war horse who 
 once long ago neighed as he scented the battle from afar off, 
 and who now ignobly, with faltering steps and drooping head 
 and tail, drags along a heavy cart, suddenly holds his head and 
 ears erect and begins a series of military capers that serve to 
 amuse the bystanders, but that make the thinking man recall 
 once more the power that music exercises even over the so- 
 called memory of dumb beasts. 
 
 Is it the power of music or is it merely the sound waves that 
 cause thousands of caterpillars to fall to the ground if the clear 
 notes of a comet are heard beneath a tree infested with these 
 plagues? Let the student of insect life answer the question. 
 Need we marvel now that the jaded spirits of the soldiers after 
 a long march are roused even to a fighting pitch when they 
 hear the martial strains of the national airs? Need we 
 wonder that the Marsellaise was capable of rousing the 
 French Revolutionists to a pitch of frenzy that even the fiery 
 speeches of their leaders could not excite in them. Need we 
 be surprised when we hear that at the sounds of Allegri's 
 Miserere as sung in the Sistine Chapel during Holy Week, 
 strong men, who understood not a word of Latin, wept with 
 sorrow for their sins at the soul-touching harmonies? Poets 
 and musicians in every age and every country have appreci- 
 ated this wondrous power, and by their verses and their melo- 
 dies have tried to give expression to the thoughts that filled 
 their souls. 
 
 Now, if there ever existed in our beloved land a man who 
 fully appreciated the wondrous power of music it was Stephen 
 Collins Foster, whose life and whose melodies form the subject 
 of this sketch. But who was Foster? many may ask. "A 
 rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Very true; 
 and the genius who first penned this saying would be one of the 
 world's greatest luminaries even if his name were not William 
 
roster s iNegro Melodies 265 
 
 Shakespeare. The same may be said of Homer, Dante, 
 Milton, and all the great poets of the world's history. Indeed 
 we may repeat it of Mozart, Beethoven, Handel, Gounod, and 
 all the musical geniuses of the world whose works give man a 
 foretaste of celestial bliss. 
 
 Nevertheless there have been poets and musicians in the 
 world who are practically nameless and yet their verses and 
 their melodies have stirred the hearts of millions, and their 
 songs will be sung for centuries by countless thousands who 
 perhaps never knew a line of Shakespeare as such, and never 
 heard of Homer or Dante, Wagner or Verdi. 
 
 It may possibly be news to some of my listeners to hear that 
 amongst the ballad writers of the country, nay amongst those 
 of the whole English speaking world, there is not one who has 
 written so large a number of beautiful heart touching songs as 
 Stephen Collins Poster. 
 
 Foster's songs and melodies will live as long as the Eng- 
 lish language is spoken, and will make hearts throb with 
 emotion centuries after more pretentious writers shall have 
 been forgotten. It is with music as with poetry. It is 
 harder in a certain sense to write a simple melody with simple 
 words than to compose a libretto with complicated harmonies. 
 If the song writer, however, has succeeded in his task then has 
 he produced a work that is destined to outlast the more labored 
 compositions. Cardinal Newman was a master of piore Eng- 
 lish and wrote volume after volume of philosophy and theo- 
 logy, and yet will he go down to posterity known only to 
 millions as the author of Lead Kindly Light, and millions of 
 others perhaps, whose very soids' depths will be stirred by 
 the poem, will never know the name of the genius who first 
 penned it. 
 
 It is not to be considered strange, therefore, that most of us 
 have sung Foster's songs from childhood yet never troubled 
 ourselves to ask the name of the man who wrote them. The 
 song pleased us and we cared little who was the first to sing it. 
 
 Stephen Foster was born in that part of Pittsburgh known 
 as Lawrenceville on July 4, 1826, and the house in which he 
 first saw the light is still standing. I take a secret satisfaction 
 
266 Facner luiii 
 
 in stating that he sprang from that race which for centuries 
 taught all Europe the art of perfect melody, for he was the 
 great grandson of an Irishman who came from County Wexford 
 and was proud of his origin. 
 
 At the age of thirteen he was sent to Towanda, Pa., to school, 
 and two years later to Athens, Ohio. In both of these places 
 he gained the reputation of being the quietest boy in the school, 
 which trait seems to have clung to him all his life for his friends 
 still living in Pittsbiu-gh speak of him as being "gentle as a 
 woman." After leaving school he went to Jefferson College, 
 Canonsburg where three years later he graduated with honor. 
 
 "The boy is father to the man, " they say, and so it proved 
 with Foster. From early childhood he manifested a lively 
 interest in music, and when he listened he not only expressed 
 his delight by beating time to the sounds he heard, but showed 
 the correctness of his ear, by forming a second or an alto to 
 every melody that struck his fancy. 
 
 At the age of fourteen while he was at Towanda, the boy 
 Foster gave to the world his first musical composition and 
 called it the Tioga waltz, and it was not many years later that 
 he wrote the song which of itself is sufficient to make him fa- 
 mous for all time. The Old Folks at Home, better known per- 
 haps under the name of the Suwanee River. 
 
 Now comes the remarkable gift possessed by Foster which 
 stamps him with a rare individuality. As a rule, we find the 
 musician and the poet collaborating together, each helping 
 the other to express the full meaning of the ideas intended to be 
 conveyed. Such has been the case with nearly all eminent 
 composers, and it is the case as a rule to-day even when we see 
 the inscription : words and music by the same author I 
 
 Foster, however, a descendant of those ancient Celtic bards 
 who were at once both poets and musicians, wrote both the 
 words and music of his songs, and thus was he able to pour into 
 his melodies the deep feelings and emotions of his soul, and in 
 his music to give the proper expression to the simple words 
 written underneath. 
 
 The origin of the Suwanee River forms a very interesting epi- 
 sode in the life of our composer. One day, when strolling in 
 
Foster's Negro Melodies 267 
 
 the suburbs of Pittsburgh communing with natture, listening to 
 the singing of the birds, and trying to gather inspiration for a 
 new song, he spied an old darky, whose wool had turned white, 
 seated on a log and telling stories to two little pickaninnies who, 
 with wide open bright eyes, listened with wonderment, to the 
 old man, as henarrated marvelous things abouf'Bre'r Rabbit," 
 and "Bre'r Terrapin," and "Bre'r Fox," and how the big 
 " Yallagaitor " opened his mouth so wide and swallowed a bad 
 boy. Foster very much amused became as much interested 
 in the story-teller as were the children, and sat down on the log 
 beside the old man, chatting familiarly with him till the darky, 
 becoming more reminiscent, spoke feelingly of the good old days 
 in the Sunny South where he lived a long time ago. He spoke 
 of the happy days of his childhood when he was down in Florida 
 with his dear old daddy and mammy, long since gone to a better 
 land, and his little brother whom he dearly loved; but alas his 
 master, who had been very kind to them all got down in the 
 world and the slaves were all sold, and he and his brother were 
 separated never to meet again in this world. He drew a vivid 
 pictvure of the old log cabin, and how after the day's work 
 they all gathered together in the moonlight, and while one of 
 them thrummed the banjo and led in the singing the}-^ all, young 
 and old, joined in the refrain. As the old negro rose to go he 
 said: "Oh, Massa, my heart am weary, I wish I was back 
 again on the old plantation; it was the only place I ever called 
 my home." 
 
 The genius of the poet seized on the inspiration furnished 
 by the darky's tale, and when he went home that evening 
 he wrote out the words of the Old Folks at Home — all except 
 the name of the river. 
 
 His brother, who is still living and a business man in Pitts- 
 burgh, tells us that Stephen came into his office one day and 
 said, "I've written a new song and I want the name of a river 
 in the Southern States containing two syllables. His brother 
 mentioned the Yazoo and the Pedee and several others. Fi- 
 nally they took down an old atlas and Foster running his finger 
 across the northern part of Florida suddenly called, "I've got 
 it," threw up his hat in the air, and said, "It's the Suwanee 
 
268 Father Tom 
 
 River." Having secured the name to suit, he now set the 
 melody to a simple banjo accompaniment and started for New 
 York to find a publisher. When he entered the music store of 
 Firth, Hall & Pond he saw there his friend, Mr. Bishop, the 
 author of John Brown's Body, and he said, "I say Bishop, what 
 do you think of this ?" and thereupon whistled for him his new- 
 found melody. "Capital," replied his friend as he jotted 
 down the notes on paper. Then taking up a guitar he began 
 to sing over the words of the Old Folks at Home, and while he 
 was in the midst of the song who should enter the store but 
 E. P. Christy, the originator of the famous Christy Minstrels. 
 Christy's eyes gave expression to the sentiments aroused by the 
 song and on learning that Foster was the author, he said, 
 "Steve, I'll give you all the money I have in my pocket for 
 that song. " Foster, like most poets and literary people, was 
 hard up and handed over his composition to Christy for twenty 
 dollars, the song which afterwards made thousands upon 
 thousands of dollars for its publishers. 
 
 When the song was first published, there appeared on the 
 title page the legend (such alas! is fame), "Written and com- 
 posed by E. P. Christy. " The title remained thus unchanged 
 for twenty-eight years, when the second copyright was secured 
 by his widow and the real author's name given. 
 
 The Old Folks at Home spread with great rapidity through 
 the United States, and in every English speaking country, so 
 that over half a million copies of it were sold during the first 
 five years, and The Suwanee River and Home Sweet Home may 
 be placed side by side as the sweetest and most popular of all 
 American ballads. 
 
 During his career, Foster wrote so many songs that no com- 
 plete record of them was kept, but it is safe to say that at least 
 one hundred of them became famous. We shall select a few 
 of these that achieved the greatest popularity to show 
 what rich music there is in the old songs and to give the gentle 
 hint to musical butterflies, that it were well occasionally in the 
 mad chase after musical novelties in the ballad line, to make 
 a study of the melodies with which oiu" mothers often rocked 
 us to sleep. 
 
Foster's Negro Melodies 269 
 
 A song writer has said, " I cannot sing the old songs, " and 
 a great many singers repeat the refrain, only in a different 
 sense. They cannot, because they will not, and they will not, 
 beause they are unable to appreciate the beauty of the old 
 time melodies. 
 
 It requires no second sight to recognize Foster's old darky 
 in that exquisite melody. The Old Kentucky Home. 
 
 To appreciate the songs we have only to recall the fact that 
 the poor slaves were hiunan beings just like their white mas- 
 ters, and that therefore to them as to all others there was no 
 place like home. Sometimes we know they were sold as slaves 
 and sent to another State hundreds of miles away. The birds 
 might sing sweetly, the landscape might be more pleasing, the 
 master might be more kind, but the poor darky had left his wife 
 and little ones in Old Kentucky, and had to tote along his 
 weary load hoping to meet them in the Kingdom come. 
 
 The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home, 
 
 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay, 
 The com top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom. 
 
 While the birds make music all the day. 
 The yoimg folks roll on the httle cabin floor, 
 
 All merry, all happy, and bright. 
 By and by hard times come a knocking at the door 
 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good-night. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Weep no more my lady, 
 
 O weep no more to day. 
 We will sing one song for the 
 
 Old Kentucky home, 
 For the old Kentucky home, far away. 
 
 They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, 
 On the meadow, the hill and the shore, 
 
 They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon 
 On the bench by the old cabin door. 
 
270 Father Tom 
 
 The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart, 
 With sorrow where all was delight, 
 
 The time has come when the darkies have to part. 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good-night. 
 
 The head must bow and the back will have to bend, 
 
 Wherever the darky may go, 
 A few days more and the trouble all will end 
 
 In the field where the sugar canes grow. 
 A few more days for to tote the weary load, 
 
 No matter, 'twill never be light, 
 A few more days till we totter on the road. 
 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good-night. 
 
 Many, nay most of his Negro Melodies have a sad strain 
 running through them, for he, noting the success of the Old 
 Folks at Home found that such sentiments seemed in tune with 
 the minds of the people, both white and black, during the dark 
 days from '6i to '65 — even later. 
 
 The picture of the old darky seems to have come frequently 
 before the mind of the writer, and we find him figuring in many 
 of the melodies, notably in Old Black Joe, Oh, Boys Carry me 
 Along and Old Uncle Ned. The latter has a little quaint htunor 
 in it, and makes a very charming picture. 
 
 There was an old nigga. 
 
 They call him Uncle Ned; 
 He's dead long ago, long ago. 
 
 He had no wool on the top of his head. 
 The place where the wool ought to grow. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Den lay down de shubble and de hoe, 
 Hang up de fiddle and de bow 
 
 No more hard work for poor old Ned 
 He's gone where de good niggas go. 
 
Foster's Negro Melodies 271 
 
 His fingers were long like de cane in de brake, 
 
 And he had no eyes for to see; 
 He had no teeth for to eat the com cake, 
 
 So he had to let the com cake be. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When Old Ned die, Massa take it mighty hard, 
 
 De tears run down like de rain; 
 Old missus turn pale and she look berry sad, 
 
 Cause she'll nebber see Old Ned again. 
 
 One of Foster's dainty little melodies which is not of a sad 
 turn was the delight of my childhood as my mother sang it 
 to put the youngsters in good humor. It is called Nelly Bly 
 and evidently represents the happy life of a newly-wed darky 
 couple who are passing the honeymoon singing their favorite 
 songs and picking on the old banjo. 
 
 NELLY BLY 
 
 Nelly Bly, Nelly Bly, bring the broom along 
 We'll sweep de kitchen clear my dear 
 
 And have a Httle song. 
 
 Poke de wood, my lady lub 
 
 And make the fire bum, 
 
 And while I take the banjo down. 
 
 Just gib de mush a turn. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Hi Nelly, ho Nelly listen lub to me. 
 I'll sing for you I'll play for you, 
 A dulcet melody. 
 
 Nelly Bly hab a voice like a turtle dove, 
 
 I hear it in the meadow, 
 And I hear it in de grove. 
 
 Nelly Bly hab a heart 
 Warm as a cup of tea, 
 
 And sweeter dan de sweet potato, 
 Down in Tennessee. 
 
272 Father Tom 
 
 Nelly Bly shuts her eye when she goes to sleep 
 
 And when she wakes up in de mom 
 Her eyes begin to peep. 
 
 De way she walks, she lifts her foot, 
 And then she brings it down; 
 
 And when it lights, there's music dah. 
 In that part of the town. 
 
 What a contrast is to be found in those charming melodies 
 of Foster and the ragtime ditties of to-day that continually- 
 burlesque the negro character, just as the modem so-called 
 Irish comic songs, ridicule the real wit and htmior of the 
 Irishman and serve to make the average listener think that the 
 typical negro and the typical Irishman is merely a buffoon. 
 Moreover may we not here remark that our senses are becom- 
 ing so dulled of late years, because of the degeneracy of the 
 stage and of those who cater to public taste in the matter of 
 popular amusement, that we are gradually losing the perception 
 between love and passion, between right and wrong, between 
 pure and impure, between sensible and sensual? Take at 
 random half a dozen of the popular negro songs of the day, and 
 though their melodies may be catchy, yet the words as a rule 
 are not merely suggestive, but plain outspoken filth. The 
 very expression "ragtime" which means syncopated time, 
 has become in fact synonymous for all that is lowest and 
 degrading in the dives and cellars of New York. Is it not well, 
 at such a time to revive the memory of the man who tried to 
 make us feel so effectively that "one touch of nature makes the 
 whole world kin." How many I wonder know that Mr. 
 Foster was the author of the following songs : Come where my 
 love lies dreaming. Fairy Belle, Gentle Annie, Hard times come 
 again no more, Massa's in de cold ground, Willie we have missed 
 you, Nelly was a lady, Under the willow she's sleeping, 1 Stis- 
 anna and Camptown Races. 
 
 Mr. Foster was of a very retiring disposition and hated to be 
 lionized, for which reason he seldom went into society. An 
 anecdote illustrative of this is told us by his brother, Morrison 
 Foster: "When he was eighteen years old an old friend of the 
 
Foster's Negro Melodies 273 
 
 family invited them all to a party at her house. It will be 
 remembered that Stephen was an expert on the flute as well as 
 on the piano, and played that instrument with a tenderness and 
 pathos that only the real artist can give. When this lady gave 
 the invitation she said : 'Tell Stephen not to forget to bring his 
 flute with him.' That settled it, so far as he was concerned, 
 he would not go one step, but said: 'Tell Mrs. Blank, I will 
 send my flute if she desires it.' This dislike to being classed as 
 a mere performer characterized him during his whole life, even 
 though he willingly sang for the enjoyment of himself and 
 others if the occasion were spontaneous. " 
 
 His success as a song-writer brought him plenty of money, 
 for even when his regular publisher for one reason or another 
 refused the manuscript, he invariably found purchasers willing 
 to buy his songs for a few dollars. Though most of them are 
 written in a sentimental strain, yet is the quaint humor of the 
 author visible frequently in some of his rollicking ditties. 
 Take for instance the famous old end song: 
 
 SUSANNA 
 
 I come from Alabama 
 
 Wid my banjo on ma' knee, 
 I'm gwine to Louisiana, 
 
 Ma true lub for to see. 
 It rained all night, the day I left, 
 
 The weather it was dry, 
 The sun so hot I froze to death. 
 
 Susanna, don't you cry. 
 
 Chorus 
 Oh, Susanna, don't you cry for me, 
 
 I come from Alabama. 
 With my banjo on ma knee. 
 
 II 
 
 I jumped aboard the telegraph 
 And trabbled down de ribber, 
 
 De 'lectric fluid magnified. 
 And killed five hundred nigger 
 
 The buUgine bust, the hoss run off, 
 I really thought I'd die. 
 
 iS 
 
274 Father Tom 
 
 I shut my eyes to hold my brefiE, 
 
 Susanna, don't you cry. 
 Ill 
 I had a dream de odder night, 
 When ever3rthing was still, 
 I thought I saw Susanna, 
 
 A comin' down de hill. 
 The buckweat cake was in her mouf , 
 
 The tear was in her eye. 
 Says I, I'm coming from de Souf, 
 
 Susanna, don't you cry. 
 
 IV 
 
 Oh, when I get to New Orleans, 
 
 I '11 look all 'round and 'round ; 
 And when I find Susanna, 
 
 I'll fall right on de ground. 
 But if I do not find her, 
 
 Dis darkey'l surely die 
 And when I'm dead and buried, 
 
 Susanna, don't you cry. 
 
 How sad and strange a truth it is that so many men of genius 
 like Foster cannot stand prosperity. Popularity brings such 
 men into the enchanted land of Bohemia and of all the coun- 
 tries of the world this one, common to all large cities, has such 
 fascination for brilliant and clever men where they meet so 
 many like themselves, that their heads become turned by the 
 flattery of their admirers, and their thoughts somewhat ob- 
 scured by the fumes of the smoke and of the cup that inebri- 
 ates. Gradually their high ideals are shattered by the common- 
 place associates who by means of their money mingle in the 
 charmed set, and finally the brain becomes muddled from the 
 too frequent use of strong stimulants from which they received 
 many a false inspiration. 
 
 So it was with poor Foster. When I walk along the Bowery 
 on a cold winter's night, and meet some poor besotted tramp 
 begging for ten cents to shelter his shivering body from the cold 
 for the night, I think of the sweet singer who ended his days 
 in the slums of New York, and who died the death of a pauper 
 in Bellevue Hospital with no friend in the whole world to soothe 
 his pillow. 
 
Foster's Negro Melodies 275 
 
 As he walked the streets in his latter days, he heard on all 
 sides the echoes of his genius. He realized that he had set 
 the whole country singing the creations of his brain, but not one 
 friendly face could he discern amidst the thousands who passed 
 him every day. He heard the little children on the doorsteps 
 singing the Suwanee River and Old Uncle Ned. He heard the 
 hand organs grinding out his music at the corners of the 
 great East Side. He heard the boys whistling his tunes as 
 they merrily trudged along to school. He passed along under 
 the cloistered windows of the houses of some religious who 
 had finished chanting their Compline in the chapel and are now 
 taking their evening recreation, and he hears Old Black Joe and 
 the Camptown Races warbled by the innocent voices of these 
 consecrated virgins. He hears the regiment band coming 
 down Broadway, and as he listens, the strains of his beloved 
 Gentle Annie played as a march tune greets his ear. He hovers 
 around the doors of the gilded palace or the gay concert hall, 
 and as the richly dressed ladies and gentlemen are crossing the 
 sidewalk to get to their carriages he hears them humming 
 01 Susanna, Fairy Belle, and Nelly was a lady. 
 
 Everywhere from morning till night he hears his thoughts, 
 his ideas, his creations borne on the air around about him, but 
 none so poor to do reverence to the one who taught them all to 
 sing his songs. 
 
 We need not marvel to know that Foster tried again and 
 again to make a firm resolution to be a man , and that he ex- 
 presses this sentiment in one of his ballads. 
 
 I 
 
 Oh ! comrades fill no glass for me. 
 
 To drown my soul in liquid flame, 
 For if I drank, the toast should be. 
 
 To blighted fortune, health, and fame. 
 Then while I long to quell the strife, 
 
 That passion holds against my life, 
 Though boon companions ye may be, 
 
 O! comrades fill no glass for me. 
 II 
 I know a breast that once wEis light, 
 
 Whose patient sufferings need my care; 
 
276 Father Tom 
 
 I know a hearth that once was bright, 
 But drooping hopes have gathered there. 
 
 Then while the tear drops nightly steal, 
 From wounded hearts that I should heal, 
 
 Though boon companions ye may be, 
 O! comrades fill no glass for me. 
 
 When I was young I felt the tide 
 
 Of aspirations undefiled. 
 But manhood's years have wronged the pride 
 
 My parents centered in their child ; 
 Then by a mother's sacred tear. 
 
 By all that memory should revere. 
 Though boon companions ye may be, 
 
 O! comrades, fill no glass for me. 
 
 When he found himself alone in the world, and unable to 
 keep his resolutions, need we wonder that partly losing faith 
 in his fellow man, he should write that pathetic little song 
 that speaks so affectionately of the fidelity of his Old Dog Tray? 
 
 The mom' of life is past. 
 
 And evening comes at last. 
 It brings me a dream of a once happy day. 
 
 Of merry forms I've seen, 
 Upon the village green, 
 
 Sporting with my old dog Tray. 
 
 Chorus 
 
 Old dog Tray is ever faithful. 
 
 Grief cannot drive him away; 
 He's gentle, he is kind, 
 
 I'll never, never find 
 A better friend than old dog Tray. 
 
 The forms I called my own, 
 Have vanished one by one; 
 
 The loved ones, the dear ones 
 Have all passed away. 
 
 Their happy smiles have flown, 
 Their gentle voices gone, 
 
 I've nothing left but old dog Tray. 
 
Foster's Negro Melodies 2-]-] 
 
 m 
 
 When thoughts recall the past, 
 
 His eyes are on me cast 
 I know that he feels, 
 
 What my breaking heart would say, 
 Although he cannot speak 
 
 I'll vainly, vainly seek 
 A better friend than old dog Tray. 
 
 The name of the singer passed out of men's memories but 
 the songs begotten of that fertile brain and sympathetic heart 
 can never die. They will live for years in the breasts of the 
 people of the English speaking world long after elaborate works 
 of great composers shall have been forgotten. If we want 
 proof positive of this we have t)ut to recall the fact that even 
 immensely cultured audiences who have listened more or less 
 patiently through one of the grand operas, will go wild with 
 enthusiasm if the prima donna comes before the curtain and 
 sings the Suwanee River. What is the reason of their wild 
 delight? It is because they have listened to a sweet simple 
 melody that touches a chord in the heart of every listener, 
 vibrating in union with the melody and the verse, and that 
 makes every one who listens feel that he is a better man for 
 the sentiments aroused by that one sweet song. 
 
 Foster died in the prime of life and was buried near his father 
 and mother in Pittsburgh, a simple slab marking the grave of 
 America's greatest ballad writer. Let his faults lie buried 
 with him. His was a gentle and a beautiful soul and the 
 world was all the better for his existence and his works. I feel 
 certain that when his spirit took its flight in January 1864, 
 the sentiment expressed in one of his most beautiful melo- 
 dies must have been the refrain heard throughout the length 
 and breadth of the land. 
 
 All the darkies am a weeping, 
 Massa's in the cold, cold ground. 
 
IV 
 
 BALLADS OF MERRIE ENGLAND' 
 
 Pleasure, according to Webster, is the gratification of the 
 senses or of the mind, and hence every individual has his own 
 idea of what causes him real pleasure. There are some who 
 seem to revel in working out intricate problems in algebra or 
 geometry. Others whose particular tastes lead them to make 
 profound studies in philosophy, theology, history, or archi- 
 tecture. Some even whose highest ideal of pleasure in this 
 world is to gaze for hours at a chess board and calculate on 
 the far distant moves that an adversary may make and its 
 possible consequences. 
 
 To all these and kindred souls, however, the study of the 
 folk songs or the ballads of a nation must come as a pleasant 
 recreation after hard work in the more serious walks of liter- 
 ature. And why is this? It is because music is such an 
 abundant factor in the make up, not only of the individual but 
 of the universe that very few ca;i resist its potent spell, and we 
 may say that the man who has no love at all for music must be 
 looked upon as a "Lusus Naturae," a cold unsympathetic 
 creature whose soul lacks one distinguishing quality that 
 marks the perfectly developed man. 
 
 Music in fact it is that rules the world, for all the spheres 
 move in harmony, and the inspired writer tells us that for ages 
 the morning stars have been singing the praises of the great 
 Creator and the planets crying out for joy in His presence. 
 Everywhere throughout nature do we hear the replication of 
 the harmonies of the spheres, echoed according to the capa- 
 bilities of nature's forces. At one time, it is the mad fortissimo 
 
 ■ Summer School, CUfiE Haven, N. Y., August, 1899. 
 
 278 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 279 
 
 fury of the whistling winds ; at another, the gentle murmuring 
 of zephyrs that sing a lullaby to the responsive leaves of the 
 forest. Again it may be the solemn "Requiem aeternam" of 
 the waves of old ocean as they dash against earth's sands, or 
 the delightful childish song of the quickly flowing brook that 
 miu-murs through the woodland. 
 
 It may be the sweet warbling of the birds chanting their 
 matin hymn or the peculiar cries of the animals of the forest and 
 field, all forming one grand open diapason, and praising the 
 Sovereign Creator who brought them into existence. 
 
 It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that man contemplat- 
 ing the harmonies of nature, should have so improved upon 
 the original reed pipe of Jubal as to produce the grand organ 
 of the modern cathedral. Neither may we express surprise 
 that the development of vocal music has given us instead of 
 the weird monotonous drone of the conservative Oriental, 
 the celestial harmonies of Palestrina and Allegri, or the more 
 intricate though less enjoyable music of Wagner and Liszt. I 
 speak from the standpoint of the average lover of music. 
 
 Only the select few can thoroughly appreciate the beauties 
 of these harmonies, but all following the instincts of nature can 
 understand the simple melodies that speak strictly to the heart. 
 
 The folk songs, as we understand them to-day, are the simple 
 ballads that have their origin amongst the people and that echo 
 the heart palpitations of nature as it exists in the human breast. 
 
 The words of these songs are simple as is also the melody 
 and hence are they easily learned and handed down from one 
 generation to another, without ever being committed to not- 
 ation. This, at least is true of some of the simpler songs. If 
 proof were required in this instance you have but to recall the 
 fact that in the streets of New York to-day, in the heart of the 
 Chinese quarter, you will hear the children of Chinese and 
 Italian parentage singing as they play, not Santa Lucia nor 
 Marianna come va ! nor Funiculi, Funicula nor yet the praises 
 of Joss, but in their stead Little Sally Waters, London Bridge is 
 falling down, Water, Water wild flowers, or Oats and beans and 
 barley grows to the same airs that they were sung by the child- 
 ren of Gotham a century ago. 
 
28o Father lorn 
 
 The popular song of to-day is but the folk song of days gone 
 by. It is the poetry of the people. It speaks in simple strains 
 of love, of patriotism or of war, and the simpler the air, the 
 more easily are aroused the emotions they tend to excite in the 
 breasts of those who hear them. 
 
 Men who have carefully studied the customs of rude tribes 
 of barbarians tell us that these unlettered savages have their 
 characters formed, in a great measure, by the songs learned from 
 their parents, and learn to be proud of their ancestors and their 
 native land, from frequent listening to their praises as sung by 
 their elders. Such songs, whether among civilized peoples or 
 barbarians are a great power for good. They foster courage 
 and refinement. They make savage men gentle. They change 
 the brutal sensualist into the refined purified lover. 
 
 Among civilized people, a song to become lastingly popular 
 must be true to nature; must have no injustice or falsehood 
 lurking beneath it, for the people are quick in their judgment 
 of right and wrong and will not encourage for any length of 
 time, that which they know by instinct to be unjust or untrue. 
 If, for example, a war song is to have the power of awakening 
 the true spirit of patriotism, it must be written in a just cause 
 and in defense of what the people feel to be right. If there 
 exists a love song to-day that has withstood the critical test of 
 three or four generations of the common people and is still 
 sung by them, it is because it has breathed the purest, the 
 noblest, the holiest kind of love. 
 
 To illustrate what I understand by a modern folk song, just 
 listen for a moment to the words of a popular ballad that was 
 much in vogue a few summers ago. It is called: 
 
 THE SUNSHINE OF PARADISE ALLEY 
 
 In a little side street, 
 
 Such as often you meet; 
 
 Where the boys of a Sunday night rally. 
 
 It's not very wide, 
 
 And it's dismal beside 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 281 
 
 Yet they call the place Paradise Alley. 
 
 There's a maiden so neat, 
 
 Lives in that Uttle street ; 
 
 She's the daughter of Widow McNally; 
 
 She has bright golden hair 
 
 And the boys all declare 
 
 She's the Sunshine of Paradise Alley. 
 
 When O'Brien's little lad, 
 
 Got the fever so bad, 
 
 That no one would dare to go near him ; 
 
 Said this dear girl so brave, 
 
 I think I can save 
 
 Or at least I can comfort and cheer him. 
 
 Now the youngster got well, 
 
 And the neighbors all tell 
 
 How the daughter of widow McNally, 
 
 Risked her life for the boy, 
 
 Now they hail her with joy. 
 
 As the Sunshine of Paradise Alley. 
 
 She's had offers to wed 
 
 By the dozen 'tis said. 
 
 But she always refused them politely. 
 
 But of late she's been seen 
 
 With young Tommy Killeen 
 
 Going out for a promenade nightly. 
 
 Well, we all know the rest. 
 
 For the girl he loves best, 
 
 Will soon change her name from McNally. 
 
 She may change her name 
 
 She'll remain just the same 
 
 The Sunshine of Paradise Alley. 
 
 That little song is calculated to do a million times more 
 good in making young men and women pure and good, and in 
 making youth appreciate and love beauty and virtue in woman 
 than a million operas like Faust or Romeo and Juliet. 
 
 I acknowledge I have not chosen a very classical selection 
 to illustrate my point, but I have chosen it because my lot is 
 
282 Father Tom 
 
 cast among the poor, where such alleys abound, and where such 
 examples of nobility of character and true womanhood are to 
 be found in the midst of the poorest rear tenements and dismal 
 alleys, where sometimes the only glimpse of sunshine ever seen 
 is the sweet earnest face of one of these good young women. 
 
 Hundreds of ballads are written every year, but very few of 
 them become popular because there is something lacking either 
 in the words or music to make the people love them. Many 
 of our modern college bred men and convent bred women will 
 not condescend to sing the old time songs or ballads, because 
 "they are so common, don't you know!" Yet if Du Maurier 
 or some other foreigner makes it a fad, they will take up Ben 
 Bolt or Little Annie Rooney or Mamie Reilly and discover the 
 real beauties of these songs of the people. 
 
 I regret to say, that these same young ladies and gentlemen 
 will arise in parlors and concert halls and unblushingly sing 
 the most passionate sensual love songs that can be imagined; 
 love songs that breathe not the pure flame of heaven, but lines 
 that teem with gross sensuality and passion. The ballad of 
 the people must have none of this ; it must be good, it must be 
 pure, it must teach a high standard of morality and patriotism, 
 and to be able to accomplish this, it strikes me that the poet 
 must come from the people and know by experience how the 
 real honest heart beats amongst them. 
 
 But you may say, what has all this to do with the songs of 
 Merrie England? You shall see presently, for if I have fixed 
 the idea well in your minds, that the songs of the people in 
 general that speak in simple strains of love or of war are beauti- 
 ful in themselves, then will I have broken down any barriers 
 of prejudice that may exist against the songs of one nation in 
 particular; nay more, it will enable me more effectively to 
 prove that a beautiful air detested by the people of the land of 
 the Shamrock, may become loved by them when words referring 
 to a third country, friendly to both, is adapted to them. 
 
 How many of us, myself among the number, grew up with 
 the idea that England was a country famous or rather infamous 
 for one thing only, namely her bloody persecution of the 
 Irish. 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 283 
 
 How different were our impressions when our eyes were 
 opened and we began to read history for ourselves. Then we 
 studied with great interest the stories of King John and his 
 "Magna Charta" — Edward the Confessor; Thomas k Becket 
 and Sir Thomas More. Then also we became interested in the 
 whole story of Catholic England and her grand old cathedrals 
 and her great Catholic Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, 
 and last but not least in her musicians and her poetry and her 
 soul-stirring ballads and folk songs. 
 
 When we sing the songs of Old England therefore, we pic- 
 ture her to ourselves not as the cruel intolerant England of 
 the Reformation but the free Catholic England of centuries 
 gone by. The days when her vigorous poets sang of the roast 
 beef of Old England and brown October ale, and the mistletoe 
 bough, the yule log, and the pltun pudding. The days of Old 
 King Cole, "the jolly old soul and a jolly old soul was he. He 
 called for his pipe and he called for his glass and he called for 
 his fiddlers three. " No wonder that merry-hearted people in 
 time of peace cultivated the metric music and that they danced 
 and sang upon the village green, all under the greenwood tree, 
 when "Summer was a comin' in, " while the lark sang loud on 
 high, or when snow and frosts of winter came over the land, 
 chanted their merry madrigal or made the dim and vast ca- 
 thedrals resound with their joyful carols that told the wondrous 
 birth of the Christ Child. 
 
 We have truly here a wealth of treasures to select from, 
 which though the songs cannot begin to compare in antiquity 
 with the Irish, Scotch, and Welsh melodies, yet do they possess 
 a beauty truly their own, and so true to nature that some of 
 them can compare with the sweetest melodies of either the 
 Irish or the Scotch musicians. We have proof positive from 
 the testimony of antiquarians and historians as well as of 
 tradition, that the Scotch golden age of music was the fifteenth 
 century. We are equally certain from the testimony of Geral- 
 dus Cambrensis, an Englishman, that the Irish were ahead of 
 the whole world in musical matters in the twelfth centtiry, and 
 that she was acknowledged by all the nations as facile princeps 
 in her cultivation of music as a fine art, long before the intro- 
 
284 Father Tom 
 
 duction of Christianity to her shores; but how old is English 
 music? 
 
 It is very remarkable that a country which for centuries 
 was renowned for its lyric poets, and which has given to the 
 world its greatest dramatic poet and one of the few great epic 
 poets of the world, should occupy, up to the seventeenth cen- 
 tury, such a subordinate place in its original musical efforts 
 when compared to the neighboring countries of Ireland and 
 Scotland, as well as France, Germany and Italy. One would 
 think that in opera, that form of music so closely allied to the 
 drama, she would show some originality, but not so. In the 
 few operas she has given to the world, her composers but 
 slavishly imitate continental counterpoint. 
 
 Some enthusiastic writers claim that the English were 
 renowned for their music in the early centuries, but they can 
 give no positive proof for what they say. I quote from one of 
 these authors to show the absurd conclusions drawn from 
 narrow premises. 
 
 The ancient inhabitants of the British Isles loved music and many were 
 the minstrels who cheered by means of their songs and instrumental playing, 
 the frequent festivities that took place under the roof of the princely palace 
 as well as under the tent on the battlefield. Many of these songs Irish, 
 Welsh, Scotch, have come down to us and their great originality of melody 
 and sweetness of expression are recognized by every one who has any taste 
 for the fresh naive simple beauty which renders the songs of the people so 
 attractive and touching and which stamps them with everlasting youth. 
 
 All very well for Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, but if the 
 English were, as he claims, great musicians in early days, 
 where are their songs and melodies ? He might have expressed 
 it more correctly had he told us that very likely the ancient 
 Saxons and Angles were fond of music, but were not musicians 
 else would we have some traces of their early efforts like those 
 we have of her sister island. When the author whom I have 
 quoted (Mr. Ritter, History of Music in England) attempts to 
 give us an example of ancient music in England, the two oldest 
 compositions he is able to produce are first a crude English 
 dance tune of the 14th century and second, a Latin song of the 
 battle of Agincourt, written in the 15th century. Even Mr. 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 285 
 
 Haweis in his interesting work Music and Morals speaking of 
 the EngUsh of to-day says very plainly : 
 
 The English are not a musical people and the English are not an artistic 
 people, but they have produced better artists than musicians. A country 
 is not musical or artistic when you can get its people to look at pictures 
 or listen to music, but when its people are themselves composers and artists. 
 Music in England has always been an exotic and whenever the exotic seed 
 has escaped and grown wild on English soil, the result has not been a stable 
 and continuous growth. The reformation music was all Italian and French ; 
 the restoration music half French, half German. No one will deny that 
 ToUis, (?) Farrant, Bird, in church music; Morley, Ward and Wilbye in the 
 madrigal, made a most original use of their materials, but the materials were 
 foreign for all that. 
 
 Thus does an English critic speak of his own country regard- 
 ing her as a land of music, and we may well believe him. The 
 Anglo-Saxons of old were a sturdy practical race, given to 
 conquest and not filled with the fine sentiments and poetic 
 imaginations of the Celts; hence we may believe their de- 
 scendants as a rule to have inherited the characteristics that 
 distinguished their forefathers. 
 
 While we are prepared to give full justice to the individual 
 composers of beautiful ballads that may in modern times be 
 called the English school of music, we maintain that it is useless 
 to lay claim that England was renowned in her early days for 
 musical composition when proof positive cannot be given. 
 Even during the reign of EUzabeth, when the fine arts were 
 supposed to have received a new birth, her Majesty's love for 
 music was shown by ordering the Minstrels and the Bards to 
 be hung to the nearest tree wherever they might be found. 
 The gloomy Calvinists and the Puritans banished all organs 
 from their churches and looked upon all music as the invention 
 of the devil. For all that, the people at large in their own 
 peculiar stolid way were always glad, in the words of Friar 
 Tuck, to express their pleasure by shouting, "A jolly good song 
 and jolly well sung. " 
 
 The ballad for the last three hundred years has been the 
 only type of music that England could claim as being thor- 
 oughly English, and her composers certainly have given us 
 some delightful compositions in this line of art. 
 
286 Father Tom 
 
 The English ballad in its perfection, is a simple, rhythmical, 
 sentimental song whose sweet melody rests on the most simple 
 harmonious basis, with the simplest kind of accompaniment, so 
 as not to interfere with the clear enunciation of the words, for 
 it is usually a little story that is intended to reach the heart, 
 and therefore is it important that the melody and the words be 
 not lost sight of in overloading harmonies. To appreciate the 
 perfection to which the later English have brought this style of 
 music, we have but to call to mind the names of a few of the 
 more popular songs of the last two centuries. Who can forget 
 the sweet summer fragrance that pervades that exquisite 
 melody The Bloom is on the Rye? What could be more 
 quaintly delicious than Sally in our Alley or the Lass of 
 Richmond Hill or the Mistletoe Bough 7 What purer gem of 
 words and music than Ben Jonson's Drink to me only with 
 thine eyes ? What lovelier ballad than Ever of thee I'm fondly 
 dreaming or She wore a wreath of Roses or the Banks of Allan 
 Water ? Let us take the last named song as typical of the 
 English sentimental ballad. 
 
 On the banks of Allan Water, 
 When the sweet springtime did fall. 
 Was the miller's lovely daughter, 
 Fairest of them all. 
 For his bride a soldier sought her, 
 And a winning tongue had he. 
 On the Banks of Allan Water, 
 None so gay as she. 
 
 On the Banks of Allan Water, 
 
 When brown autumn spreads its store, 
 
 There I saw the miller's daughter. 
 
 But she smiled no more. 
 
 For the summer grief had brought her, 
 
 And the soldier false was he. 
 
 On the Banks of Allan Water, 
 
 None was sad as she. 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 287 
 
 III 
 
 On the Banks of Allan Water 
 When the winter's snow fell fast 
 Still was seen the miller's daughter 
 Chilling blew the blast. 
 But the miller's lovely daughter, 
 Both from cold and care was free, 
 On the Banks of Allan Water, 
 There a corse lay she. 
 
 Musical critics are agreed that the secular music and folk 
 songs of Ireland and of Germany are built upon the old Gre- 
 gorian music of the church, and for the same reason they claim 
 that the distinctive schools of Italy and Germany are but 
 perfected developments of these same chants. The same cri- 
 tics, however, tell us that the ballad music of England has no 
 connection whatever with church music but is wholly secular 
 in its origin. It would be difficult to determine the reason of 
 this unless we may think that the early English may have had 
 such reverence for the sacred chants that they wished the 
 secular music to be directly opposite in character, and that 
 music that expressed deep love of God and aspiration after the 
 things of heaven, could not be the same kind of music as that 
 which expressed earthly love and passion. 
 
 Would that our church composers of to-day held the same 
 views, and we would not have the sensuous music of the theater 
 abounding in our chiorches, both in masses, motets, hymns, and 
 sacred solos. Unfortunately not only in England, but more 
 especially in Italy that should have set the example to the 
 world, ecclesiastical music has been practically banished from 
 the churches, and the music of the theater has taken its place 
 to such an extent that crowds will flock there and with eyes 
 closed, imagine themselves at the opera, and frequently opera 
 of the type of Rigoletto or Don Giovanni. 
 
 Whatever be the reason of the purely secular in the English 
 form of ballad, it is a fact that it differs in every respect from 
 our church music. 
 
 Passing over her great collection of love songs and.senti- 
 
288 Father Tom 
 
 mental ballads, let us turn our attention to another class of 
 songs for which she is truly famous, namely her patriotic songs, 
 that speak of the love of Old England or sound the praises of 
 her soldiers and sailors the world over. 
 
 Here again we have such a number of fine airs that it is 
 difficult to choose. We have only to recall The British Grena- 
 diers, Hearts of Oak, Roast Beef of Old England, Cheer, Boys, 
 Cheer, and Rule Britannia, to show what sturdy poets and 
 musicians were the men who could give us such stirring airs. 
 The British Grenadiers sounds with characteristic modesty, 
 the praises of these stately warriors 
 
 Some talk of Alexander 
 And some of Hercules, 
 Of Hector and Lysander, 
 And such great men as these. 
 But of all the world's brave heroes, 
 There's none that can compare 
 With a tow row, row row, row row, 
 To the British Grenadiers. 
 
 When'er we were commanded 
 
 To storm the palisades, 
 
 Oiu- leaders march with fuses, 
 
 And we with hand grenades. 
 
 We throw them from the gla,ci8. 
 
 About the enemy's ears. 
 
 Sing tow row, row row, row row. 
 
 To the British Grenadiers. 
 
 Then let us fill a bumper, 
 And drink the health of those. 
 Who carry caps and pouches. 
 And weai- the louped clothes. 
 May they and their commanders. 
 Live happy all their years, 
 With a tow row, etc. 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 289 
 
 Another typical English patriotic song is that which speaks 
 the praises of the ships and sailors of the British Navy. The 
 words were written by David Garrick about the year 1750 and 
 the air which is truly very stirring is the work of Dr. Boyce. 
 The song is called Hearts of Oak, a proud title applied to the 
 good stout men-of-war long before the days when the world 
 learned to tremble at the approach of her powerful ironclads. 
 
 Come cheer up my lads, 
 'Tis to glory we steer, 
 To add something new 
 To this wonderful year. 
 To honor we call you 
 Nor press you like slaves. 
 For who are so free 
 As the sons of the waves. 
 
 (Cho.) Hearts of Oak are our ships, 
 Jolly tars are our men. 
 We always are ready; 
 Steady, Bojrs, steady. 
 We'll fight and we'll conquer 
 Again and again. 
 
 We ne'er see our foes 
 But we wish them to stay; 
 They ne'er see us 
 But they wish us away. 
 If they run, why we follow 
 And run them ashore; 
 And if they won't fight, 
 Why, we cannot do more. 
 
 They swear they'll invade us 
 Those terrible foes; 
 They frighten our women 
 Our children and beaux. 
 But should their old hulks, 
 In the darkness get o'er, 
 Still Britons they'll find 
 To receive them on shore, 
 
290 Father Tom 
 
 What Englishman is there who has not heard — nay from 
 Sims Reeves, the great tenor, down to the lowly fisherman of 
 Yarmouth, who has no voice at all except when full of mixed 
 ale, what Englishman who has not sung at least the chorus of 
 Rule Britannia? This famous song dates back to 1740 and was 
 composed by Dr. Ame, the words being by Thompson, the 
 author of The Seasons. Whatever be our sentiments regarding 
 the boastful words of the song, even though we grudgingly 
 admit their truth, we cannot but admire the majestic tones of 
 this truly magnificent national air. 
 
 When Britain first at Heaven's command, 
 Arose from out the azure main. 
 
 This was the charter of the land. 
 And guardian angels sang this strain: 
 
 Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves, 
 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 The nations not so blest as thee, 
 
 Must in their turn to tyrants fall, 
 While thou shalt flourish great and free, 
 
 The dread and envy of them all. 
 Rule Britannia, etc. 
 
 HI 
 
 (Encore verse) Written by Father McLoughlin 
 
 Thus Britons sang in days of old. 
 
 But now that day of glory's past, 
 Columbia with her sailors bold, 
 
 Is mistress of the sea at last. 
 Rule Columbia, Colimibia rules the waves, 
 Yankees never will be slaves. 
 
 It is not to be expected that a country whose great boast 
 is her commercial enterprise and whose sole object and end of 
 existence seems to be the furtherance of material progress by 
 brute force of might, should not be famous for her progress in 
 the fine arts that ennoble the mind and raise the soul to God. 
 Nevertheless must we give England due praise for the encour- 
 agement which she gave to musicians when things began to 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 291 
 
 right themselves after the unfortunate Reformation was 
 established. She encouraged these men particularly in sacred 
 music, and the result is that her liturgical hymns to-day, both 
 in words and music are beautiful beyond compare ; simple and 
 thoroughly ecclesiastical. Humphreys, Boice, and Purcell, the 
 latter being England's greatest musical genius, were the leaders 
 in the formation of this religious type of English hymn, but at 
 the same time, they were not wanting in their duty towards 
 supplying the people with the ever popular ballad. It is not 
 the scope of this talk to speak of religious music, except by way 
 of allusion, but as many of England's fine airs treat of the 
 religious in a style of song which although not church music, 
 yet are they sacred songs, it were well to listen to one of these 
 as an example of the rest. The song Rocked in the cradle of the 
 deep may be claimed by America as well as England, the words 
 being written by a Mrs. Emma Willard of Boston, to the well- 
 known air of Joseph Philip Knight, an English musician of note 
 who wrote so many fine songs of the sea. Mrs. Willard was 
 crossing the Atlantic on her way home from Europe in 1832 
 when she wrote the words so expressive of childlike faith and 
 confidence in God. 
 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 
 I lay me down in peace to sleep. 
 Seciire I rest upon the wave, 
 For Thou O! Lord hast power to save. 
 I know Thou wilt not slight my call; 
 For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall. 
 And calm and peaceful is my sleep. 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 
 
 And such the trust that still were mine, 
 Though stormy winds sweep o'er the brine, 
 Or though the tempests fiery breath, 
 Rouse me from sleep to wreck and death, 
 In ocean cave still safe with Thee, 
 The germ of Immortality, 
 And calm and peaceful is my sleep, 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep. 
 
292 Father Tom 
 
 By all odds, the greatest musical composer that England 
 has produced during the present century is Sir Arthur Stdlivan, 
 and to speak of the songs of England without mentioning him 
 would be like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet omitted. His 
 operas of Pinafore, Patience, The Mikado, lolanthe. The Pir- 
 ates of Penzance and so many others, all entitle him to the high 
 rank that is given him among modem composers. Not only 
 this, but when we contrast the moral tone of his music and the 
 delightful lines of the librettos furnished him by the witty Mr. 
 Gilbert, as well as the costuming and plots of his operas, with 
 the sensuous stufE that comes from the hands of French, Italian, 
 and American opera bouffe writers, we feel justified in calling 
 Mr. Sullivan, the greatest composer of light opera that the 
 world has ever produced. What a pleasure it is to have one 
 writer of comic opera to whose productions fathers and moth- 
 ers may bring their daughters without seeing the blush of 
 shame mount their cheeks. We need not marvel that the com- 
 poser who shows himself so great in harmonies and orchestra- 
 tion, demonstrated also again and again that he was a master 
 in the art of ballad writing of a very high order. The names of 
 such songs as The Chorister, If doughty deeds, Golden Days, Will 
 he come. Let me dream again and many more are familiar to all 
 lovers of music that touches the heart. If this musical genius 
 had left us but that one exquisite melody, The Lost Chord, he 
 would be remembered as one of the world's most popular 
 musicians, for it is one of those remarkable melodies, which, 
 though too difficult to be learned by the average individual 
 so as to become a song of the streets, and so complicated here 
 and there in its harmonies as to be practically unfit for the 
 hand-organ (thank God) yet is it a song beloved by the com- 
 mon people wherever the English language is spoken. Mr. 
 Sullivan telling how he wrote this melody says, that one time 
 his brother Frederick was very ill, and he took his turn in 
 sitting up with him during the night. To drive sleep away 
 he picked up a volume of Adelaide Procter's poems that lay 
 on the table, and in turning over the leaves he happened to 
 light on the Lost Chord. Immediately the inspiration came 
 to him, he set his pencil to work and before morning he had 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 293 
 
 composed one of the grandest airs that England has ever given 
 to the world. 
 
 Seated one day at the organ, 
 
 I was weary and ill at ease, 
 And my fingers wandered idly. 
 
 Over the noisy keys. 
 I know not what I was thinking, 
 
 Or what I was playing then. 
 But I struck one chord of music. 
 
 Like the sound of a great Amen. 
 
 It flooded the crimson twilight. 
 
 Like the close of an Angel's psalm; 
 And it lay on my fevered spirit; 
 
 With a touch of infinite calm, 
 It quieted pain and sorrow. 
 
 Like love o'ercoming strife, 
 It seemed the harmonious echo, 
 
 Prom our discordant life. 
 
 It linked all perplexing meanings 
 
 Into one perfect peace. 
 And trembling away into silence, 
 
 As if it were loath to cease; 
 I have sought but I seek it vainly. 
 
 That one Lost Chord divine 
 That came from the soul of the organ 
 
 And entered into mine. 
 It may be that death's bright Angel 
 
 Will speak in that chord again. 
 It may be that only in Heaven, 
 
 I shall hear that grand "Amen. " 
 
 After the examples of English ballad music to which you 
 have listened, we must say that whatever may have been the 
 proficiency in the art of music amongst the ancient Britons, 
 she has certainly shown wonderful development in this line of 
 study during the last two hundred years. To her, in a parti- 
 cular manner, is due the development of that music first 
 
294 Father Tom 
 
 started by St. Philip Neri, the Oratorio, which resulted in that 
 masterpiece of Handel, the Messiah, which although first pro- 
 duced in Dublin, afterwards found an abiding home in every 
 large city and town of England. I have been criticized by some 
 of my friends for speaking so highly of the English people as 
 musical composers; but we must give credit where credit is 
 due, even at the risk of appearing disloyal to our own country. 
 After one hundred and twenty years of existence, with all the 
 culture of our conservatories in New York, Boston, Chicago, 
 and elsewhere, we have turned out musicians and singers by 
 the thousands. Immense sirnis of money are spent annually 
 throughout the country on the musical education of our child- 
 ren, both in the schools and at home, and yet England is far 
 ahead of us as a musical people. 
 
 How many of the hundreds of young ladies graduated every 
 year, keep up their practice after leaving school, and thus 
 show that they love it ? In how many of our parishes, where 
 the children sing like angels, are choral classes formed, and 
 joined by the bulk of the young people who sang so beautifully 
 as children? If we really loved music, these choral societies 
 would flourish everjnvhere with us as they do in England and 
 as they do among the German element of our own country. 
 No! the practical American is quite content, after rushing all 
 day to make the mighty dollar, to buy a ticket for half a 
 dollar, and sit down and listen to music, and the lighter and 
 cheaper it is, the more crowded will be the place of amuse- 
 ment. A musical people forsooth, why, our millionaires who 
 pay fabulous prices during the opera season for boxes, have 
 been frequently criticized by real lovers of music, because 
 they persisted in laughing and talking out loud during the most 
 sublime parts of the opera. 
 
 If we are a musical people, why is it with such an inspiration 
 as "Liberty," "Columbia," the "Stars and Stripes," no com- 
 poser has arisen in this country to give us a National air 
 worthy of the land of the free ! 
 
 Until it does, we must be content to sing English airs such as 
 God Save the Queen, substituting words of our own to that 
 grand air. 
 
Ballads of Merrie England 295 
 
 Columbia the gem of the ocean is of doubtful origin, and is sung 
 in Canada as Britannia gem of the ocean. Yankee Doodle is too 
 absurd to mention, as it is an old English jig tune, and ridicu- 
 lous words were set to it even under Charles I and again under 
 Cromwell. 
 
 The Star Spangled Banner is an old English air called An 
 Ode to Anacreon in Heaven, and composed nearly two hundred 
 years ago by one Samuel Arnold of Oxford. Hail Columbia! 
 but whoever sings it now? How many school children even 
 know the words of it? How many here know the air cor- 
 rectly? What a grand name in history awaits the Catholic 
 musician who, imbued with the true spirit of liberty and 
 truth, shall give to us in majestic soul stirring strains a Na- 
 tional anthem that shall express fully all that is represented in 
 the Star Spangled Banner, and that shall sing in noble strains, 
 the praise of liberty and of her true sons, as England sings the 
 praise of her fatherland and brave sons, wherever her banner is 
 unfurled. 
 
V 
 
 SONGS OF THE SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS' 
 
 Every lover of music and poetry must love the soul of 
 Bobby Burns for the beautiful verses with which he has en- 
 riched the world's literature, especially as by means of them 
 he was enabled to give to posterity a collection of rare old 
 musical compositions that had been hidden away in the high- 
 lands of Scotland for nearly two hundred years. 
 
 John Knox, with an incomprehensible hatred of all music, 
 sacred and profane, banished the minstrels into the fastnesses 
 of the mountains and there the melodies remained until the 
 poetry of Burns played the lover to them so successfully that 
 they modestly emerged from their hiding places and were wed 
 one to the other to the delight of all the world. What Tom 
 Moore was to Ireland, Burns proved to be to Scotland, and 
 even though it must be confessed that many of the most 
 beautiful Scotch melodies are undoubtedly old Irish airs, 
 brought over to Scotland by the minstrels of the olden times; 
 and though they bear the indelible stamp of Erin's harp upon 
 them, yet must we give due credit to the Scottish people for 
 the tunes that are essentially Scotch in their origin. As to 
 the origin of the Scottish airs in general, it would be well to 
 quote here the words of the well-known Dr. McCuUough, him- 
 self a well-known and learned Scotch critic: "The Irish and 
 Welsh," says he, "have both a class of music to which the 
 Highlanders have no claim and which no intelligent Scotch 
 musician will claim. These are the melodies belonging to the 
 harp and abounding in Ireland. " 
 
 We should also bear in mind the celebrated testimony of 
 
 ■ Round Table Talk at the Catholic Summer School, July 12, 1898. 
 
 296 
 
Songs of the Scottish Highlands 297 
 
 Dr. Campbell, a Scotchman, who tells us in his letters that the 
 music of Scotland is generally of Irish origin. When the fact 
 is also recalled that for many centuries back, even to the time 
 of Columbkille, Ireland was so celebrated for its proficiency 
 in the arts of music and poetry that students were invariably 
 sent there from both Scotland and Wales to complete their 
 education; and the additional fact that the Scotch kings 
 invariably employed Irish minstrels in their courts, it need 
 not be wondered that the Scotch, who were likewise of Celtic 
 origin, should soon be possessed of such collections of musical 
 compositions second only to those of Ireland herself. 
 
 It would be difficult to say what particular airs in the col- 
 lections of Scotch melodies were written originally by Irish- 
 men, but I shall recall to your mind one simple little fact. I 
 find by investigation that the bulk of the real old Irish airs, 
 whose titles none dare dispute, were written, for the most part, 
 in the sweet majestic major strain. Take for example the air 
 of The Coolin and Aileen Aroon, The Twisting of the Rope, The 
 Old Head of Denis, The Groves of Blarney and so on. Whereas, 
 on the contrary, the oldest collection of ballads which Scotch 
 antiquarians have brought to light from the Highlands, are, 
 for the most part, written in a melancholy minor key. 
 
 Again, the national instrument of the Scottish Gael is the 
 bagpipes, even though some Scotch writers maintain that 
 this has been the case only since the sixteenth century. Prior 
 to that time they held the harp as their national instrument 
 in common with Ireland. Certainly, I think musicians will 
 agree, that they did not show an advance in musical taste by 
 the change. All Scottish musicans of note willingly or unwill- 
 ingly admit that the knowledge of the harp was brought 
 originally from Ireland to Scotland. Therefore, I would con- 
 clude that the ancient Scotch ballads, which can be accompanied 
 by the harp and not by the bagpipes, are directly or indirectly of 
 Irish origin. 
 
 To most of us Americans, the bagpipes seems a barbarous, 
 ear-splitting instrument, with very little to commend it to 
 us even when played upon most skillfully; but such is the 
 peculiarity of different criterions in excellence of musical har- 
 
298 Father Tom 
 
 monies that we are told that this instrument by its music is 
 capable of melting the Highlanders to tears of genuine emotion, 
 or of provoking them either to warfare or to the dance accord- 
 ing to the pleasure or purpose of the player. They also main- 
 tain that as a war instrument the bagpipes has no equal. 
 
 However all this may be, it is certain that if it were not for 
 Bobby Burns and his magical verses, most of the old Scotch 
 melodies would have been lost to posterity, for the musicians 
 who had handed down the airs from father to son, after the 
 manner of the Irish bards, gradually disappeared from the 
 Highlands and emigrated to Canada, Australia, United States, 
 and elsewhere. Therefore, will all the old Scotch airs, as 
 time goes on, be known as Burns's melodies, for there is as 
 much sweet music in his lyrics as there is in the melodies to 
 which he adapted the words. 
 
 I know full well that there have been other sweet singers 
 bom in bonnie Scotland (the land o' cakes) whose verses were 
 of such excellence that people attributed them to Bums. Such 
 are the poetical effusions of Caroline Oliphant and Lady 
 Nairne, who, shortly after Burns's death, wrote the well-known 
 songs, The Land o' Leal, Caller Herrin and The Lass o' Cowrie. 
 Sir Walter Scott also wrote beautiful verses, but in the melli- 
 fluous Doric of the lowlands. So that they failed to acqtiire 
 their deserved popularity with the people. 
 
 Burns, as we know, sprang from the common people, like 
 many great men before him. For the Lord makes use of the 
 ignorant ones of the world to confound the wise. The young 
 farmer boy picked up a smattering of education and would 
 frequently steal away behind a hedge to rest from work and 
 indulge his taste for reading. His reading, especially of the 
 poets, led him to open his eyes and look at the open book of 
 nature 'round about him, and then he began "to lisp in num- 
 bers" for the numbers came. These verses read to his friends 
 and kinsfolk soon made him popular both with the leamed 
 and the ignorant, and what wonder ? It was the outpouring of 
 the moment, the response to the immediate circumstances of 
 life. Its charms and power lie in the justness of the feelings 
 expressed and in the trathfulness and freshness it derives from 
 
Songs of the Scottish Highlands 299 
 
 life. Rarely have such manliness, tenderness, and passion been 
 united as in the songs of Bums. The muse of Scotland, as 
 aroused from her slumbers by her favorite poet, proved to be, 
 as Charles Mackey observes, "not a classical beauty, nor a 
 crowned queen, nor a fair lady, but a simple country lass, 
 fresh, buoyant, buxom, and healthy, full of affection and kindly 
 charities, a bare-footed maiden that scorns all pretense and 
 speaks her mind. If sometimes indiscreet in her language, her 
 heart is pxire. She never jests at virtue, though she sometimes 
 has a fling at hypocrisy; her laughter is as refreshing as her 
 tears and her humor is as genuine as her tenderness. " 
 
 Unfortunately for Bums, not having come of gentle blood, 
 he was unable to stand the flattery and prosperity he met 
 with on all sides, and so the sobriety and correctness of life 
 which characterized him as a youth gradually disappeared as 
 he became the hero of the hour. To better his condition and 
 to get away from the memories associated with his reckless 
 life, he resolved to emigrate to Jamaica, and to raise money for 
 his passage he published a collection of his verses at Kilmar- 
 nock in 1786. This venture proved so successful that he 
 went to Edinburgh and published a new edition. While in 
 the capital he mingled with men eminent in letters, in rank, and 
 in fashion, and his wonderful powers of conversation excited 
 little less admiration than his poetry. The profits on his book 
 enabled him to buy a farm, as also to ratify his marriage with 
 Jane Armour. He held the political office of excise-man for 
 some years, but unhappily never learned to be content with 
 his lot and as a consequence developed a melancholy which he 
 tried unsuccessfully to drown in the flowing bowl, until finally 
 the sweet singer, who had so boldly and beautifully told us 
 that "A man's a man for a' that," passed away unnoticed and 
 uncared for by those many friends and admirers who were only 
 too anxious to cultivate his friendship and honor him while he 
 remained a man. 
 
 It is time, however, that we should get an idea of some of his 
 verses which served to show off so well the music of the Scotch 
 Highlands. One of these, an exquisite air of which we never 
 grow tired, is called, Ye Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon. 
 
300 Father Tom 
 
 Regarding the origin of this air, Bums himself in a letter to 
 Mr. Thompson writes as follows: "There is an air called The 
 Caledonian Hunts' Delight to which I wrote a song called Ye 
 Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon. Do you know the history of 
 that air? A good many years ago Mr. James Miller, writer in 
 your own good town, expressed an ardent ambition to be able 
 to write a Scotch air. Mr. Clarke, by way of a joke, told him 
 to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord and preserve some 
 sort of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scotch air. 
 Certain it is that in a few days, Mr. Miller composed the rudi- 
 ments of an air which was fashioned afterwards into the air in 
 question. " 
 
 "Notwithstanding this," adds Bums, "I have been told 
 repeatedly that this is an old Irish air known for centuries 
 by the old women of Ireland, while a lady informs me that 
 she took it down on paper while it was being played by an old 
 piper in the Isle of Man. " 
 
 It certainly bears the marks of an Irish melody. The word 
 "Braes" signifies the slopes or hillsides of the Doon, a river in 
 Ayrshire justly celebrated for the beauty of its scenery. 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
 How can ye chaunt, ye little birds, 
 
 And I'm sae weary full of care. 
 Thou '11 break my heart thou warbling bird 
 
 That wantons through the flowery thorn, 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys, 
 
 Departed never to return. 
 
 Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine, 
 When ilka bird sang o' its love 
 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 With lightsome heart I pulled a rose 
 
 Full sweet upon its thorny tree, 
 But my false lover stole my rose 
 
 And ah! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
Songs of the Scottish Highlands 301 
 
 Another favorite lyric by Burns is called John Anderson, my 
 Jo, which latter word means my beloved one. This song has a 
 very peculiar and interesting history. When the Reformation 
 swept with devastating fury over the land and destroyed many 
 of the ancient churches and abbeys that abounded everywhere, 
 the monks were put to flight, the services abolished and some 
 of the reformers, to show their utter contempt for the faith 
 of their forefathers, took possession of the sacred music and 
 hymn tunes of the Church and wedded them to vulgar, satiri- 
 cal, comic, and often obscene ballads, and thus the original 
 solemn and devotional spirit was destroyed. John Anderson, 
 my Jo was originally one of these indecent ribald songs set to a 
 stolen sacred melody, and for many years helped by its popu- 
 larity to debase the hearts and minds of men and provoke 
 them to sensuality. We should feel grateful to our poet if it 
 were but for this one gem of verse in which he so changes the 
 sentiment of the original song that he gives us as perfect a pic- 
 ture of true love and conjugal fidelity as Moore does in his 
 romantic ballad. Believe me if all those endearing young charms. 
 By this one little song did the singer bring home to the people 
 the meaning of these fine sentiments more effectually than a 
 sermon of an hour's length. 
 
 As to the air, it is one of the most ancient of the Scottish airs 
 and is claimed by both Ireland and Scotland. I have known 
 it for years under the name of The Cruiskeen Lawn; but it is 
 claimed that Moore stole the air and added variations to it, just 
 as the Scotch stole Robin Adair. For once I am inclined to 
 think the original is of Scotch origin, especially as it was known 
 and used as a sacred composition long before the Reformation 
 took it from the sanctuary and made it walk the streets. 
 
 I 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo, John, 
 
 When we were first acquent, 
 
 Yoiu: locks were like the raven 
 
 Your bonnie brow was brent; 
 
 But now your brow is bald, John, 
 
 Your locks are white as snow; 
 
 But blessings on your frosty pow, 
 
 John Anderson, my Jo. 
 
302 Father Tom 
 
 John Anderson my Jo, John. 
 We clamb the hill togither 
 And mony a canty day, John 
 We've had wi' ane anither. 
 Now we maun totter down, John, 
 But hand in hand we'll go 
 And sleep togither at the foot, 
 John Anderson, my Jo. 
 
 There are some of Burns's songs which to my mind possess 
 sentiments of such a nature that much of their manly beauty 
 is lost by setting the words to music. Take for example the 
 well know lines "A man's a man for a' that. " 
 
 Is there for honest poverty, 
 That hangs his head, and a' that 
 The coward slave, we pass him by, 
 We dare be puir for a' that. 
 For a' that and a' that 
 Our toils obscure and a' that. 
 The rank is but the guinea's stamp 
 The man's the gold for a' that. 
 
 What though on homely fare we dine, 
 
 Wear hoddin grey and a' that, 
 
 Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine, 
 
 A man's a man for a' that! 
 
 For a' that and a' that 
 
 Their tinsel show, and a' that; 
 
 The honest man, though ne'er sae puir 
 
 Is king o' men for a' that. 
 
 Then let us pray that come it may. 
 
 As come it will for a' that, 
 
 That sense and worth o'er a' the earth, 
 
 May bear the gree and a' that. 
 
 For a' that and a' that, 
 
 It's comin' yet for a' that. 
 
 When man to man the world o'er, 
 
 Shall brothers be for a' that. 
 
Songs of the Scottish Highlands 303 
 
 A talk on Scotch music would never be complete if we were 
 to omit the majestic air of Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled. 
 Burns in a letter to Mr. Thompson dated September, 1793, 
 says, that the air was the traditional one of the soldiers that 
 marched with Bruce at the battle of Bannockburn and that 
 the words are supposed to be addressed by Bruce to his men. 
 Thompson in reply writes Bums saying that, in his opinion, 
 this poem was the noblest composition of its kind in the 
 Scottish language or dialect. 
 
 Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
 
 Scots whom Bruce has often led. 
 
 Welcome to your gory bed, 
 
 Or to victory. 
 
 Now's the day and now's the hour; 
 
 See the front of battle lower; 
 
 See approach proud Edward's power — 
 
 Chains and slaverie. 
 
 II 
 
 Wha would be a traitor knave? 
 Wha would fill a coward's grave, 
 Wha so base as be a slave. 
 Let him turn and flee. 
 Who for Scotland's King and law 
 Freedom's sword would strongly draw. 
 Freeman stand or freeman faw 
 Let him on wi' me. 
 
 Ill 
 By oppressions woes and pains. 
 By your sons in servile chains. 
 We will drain our dearest veins. 
 But they shall be free. 
 Lay the proud usurpers low, 
 Tjrrants fall in every foe. 
 Liberty's in every blow. 
 Let us do or dee. 
 
 It were impossible in a round table talk to do more than to 
 refer to the ntmierous lyrics of our poet. Which of us has not 
 thrilled with emotion at the sweet words of Afton Water, or 
 Highland Mary or My Heart is in the Highlands, or My love is 
 
304 Father Tom 
 
 like the Red Red Rose, or 0! whistle and I'll Come to ye my Lad, 
 or Robin Adair? 
 
 Burns had many imitators and some were so successful that 
 their poems, as we have said, were attributed to Burns himself. 
 Had Sir Walter Scott imitated him more closely in his lyrics 
 he would certainly be equally popular with the common people 
 to-day as well as with the more learned. One of the sweetest 
 of Scott's poems and set to an exquisite air is called The Bonnie 
 Dundee, even though this air is not the original air of the same 
 name which antedates it by perhaps two centuries. 
 
 The bonnie Dundee is not the name of a river or town, 
 as many suppose. It is the pet name of a gentleman warrior, 
 one John Graham, Viscount of Dundee, eldest son of Sir 
 Walter Graham of Claverhouse and head of the branch of 
 the noble family of Montrose in Forfarshire, Scotland. He 
 was a royalist and fought bravely if cruelly in the rebellion of 
 the Jacobites against the rule of William and Mary. By the 
 Jacobites he was termed the last of the great and gallant Gra- 
 hams. By the Covenanters, however, he was called the bloody 
 Claverse. 
 
 I 
 To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke, 
 " Ere the King's crown shall fall, there are crowns to be broke, 
 So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me, 
 Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
 Chorus 
 Come fill up my cup, come fiU up my can; 
 Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; 
 Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, 
 And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dvindee! " 
 II 
 Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 
 The beUs are rung backward, the drums they are beat; 
 But the Provost, douce man, "Just e'en let him be, 
 The Gude town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee." 
 
 Ill 
 "Away to the hiUs, to the caves, to the rocks! 
 Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the fox! — 
 And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, 
 You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me! " 
 
Songs of the Scottish Highlands 305 
 
 Mrs. Grant of Glasgow struck the popular vein in a ballad, 
 which she wrote in 1799 on the occasion of the departure of the 
 Marquis of Huntley with his regiment for the continent, and 
 called it The Blue Bells of Scotland. The air was originally 
 called The Bells of Scotland, but many different words were set 
 to it that had nothing to do with the bells any more than the 
 words of Meeting of the Waters have to do with the air called 
 The old Head of Denis. 
 
 Oh, where tell me where is your Highland laddie gone. 
 He's gone with streaming banners, 
 Where noble deeds are done. 
 And it's oh! in my heart 
 I wish him safe at home. 
 
 Oh! where, tell me where 
 
 Did your Highland laddie dwell? 
 
 He dwelt in Bonnie Scotland, 
 
 Where blooms the sweet blue bell. 
 
 And it's oh! in my heart I love my laddie well. 
 
 As I do not consider Robin Adair a Scotch melody, having 
 clearly proven in a previous lecture that it was stolen from the 
 Irish, I may be asked which is my favorite among all the Scotch 
 melodies and I must answer candidly that it is the song, both 
 the words and music of which are by that unknown writer 
 Anonymous. It is called Annie Laurie. 
 
 Maxwellton's braes are bonnie 
 Where early fa's the dew. 
 And it's there that Aimie Laurie 
 Gied me her promise true. 
 Gied me her promise true 
 Which ne'er forgot will be. 
 And for Bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me doon and dee. 
 
3o6 Father Tom 
 
 Her brow is like the snow drift, 
 Her neck is like the swan, 
 Her face it is the fairest 
 That e'er the sun shone on. 
 And dark blue is her ee 
 And for Bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me doon and dee. 
 
 Like dew on the gowan lying 
 Is the fa' of her fairy feet, 
 And like winds in summer sighing 
 Her voice is low and sweet. 
 And she's a' the world to me, 
 And for Bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I'd lay me doon and dee. 
 
 These songs will give you some idea of the beauty of the 
 Scottish melodies and will, I trust, lead you to further investi- 
 gation in this interesting branch of musical literature. It is a 
 simple little song very often that is the cause of great revolu- 
 tions, because it touches the popular chord. To do so, how- 
 ever, both the words and the music must come from the heart 
 of the minstrel. There is one more song of dear old Bobby 
 Burns that I would like you to hear before closing. It makes 
 us all love the poet and his country, for it is a song that unites 
 all English speaking countries in a common bond of brotherly 
 love. It is called 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 
 
 And days of auld lang syne? 
 For auld lang syne, my dear. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 We'll take a cup o' kindness yet. 
 
 For auld lang syne ! 
 Then here's a hand my trusty friend 
 
 And gie us a hand o' thine; 
 And we'll take a right good willy waught 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
VI 
 
 THE MELODIES AND SONGS OF IRELAND' 
 
 Ancient historians have given to Ireland the title of "the 
 Island of Saints," and if two thirds of all they have written 
 concerning the virtues and accomplishments of this particular 
 nation be true she is well deserving this beautiful name. We 
 must take it for granted that most of the good things they have 
 written of the Irish nation are true, for I have been unable to 
 find a historian worthy of the name who has dared to dispute 
 this title. There is an appellative, however, to which Ireland 
 has laid a claim for many centuries, and it is one that has 
 often been disputed and denied her, not indeed by her neigh- 
 bors of ancient days, who shone in her reflected light, but by 
 modem skeptics of continental Europe, who like to deny 
 superiority to everyone except themselves^simply because 
 they have fixed a standard which they consider perfection in 
 all matters appertaining to the fine arts. Ireland still holds 
 her claim to the title "the Island of Music and Song," and 
 she still throws out her challenge to those who would seek to 
 deprive her of what is one of the most beautiful jewels of her 
 diadem. 
 
 It is to vindicate the position held by my mother country 
 that I am speaking here this evening, and to prove her right 
 to this title, not only by historical facts and traditions and com- 
 parisons, but also by the rendition of some of the ancient 
 melodies which form the subject of our discourse; and I trust 
 I shall be able to convince you either as musicians or as lovers 
 of music as I have thoroughly convinced myself that Ireland 
 was and is "the Island of Song. " 
 
 ' A Lecture given at the Catholic Summer School, August 4, 1897. 
 
 307 
 
3o8 Father Tom 
 
 The most fitting time to judge the good qualities and dis- 
 tinguishing characteristics of a nation is when she is at the 
 zenith of her power. Thus, if we want to pronounce judgment 
 on the Roman people as a nation, or on the Greeks, it would not 
 be fair to take them at the end of the sixth century and judge 
 them by that one epoch. 
 
 If we want to make a study of the people of our southern 
 states it would not be just to take them even thirty years after 
 the close of the Civil War. Take a nation when you find it at 
 its best, and then you will discover the distinguishing traits of 
 its people and if they are true to their nature, you will find 
 those same traits more or less developed in time of trial and 
 defeat. Take their history in a word, as a whole, and do not 
 judge them only by those days when the hand of the Lord 
 appears to rest heavily upon them. From these remarks it is 
 evident that when I speak the praise of Ireland to-night, 
 because of her love of music and her proficiency therein, I shall 
 for the most part ask you to contemplate not the Ireland of 
 to-day, for we have fallen on unhappy times, but the Ireland of 
 those ancient days when "the Harp and the Shamrock" 
 were carried before "Brave Roderick O'Conor and Roger 
 O'More," and long before 
 
 The emerald gem of the western world, 
 Was set in the crown of a stranger; 
 
 and I hope to show that for centuries while Germany and 
 nearly all northern Europe were in a state of semi-barbarism, 
 Ireland was looked up to by the nations as a sacred spot 
 wherein music and poetry were brought to a high standard 
 of cultivation, and we shall endeavor to prove that the ancient 
 strains composed by her bards and handed down by tradi- 
 tion for eighteen hundred years, are to-day amongst the 
 sweetest sounds that have ever charmed the ear or moved the 
 human heart. 
 
 " Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast, " said the 
 poet. Every nation, be it never so barbarous, has its own 
 peculiar kind of music. The savage Africans or the wild 
 American Indians or the wandering inhabitants of the desert 
 
Melodies and Songs of Ireland 309 
 
 sands of Arabia, all have their singular wild chants and have 
 had them from time immemorial. To what we consider a 
 musical ear, they bear small resemblance to melody much 
 less to harmony, but to their uncultured ear these weird tunes 
 are perfectly capable of arousing within them, all the emotions 
 of which the human breast is capable. I have said that every 
 nation has its own music, but when we place Ireland in con- 
 trast with the other nations in the early centuries, how dif- 
 ferent we find her ideas of music compared to those of her 
 continental neighbors. Nay — it may seem a broad assertion to 
 make on this public platform, but I do make the assertion that 
 in all Europe up to the fourteenth century, there was no nation 
 that stood out preeminently as the land of music and song 
 but the Island of Innisfail. Why, in those ancient days of her 
 grandeur and glory, when she had a banner of her own, a 
 banner which she still cherishes with all the tenderness that a 
 people can bestow upon a flag that represents a lost and 
 cherished cause — on that banner she flaunted neither dragon 
 nor lion nor unicorn nor cross nor crown — no, even in her 
 ante-Christian days there appeared on her standard of green, 
 the form of a golden harp, to proclaim to the world in sweet, 
 yet penetrating tones, that for nearly a thousand years bfefore 
 France or Germany or Italy had tuned the lyte with any suc- 
 cess, she was a veritable "Home of music and song." Do I 
 speak the whole truth here? We are not talking now of the 
 sacred music of Holy Church, and even if we were, we would 
 still maintain the same; for the ancient melodies of the Church, 
 though exquisite in themselves, yet for variety of air and 
 varied beauty of melody cannot compare with the ancient Irish 
 melodies, some of which, according to tradition antedate Chris- 
 tianity itself. 
 
 If you want to be certain that we speak the truth, you have 
 but to remember that opera and oratorio date back only to 
 the fifteenth centtury. Music written in four parts does not 
 date further back than the latter half of the fourteenth century. 
 Before the fourteenth century, what we call harmony was 
 scarcely known. Now let us trace the history of melody out- 
 side of the music of the Church. Let us look up the history of 
 
310 Father Tom 
 
 the romantic and patriotic ballad. Whither shall we look? 
 Naturally to France or Italy or Germany. Yet in these very 
 countries so renowned to-day for their wonderful musical 
 compositions, you will find no trace of the folk song or the love 
 songs earlier than the middle of the twelfth century and even 
 these traces are obscure. 
 
 The Troubadours of Provence, called "I trovatori" in 
 Italy, from the word "trouver" (to find), being the finders or 
 improvisors of songs, were as a rule ranked with buffoons and 
 jugglers. The first one of these troubadours mentioned is 
 Adam de la Hale and he figures in Italy towards the close of the 
 thirteenth century. The same story is to be told if we visit 
 Germany. She had her minnesingers or wandering minstrels, 
 who accompanied themselves on the harp, but they do not 
 appear on the scene before the thirteenth century. The 
 meistersingers came even later, and even if we may believe the 
 testimony of William Langhan, a celebrated German critic, 
 were not renowned for the beauty of their music. He says : 
 "Their melodies were like the church psalmody; monotonous 
 and lacking in expression, and the relation of the music and 
 poetry was as good as none at all." 
 
 Side by side, with those master songs arose the folk song or 
 national and patriotic melodies — but this again was toward the 
 middle of the fourteenth century. In other words, outside of 
 the solemn chants of the church, Italy, France, and Germany 
 were not celebrated at all for their knowledge of music much 
 before the fourteenth century. 
 
 Where then shall we go for a history of the romantic 
 ballad, prior to that time? Strange to say — to the British 
 Isles, and for the foundation of it all to the "Island of Song" 
 itself. 
 
 How is it that this style of music which is a distinguishing 
 feature of this peace-loving people was cultivated so assidu- 
 ously and so successfully by the ancient Celts ? Many reasons 
 might be given, but the one most plausible to my mind is the 
 tradition which says that one of the lost tribes of Israel in its 
 wanderings, finally settled in Ireland, and having no neighbors 
 to war with, cultivated the arts of peace, and brought to per- 
 
ivieioaies ana 5ongs of Ireland 311 
 
 fection the playing of the harp which from far-off Phoenicia 
 they had carried with them to the distant north. 
 
 How far back their cultivation of music goes, it would be 
 difficult to determine, for historians are not agreed as to the 
 time of the colonization of the island. It is safe to say, how- 
 ever, that it dates back some hundreds of years before the 
 coming of Christ. 
 
 Druidism was the religion of the primitive Celts, and all the 
 early bards belonged to the Druidical priesthood, so that when 
 St. Patrick came to Ireland to preach the truths of Christianity 
 the terms Bard and Druid were synonomous. 
 
 The Druids in many respects resembled the other pagan 
 nations of antiquity. They held many doctrines and prac- 
 tices in common with the Chaldeans and the Brahmins. 
 Groves, and especially groves of oak were particularly sacred 
 to them as places of worship. 
 
 The Druid priests were the acknowledged wise men and 
 depositaries of all the philosophy and various sciences then 
 known, and as such, they were held in the highest esteem, so 
 that in all national disputes their judgment was final and irre- 
 vocable. In order to understand the high position given these 
 priests who were at the same time the bards or custodians 
 and teachers of the musical art, it will be sufficient to know that 
 they ranked high above all the other officials of the Kingdom, 
 and in council chamber, sat next in order to the King himself. 
 When the chief of their order called Ollamb Filii, went abroad, 
 he was always accompanied by a retinue of scholars, and he 
 had the privilege of making a tour of the island periodically at 
 the expense of the state. Their persons were held sacred ; their 
 estates and property inviolable, and the splendor of their 
 official dress, according to Walker, in his History of the Irish 
 Bards "was becoming the majesty of kings. " 
 
 As to the perfection of her music in those days (we are 
 speaking now of the time before Christ) , we read in the Book 
 ofBallymote that the people deemed each other's voices sweeter 
 than the warblings of a melodious harp. 
 
 Tara, where the Bards were wont to assemble on stated 
 occasions, was so called because of its celebrity for melody 
 
312 Father lorn 
 
 above all the palaces of the world; Tara signifying the house 
 or the walls of melody. 
 
 The Bards were divided into three classes; the Fileo, the 
 Seanachie, and the Brehon. 
 
 The first were historians, the second antiquarians, and the 
 third, legislators, who also recorded the laws in verse. 
 
 Schools and colleges for the education of those aspiring to 
 the position of bards were established in many parts of the 
 country long before Christianity was known there. One of 
 these schools dating back to the third century of the Christian 
 era, namely that founded by OUamb Fodhla, King of Ireland. 
 
 The poetry and music of these pagan days was of the highest 
 order, and this will be proven most satisfactorily when archeol- 
 ogists shall take the time to investigate the rich treasures of 
 Gaelic literatiu-e that have been lying hidden away in the 
 monasteries of Belgium, France, and Italy, for many centuries. 
 It is said, indeed, on very high authority, that the old manu- 
 scripts in the Gaelic language are the most abundant of all 
 ancient records extant. 
 
 We have one or two airs for which some Irish musicians 
 claim an antiquity of at least fifteen hundred years. They 
 are traced back by more reliable authorities to the twelfth 
 century, and this being true, we can only say that if the Irish 
 composed so well as that in the twelfth century, there is per- 
 fect evidence that they did not arrive at that perfection sud- 
 denly, but that since her civilization was identically the same 
 for several centiuries previous, so must have been the musical 
 abilities of her bards. 
 
 These two melodies are the Coolin or the Youth of the Long 
 Locks, and the other is Aiken Aroon, which the great Handel 
 admired so much as to pronounce the most perfect tune he 
 had ever heard. Let these two airs serve as examples of the 
 perfection of melody, as understood in those distant days and 
 which for a combination of simplicity and sublimity, have 
 never been surpassed even in our own times when music is 
 supposed to have reached the highest possibilities. 
 
 Glorious as was her history, musically speaking, before 
 Christianity came to her shores, yet the brightest days of all 
 
ivieioaies ana :^ongs of Ireland 313 
 
 were the three centuries that succeeded the preaching of 
 Patrick on Tara's Hill. 
 
 A wonderful change came over the land when this great 
 minister of the Gospel with superhuman power, brought King 
 and Court to their knees to demand baptism in the name of 
 Christ. The Druid fires were extinguished and many of their 
 priesthood, the gift of divine faith penetrating their souls, cast 
 aside the gorgeous Bardic robes, and donned the simple garb 
 and cowl of the monk. 
 
 In an incredibly short time, the Druid schools and convents 
 were transformed into Christian houses of learning and were 
 filled with the neophytes of the new religion. Vows were taken, 
 choirs were formed, and men and women who had been ac- 
 customed to chant the praises of Bel, now raised their voices 
 in higher and nobler tones to sing the glories of the One True 
 God and of His Christ. 
 
 The Bardic order, however, flourished with greater splendor 
 than before, for St. Adamnam, who lived shortly after the time 
 of Columbkille, and who wrote his biography, tells us that in his 
 day, nearly one third of the male population of Ireland were 
 bards. 
 
 This is the period of the mother country's history that we 
 love to dwell upon; the days of Hibernia's triumph, when she 
 sang aloud the bold anthem of Erin Go Bragh; the days when 
 she merited the title of the "Islands of Saints and Scholars"; 
 the days when all the nations of continental Europe were at 
 war with one another, and when thousands of students from 
 Spain, Germany, France, Scotland, and England flocked to 
 her shores to drink in wisdom and knowledge and the divine 
 art of music as at a fountain head. Bear well in mind the 
 fact that this was centuries before the universities of Oxford 
 or Salamanca or Leipsic were even dreamed of. Yet we read 
 that in the town of Armagh alone, there were attending the 
 monastic schools in those days, over five thousand students 
 from dififerent coxmtries of Europe. These were the happy 
 peaceful days when she sent out missionaries to convert the 
 barbarians in the neighboring islands and to found monasteries 
 and seats of learning, even in Switzerland and northern Italy. 
 
314 Fatner lom 
 
 In those days on the banks of the Liffey and the Shannon and 
 the Lee, might be heard the sound of the voices of thousands of 
 consecrated men and women as they sang day and night, the 
 praise of the true God and made the hillsides re-echo again 
 and again with their sacred melodies. 
 
 The celebrated yet bigoted English historian, Giraldus Cam- 
 brensis, a reviler of the Irish in most things, when he comes to 
 speak of their musical ability is obliged for once to tell the 
 truth. He had made a tour of the islands and of the continent 
 with Henry II, in the twelfth century and speaking of the 
 Irish he says: "This people, however, deserve to be praised 
 for their successful cultivation of instrumental music in which 
 their skill is beyond comparison, superior to that of every 
 nation we have seen. For their modulation is not drawling 
 nor morose like our instrumental music in Britain, but the 
 strains, while they are lively and rapid are also sweet and 
 delightful. It is astonishing how the proportionate time of the 
 music is preserved, notwithstanding such impetuous rapidity 
 of the fingers, and how without violating a single rule of art, 
 in running through shakes and slurs, and various intertwined 
 organizing and counterpoint, with so sweet a rapidity, so im- 
 equal an equality of time, so apparently discordant a concord 
 of sounds, the melody is harmonized and rendered perfect." 
 From this testimony of the enemy, we have the fact established 
 that in the twelfth century Ireland was far superior to all the 
 nations of Europe and what is more, it would appear that she 
 had come to a perfect knowledge of counterpoint even long 
 before that time. 
 
 What shall we say at this juncture, however, when we hear 
 the voice of England, Scotland, and Wales clamoring for recog- 
 nition, and saying that they too, in the early times were 
 renowned for their music and poetry. 
 
 We are perfectly willing to grant them all they ask as to the 
 beauty and sweetness of their melodies, particularly the Scotch, 
 but what of their origin ? Let us know the truth of the matter. 
 
 As to England, the Saxons, the Danes, and the Normans, in- 
 herited but a slender share of musical talents, and hence it is 
 that the national melodies of the English descended from those 
 
Melodies and Songs of Ireland 315 
 
 branches of the Teutonic families, are like the people them- 
 selves, cold — nothing in them to instruct the mind or warm the 
 heart, and always stand in need of accompaniment to give 
 them interest. 
 
 England, however, does not pretend to glory much in her 
 music of ancient days, but Scotland does and so does Wales. 
 
 The Scotch, like the Irish, being of Celtic origin, it is to be 
 expected that their tastes, especially in musical matters should 
 be somewhat alike. The fury and zeal of John Knox, who 
 denounced all music, sacred and profane, as the invention of 
 the devil, drove the Scottish musicians to the Highlands, 
 where they remained for generations; handing down their 
 melodies by tradition. As we find these airs to-day, stripped 
 of their fantastical drapery of theatrical accompaniment, we 
 find them in their simplicity to be written generally in a minor 
 scale; characterized by the absence of the seventh, which in- 
 dicates their relation to the songs of Ireland and Wales. The 
 total absence of the fourth would also indicate that they were 
 written originally for the bagpipes. As to their antiquity, one 
 author, Pinkerton, maintains that none of them antedate the 
 sixteenth century. Mr. Dauney, a Scotchman, on the other 
 hand, contends that not only were they composed at a much 
 earlier date, but that the best Scotch songs had been committed 
 to notation even in the fifteenth century. 
 
 It is a fact of history that the Scotch will all admit that the 
 golden age of Scottish music was the fifteenth century ; whereas 
 we have seen that the golden age of Ireland's music, was from 
 the sixth to the ninth century. It is generally admitted also 
 by fair critics, that all the collections of Scottish melodies now 
 extant, comprise not merely Scotch, but also many Irish, 
 English, Welsh, and even continental airs. It is equally 
 indisputable that many of the airs, ancient and modern, which 
 are reputed Scotch, are in reality the creation of Irish genius. 
 Take for example their most famous air Robin Adair. What is 
 it but the ancient Irish Aileen Aroon, slightly paraphrased. 
 It is a fact narrated by the hostile Giraldus Cambrensis, that 
 the Kings of England and Scotland were accustomed to send 
 over to Ireland in the early centuries for minstrels, to play in 
 
3i6 Father Tom 
 
 the courts and to give instruction to the native harpers. We 
 read of one case in particular, that King Etholdus I, of Scot- 
 land, had an Irish harper in his household. 
 
 Far be it from us to depreciate the music of Scotland, but 
 when she has actually, in times gone by, pillaged some of the 
 Irish saints out of the calendar and claimed them as her own — 
 Irishmen who went over and taught her religion and all the 
 arts and sciences, and how to make roads, and how to dig 
 ditches, and how to cultivate the fields and how to build 
 schools and churches — it is not to be wondered at that she 
 should plunder also a few of the Irish airs, and claim antiquity 
 for them. 
 
 Who taught the Scotch people music? It was none other 
 than Columbkille, and his monks, who went there from Ireland 
 towards the close of the sixth century. Dr. T. Campbell, a 
 Scotchman, tells us in his letters that the music of Scotland 
 is generally of Irish origin, and Dr. McCullough unwilhngly 
 admits that the Irish and Welsh have both a class of music to 
 which the Highlanders have no claim, and which no intelligent 
 Scotch musician will claim. "These melodies, " he says, "be- 
 long to the harp, and abound in Ireland. " Even the Edin- 
 burgh Review, in an article, April 1839, says concerning 
 their possession of the harp: "We fear that the merit of the 
 original introduction of this instrument into this country, 
 must be ascribed to Ireland." For the last three centuries, 
 however, Scotland is so taken up with commerce and economy, 
 that she seems to have lost interest in those liberal arts which 
 refine, ennoble, and adorn the mind. 
 
 What we have said of Scotland in regard to its ancient music, 
 may be said also of Wales; but let us hear one or two testi- 
 monies to impress the truth more forcibly upon our minds: 
 Powell, in his History of Cambria, speaks as follows: "Gruf- 
 fydh ap Conan brought over with him from Ireland, divers 
 cunning musicians into Wales, who devised in a manner, all 
 the instrumental music that is there now used, as appeareth 
 as well by the books written of the same, as also by the names 
 of the tunes, and measures used among them to this day. " 
 
 The learned Selden relates the same fact in similar words: 
 
Melodies and Songs of Ireland 317 
 
 "Their musique," he says, "for the most part came out of 
 Ireland with Gruffydh ap Conan, Prince of North Wales, 
 about King Stephen's time." (Caradoc, in Wynne's History 
 of Wales, says: "The harp came here originally from Ire- 
 land.") Genuniani, a thorough student of Celtic music, 
 tells us: "We have, in the dominion of Great Britain, no 
 original music but the Irish." Jamison, in his letters from 
 the North of Scotland, bears this testimony: "To Ireland, 
 all who adopted either poetry or music as a profession, were 
 uniformly sent to finish their education, till within the memory 
 of persons still Hving. " 
 
 Having settled the question of Ireland's supremacy in 
 musical matters, let us have another practical illustration of 
 the beauty of her old ballads. The original words have been 
 lost, but the world owes an immense debt of gratitude to that 
 inspired poet, Tom Moore, who, at the beginning of the present 
 century, rescued the old melodies from obscurity, and with the 
 true genius of a poet, adapted words to them that bring out 
 fully the meaning of the sounds, whether they speak of love 
 or war or nature. So identified with the music, have the words 
 become, that they are called Moore's Melodies. 
 
 Do you not recall the verse in which he speaks of his taking 
 down the harp and making it resound again through the land.? 
 
 Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee. 
 The cold chain of silence hath hung o'er thee long, 
 
 When proudly, my own island harp, I unbound thee 
 And gave all thy chords to light, freedom and song. 
 
 Silent oh Moyle is a romantic ballad, written in a minor 
 strain and one of the most beautiful of the melodies. 
 
 Another in a major strain, indicating perhaps greater anti- 
 quity, is acknowledged to be one of the sweetest and purest 
 love songs ever written: Believe me, if all those endearing 
 young charms. A third, also in a major key, speaks of the 
 love of country : The Meeting of the Waters. 
 
 These are songs that appertain to the times of peace; but 
 the bards who could sing so beautifully of love of woman and 
 native land, could, when the bugle call resounded, rise up from 
 
31 8 Father Tom 
 
 their sweet dreams of peace and love, and make the hillsides 
 resound with the majestic and determined airs of their war 
 songs. It is needless to rehearse here the sad story of Ireland's 
 wrongs; but we know full well, that invasion after invasion 
 took place; battle after battle was fought, till she was obliged 
 to succumb by sheer force of numbers. It was then that she 
 saw her monasteries and schools and churches battered to the 
 ground; her libraries burned and pillaged; her monks and ntms 
 murdered or sent into exile; her fields ripe with rich harvest, 
 trampled upon, and bedewed with the blood of her bravest 
 and noblest sons. Scenes like these it was, that roused the 
 bards to sing in martial strains, the glory of the ancient days, 
 and to make them such desperate fighters; a quality that 
 characterizes the Irishman even to-day, no matter for what 
 country or under what flag he goes to battle; even if it be under 
 the bloody standard of the country he loathes. The Irish 
 marches, if you will recall the airs to which they marched to 
 battle, are about the liveUest you can imagine; in fact, it is 
 hard to keep one's feet still when we hear them. Garryowen, 
 Patrick's Day, The Girl I Left Behind Me, are examples in 
 point. 
 
 There are one or two of the war songs, however, that I 
 would like you to hear, as they express more fully than the 
 marching songs — the determination of the warriors, and the 
 patriotism of the minstrels. The first will be Avenging and 
 Bright and the second. The Minstrel Boy. 
 
 Now, what are the distinguishing characteristics of the 
 Irish airs? First, many of them are written in a minor key, 
 though the more ancient of them recorded appear to be writ- 
 ten in the major key; and this truly expresses the difference in 
 the ages of the airs; for in her days of triumph and peace, she 
 seldom sang in a minor strain. Another characteristic is that 
 many of the airs are marked by the entire omission of the 
 fourth and the set'enth tones of the scale, and this would indicate 
 that some of them were written originally for the bagpipes, 
 which is incapable of producing those tones. The melodies 
 are generally set in triple time, but in different measures. 
 The first part modulated and terminating on the key-note; 
 
Melodies and Songs of Ireland 319 
 
 the second part generally higher by an octave, is modulated to 
 the octave fifth. The latter parts, whether two or more, bear 
 close affinity to the preceding, but varied like the parallelism 
 of the Hebrew poetry, sometimes directly — sometimes alter- 
 nately — sometimes inversely. The one positive mark, however, 
 and the feature common to all real ancient Irish airs, is the 
 emphatic use of the major sixth; such at least is the decision 
 of Mr. Bunting, than whom no higher authority in these mat- 
 ters can be quoted. 
 
 Another peculiar feature of the music is this, that with the 
 Irish, the melody was a king that would have menial attend- 
 ants, but no rival near his throne. They loved the simple air 
 that spoke directly to the heart, and they were anything but 
 partial to harmony, when there was question of vocal music; 
 for they felt that thus the air is obscured and the words unin- 
 telligible — the sound may please the ear, but that is all; the 
 heart remains unmoved. 
 
 When we place ourselves therefore as unbiased judges and in 
 all humility, as mere lovers of music ; judge it by its effects and 
 place side by side the simple Irish melody of a thousand years 
 ago, and the modern complicated harmonies of counterpoint, 
 as perfected by Wagner in his Trilogy, I do not hesitate to 
 say, that while the latter strains may make startling impres- 
 sions on the brain of the highly educated musician, the world 
 at large, educated or otherwise, will always declare in favor of 
 the simple melody. 
 
 This is said not in depreciation of modern music, but merely 
 to show that the melodies which have lasted for over a thou- 
 sand years, and are still sung and listened to with delight by 
 millions of people the world over, must have in them a divinely 
 infused spark; must be true to nature — and this is the superi- 
 ority we claim for the music of the Gael. 
 
 I think we ought to be content to rest upon the laurels of the 
 past; and yet, lest you should imagine that for the last two 
 centuries, Ireland has not tried to keep alive her reputation as 
 a land of song, we may not forget that in 1732, Handel, the 
 great composer, having been coldly received by the unsym- 
 
320 Father Tom 
 
 pathetic Saxon, went over to Ireland and there brought out for 
 the first time, before a Dublin audience, his wonderful ora- 
 torio, the Messiah. 
 
 Michael Kelly, a Dublin man, wrote no less than sixty 
 dramatic pieces of eminent merit, and was for many years 
 director of music in Drury Lane Theater, London. 
 
 Balfe of Donnybrook, has endeared himself to the English 
 speaking world by the Bohemian Girl. 
 
 The greatest musician in England, probably, in this century 
 bears the Irish name of Sullivan. The most popular ballad 
 writer in the United Kingdom has also a name that indicates 
 the land of his ancestors, Gerald Molloy. In our own coun- 
 try I can venture to say that if the verdict of the American 
 people were taken as to who was the best known and best 
 beloved musician that this country has known, and who has 
 done more to make the people love music than all the other 
 leaders put together, and who was the first to popularize the 
 music of the modern German school, I feel that, with one ac- 
 cord, they would pronounce the revered name of Patrick 
 Sarsfield Gilmore. Even this very year while the rest of the 
 countries of Europe are talking of wars and rumors of war, 
 Ireland has had a great peace celebration, a musical contest, to 
 which she invited musicians of all nations to compete for 
 prizes, as original composers. Even in the United States 
 this winter when many theaters were playing to almost empty 
 benches, there were two operas — Brian Boru and Shamus 
 O'Brien, that crowded the Broadway theater the whole season, 
 and not only the metropolis, but the other large cities of the 
 Union were able to get some idea of the picturesque and glori- 
 ous side of Ireland's history. 
 
 We may conclude, therefore, that with this spirit amongst 
 her people, there is no reason why we may not hope that when 
 the shadows pass away, and when brighter days shall dawn; 
 when "her suns with doubtful gleam" shall no longer "weep 
 as they rise"; when she receives back once more, the land 
 that justly belongs to her; when she has the right to cultivate 
 it under a just system of taxation laws; then will she again 
 revive the arts of peace for which in times past she was so 
 
Melodies and Songs of Ireland 321 
 
 celebrated, and chiefest of these will be the art of music, to 
 which during the long night of her suffering, she has so fondly 
 clung. 
 
 She will no longer tune the harp to a minor key that recalls 
 the captivity in Babylon and the days of slavery, but she will 
 revive in all their inspiring beauty — the major strains that 
 proclaim her emancipation. While we await, in God's pleas- 
 ure, the coming of this blessed era, all we ask is for the na- 
 tions of the earth to give her the honor that is her due. She 
 laid the foundations of all harmony in secular and profane 
 music. Do not dispute her title, for she clings to it as a sa- 
 cred relic of past greatness with the tenderest love ; and when 
 challenged, she points with "the tear and the smile" in her 
 eye to the golden harp upon her banner of green and says : 
 
 Of old, the nations of the world reverenced that banner, and never dis- 
 puted my right to that golden emblem, please God those days may come 
 again. 
 
 Is it any wonder that her favorite poet thus apostrophizes 
 her: 
 
 The Nations have fallen, and thou art still yoimg, 
 
 Thy sun is but rising when others have set; 
 And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung. 
 
 The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet. 
 Erin, Oh ! Erin, though long in the shade — 
 Thy star will shine out, when the proudest shall fade. 
 
VII 
 
 SONGS OF SUNNY ITALY' 
 
 The very mention of sunny Italy is intimately associated in 
 our minds with all that is beautiful and inspiring in music 
 and poetry, in art and architecture. Students from all lands 
 go thither to make profound studies in those arts which ennoble 
 man and which tend to satisfy the longings of his soul with a 
 partial realization of the dreams of the beautiful and the true, 
 and which for years have haunted him by night and by day. 
 
 It seems scarcely possible that this romantic and favored 
 land should have been for centuries the scene of cruel wars and 
 bloodshed, for the very atmosphere seems to breathe naught 
 else but peace, tranquillity, and dolcefar niente. 
 
 Who that has ever dwelt in that country so blest of Heaven, 
 can forget her clear blue skies, for months and months with 
 never a cloudlet to obscure the gorgeous dome above? Who 
 can forget the rugged Appenines, or the plains of Lombardy, 
 or the Umbrian Mountains, or the thrice romantic Queen of the 
 Adriatic, or Genoa, the superb, or Imperial.Rome or charming 
 "Bella Napoli" nestling so peacefully at the foot of Vesuvius. 
 
 Pictures of scenes witnessed in this land that possesses the 
 fatal gift of beauty in such a marked degree, come flocking 
 before my imagination so quickly that if I let my pen fly away 
 with my thoughts, I should never come to the subject of our 
 morning's Round Table Talk. 
 
 Our summer saunterings through the Sabine Hills; our 
 pilgrimages to Monte Cassino and Subiaco, Orvieto and Assisi, 
 Loretto and Gennezano; our tedious climb before daybreak to 
 the peak of Monte Cavo to see the sun rise in all its glory over 
 fair Italia ; our walks along the highway through the vineclad 
 
 ■ Round Table Talk at Catholic Summer School, July, 1899. 
 
 322 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 323 
 
 hills as we, lighthearted and happy students in those halcyon 
 seminary days, sang a harmonized Magnificat at the magic hour 
 of the Ave Maria when that moment is felt in its fullest power. 
 Truly there is something in the balmy air of Italy that makes 
 one want to sing from morn till night. And yet it is not the 
 air, after all, it is rather the same presence that causes the lark 
 to rise high on wing, and warble its clear pure notes to the 
 light of the morning sun. It is the same presence that causes 
 the bees to htun, and the cricket to chirp, and the doves to 
 coo the whole day long. It is the wondrous presence of God 
 that one feels in this land. It is the presence felt there above 
 all other lands of the Immaculate Queen of Heaven, whose 
 praises are so constantly chanted that one need not marvel 
 that our own beloved poet has said so beautifully of it : 
 
 This is indeed the Blessed Mary's land, 
 
 Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer, 
 
 All hearts are touched and softened at her name. 
 
 Alike the bandit with the bloody hand. 
 
 The priest, the prince, the scholar, and the peasant. 
 
 The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, 
 Pay homage to her as one ever present. 
 And if our faith had given us nothing more, 
 Than this example of all womanhood. 
 So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good. 
 So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure. 
 This were enough to prove it higher and truer 
 Than all the creeds the world had known before. 
 
 This faith, which becomes a living reality, is what causes the 
 laborer as he works in the vineyard from sunrise to sunset for a 
 paltry pittance, to sing as he toils, and when the day's work is 
 done, will he finish his roundelay with his companions, as they 
 walk along the old Roman highway to their humble abodes. 
 How often during the evening recreation have we stood on the 
 balconies of the summer house in Palestrina, looking at the 
 lights of Rome in the distance, and have heard these same 
 peasants singing their folk songs after the manner of the 
 trovatori or troubadours of more ancient days, the precentor 
 improvising as he went along, and all the company joining in 
 a sweet prolonged major chord at the end. 
 
324 Father Tom 
 
 I am inclined to think from my knowledge of the Italian 
 people that it is religion and faith more than nature that 
 make men sing, and this will explain more satisfactorily why 
 the Italians are such a truly musical people. And what is the 
 subject of their song ? That which makes the world go 'round. 
 For just as we can understand the cooing of the doves and the 
 carols of the birds in springtime, even though the sounds ap- 
 pear to us inarticulate, so perhaps the birds in their own pecu- 
 liar way hear the children of Sunny Italy singing always the 
 unchanging refrain of lo-t'amo. Mi amai-tu? 
 
 We know full well that whatever may have been the per- 
 fection to which the ancient Romans brought the science of 
 music, the only music we hear of for centuries in Italy, is the 
 music of Holy Church, and the same may be said of all the 
 countries of Europe save those that were settled in the far 
 north by the Celts. 
 
 Ambrose in Milan, brought the sacred chants in his Episco- 
 pal City to such a high standard of perfection in the fourth 
 century that Augustine willingly testifies that they caused the 
 tears of tenderest emotion to stream down his cheeks and 
 moved his heart to the most sincere repentance. 
 
 May we not here recall that celebrated saying attributed to 
 Mozart : "I would rather be the composer of the Pater Noster 
 of St. Ambrose than of all the compositions I ever penned. " 
 
 In those early days of the Christian Church, the people 
 learned the psalms and hymns of the church, and in alternate 
 choirs sang together the praises of the Blessed Trinity, and 
 thus did they become a musical people and a deeply religious 
 people, for religion and music formed a part of their daily lives. 
 
 After a few centuries a spirit of rivalry entered into the 
 hearts of some who had better voices and greater musical 
 talent, and thus almost simultaneously with the troubadours 
 of Provence arose the trovatori in Italy. These trovatori were 
 so called because they were the finders or inventors of melo- 
 dies, and were a species of wandering minstrel, who went from 
 one town to another, sometimes improvising songs, but more 
 frequently singing the songs of the provinces of the North to 
 the people of the South and vice versa. 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 325 
 
 Those of you who have had the pleasure of hearing the 
 Meistersinger of Wagner, will recall the severe rules of time- 
 measure laid down by the Master, nevertheless Walter, the 
 hero, casting aside all these rules, sang his melody with all his 
 heart and soul, followed the pauses and measures dictated by 
 his feelings, and by common acclamation was awarded the prize. 
 
 This is the great secret of interpreting the folk songs or 
 ballads of a nation, to make them reach the heart ; they need 
 not be sung by an artist in the modern use of the term, in fact 
 the less art used in their rendition, unless it be concealed art, 
 the more likely will they effect the end which the composer 
 intended. How frequently do we find the folk songs of Ire- 
 land and Scotland and England, not to speak of other coun- 
 tries, ruthlessly stripped of all their beauty by singers and 
 musicians who insist on rendering them in strict accordance 
 with modern notation. 
 
 The folk songs of the Italians, like those of other nations, was 
 the spontaneous effort of the people to give natural utterance 
 to the struggling emotions of the heart in language that would 
 voice the longings of the soul. These songs of the people of 
 Italy, founded no doubt on the sacred chants of the Church, 
 being of natural origin and untrammeled by scientific theories, 
 grew gradually to be a great power and formed the basis of 
 contrapuntal music of various schools both in France and 
 Italy. It is interesting to note that the trovatori, who be- 
 cause they ranked with jugglers and buffoons, were excluded 
 from the sacraments of the Church, were gradually catered to 
 and made use of by the same prudent Church, and their in- 
 fluence brought to bear upon the religious cult of the people. 
 
 For this reason we find them in the thirteenth century al- 
 lowed to take part in the mystery plays, and to introduce into 
 these sacred performances the vernacular instead of the Latin 
 language. The songs of the trovatori were of varied classes, 
 the canzonetti or love songs, the serenate or evening songs, the 
 ambade or morning songs, the servantes or songs in praise of 
 patrons, the roundelays or songs with refrain and chorus, the 
 dance songs which accompanied round dances, and the pas- 
 tor elle which treated of Arcadian love. 
 
326 Father Tom 
 
 As to the actual musical compositions of the trovatori, we 
 have very little traces left, for the simple reason that as a rule, 
 they were handed down by tradition, something after the manner 
 adapted by the bards of Ireland and the Scottish minstrels. 
 
 As continual warfare and strife among the ntunberless petty 
 princes and feudal lords divided Italy into so many states, it 
 was almost an impossibility for the people to hand down their 
 ancient folk songs to an appreciative posterity. The Church 
 did not consider herself the guardian of these folk songs as such, 
 and consequently did not much care if they were forever lost. 
 We may be certain, however, from what we know of the cus- 
 toms of Catholics in all ages that many of the popular love 
 ditties crept into the church worship, and vice versa, many of 
 the sacred airs were adapted for secular piirposes. We know 
 as a matter of history, that the Popes of the fourteenth century 
 were obliged to call a halt to the outrageous practices of choir- 
 masters who introduced, not merely the secular airs into the 
 church service, but frequently the foolish and sometimes vul- 
 gar and indecent phraseology. 
 
 As a fair example of what must have been the style of music 
 of the old Italian folk songs, let us take one of the old chants 
 of the Salve Regina, for the strains heard upon the Campagna 
 at twilight among the unlettered peasants to-day, run very 
 much on the same lines. This beautiful invocation to the 
 Queen Mother of Mercy dates back to the eighth century. 
 
 Salve Regina! Mater Misericordiae 
 
 Vita, dulcedo et spes nostra Salve! 
 Ad te clamamus, exules filii Evae, 
 
 Ad te suspiramus gementes et flentes, 
 In hac lachrymarum valle. 
 
 Eia! ergo, Advocata nostra 
 
 Illos tuos misericordes oculos, 
 Ad nos converte, et Jesum 
 
 Benedictum fructum ventris tui 
 Nobis post hoc exiUum ostende 
 
 O Clemens, o pia, o dulcis Virgo Maria. 
 
 The songs of the peasantry, which are properly speaking 
 the folk songs of the country to-day, for the most part resemble 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 327 
 
 the solemn sweet strains of the Salve Regina, usually in a 
 major but frequently in a minor strain. The subject matter 
 is usually unrequited love, love of mother country, or the death 
 or departure of a member of the family. In the north of Italy 
 the minor chords and melancholy semitones prevail; but the 
 further south we go, the more lively shall we find both the 
 words and music of their songs. True it is that since the uni- 
 fication of Italy, and since she began to make what material- 
 ists call progress, she has lost a great deal of her poetic natiu-e. 
 Songsters of every degree from the prima donna to the peasant 
 are gradually growing more rare ; for once a nation loses its old 
 traditions, and from a land of romance becomes a land wholly 
 absorbed in commerce, its people though they be still lovers 
 of music, yet do they cease to sing, for their minds and hearts 
 are too much chained down to earth. Alas! even the songs 
 of the peasantry have undergone a great change in the last 
 thirty years, for whereas formerly, their songs were the ut- 
 terance of pure and holy affection, many of their modern 
 ballads burn with unhallowed fire, and many more will not 
 bear translation. 
 
 Interesting as is the history of folk songs among the peasantry 
 of Italy, and picturesque their settings, it would take more time 
 than is left at our disposal to do it even meager justice. In Sicily 
 alone, which is regarded by Italians as the origin of all beautiful 
 music, there is a collection of no less than seven thousand popu- 
 lar canzone. The songs of Tuscany, Venice, Lombardy, Umbria, 
 Rome and Naples, would require each a special essay. 
 
 We shall be content, therefore, to cull here and there from 
 the modern popular songs as sung by the people of the cities, 
 and from those sweet airs catch an echo of the folk songs of 
 bygone days. How shall we begin to choose when there is 
 such an immense variety of exquisite melodies? We may well 
 call them folk songs because most of them are written for the 
 people at large, and frequently, as we shall see, a popular vote 
 is taken to decide which composition, out of several contesting 
 for a prize, is the choice of the people themselves. 
 
 Such is the genius of the Italian for writing popular music 
 that it is a remarkable fact that one of them, The Last of the 
 
328 Father Tom 
 
 Romans, who in his Othello and Falstaff shows that he acknowl- 
 edges the superiority of the Wagnerian School of Music, 
 wrote at one time an opera that not only satisfied the severe 
 critics of his day, but that even the bootblacks on the street 
 whistled and sang delightful airs from the same. If you doubt 
 this, you have but to recall the opera of Trovatore and the airs, 
 "Ah! I have sighed to rest me." "AI nostri monti" and "Di 
 quella pira. " 
 
 Starting from the far North, we may take a popular canzone 
 called La Partenza which tells the story of the "good-by" of a 
 soldier as he departs for the war and receives in a silver heart, 
 a lock of hair from his inamorata and promises fidelity to her 
 during the long days of absence. What a dearth of writers of 
 hymns there must be in the United States when we find that for 
 years this identical love song was the rallying air of The League 
 of the Sacred Heart. Why it was chosen I cannot understand, 
 for surely there is nothing churchy or devotional in the music. 
 
 LA PARTENZA 
 
 Sulla terra, suUa terra derelitto, 
 Ogni speme, ogni spem'ho posto in te; 
 Consolar'si consolar un cuor'afflitto 
 E mertare si mertar dal ciel'merc^. 
 Un sol'riccio ai tuoi capelli, 
 Rub'o cara, rub'o car'e dallo a me; 
 Ogni gioia avro da quelli, 
 Se lontano, se lontano saro da te. 
 
 Con quel riccio con quel riccio benedetto, 
 
 Ogni malo, ogni mal scongiurer6. 
 
 In un cuor' in un cuor' d'argento stretto, 
 
 Sul mio petto, sul mio pett'il portero 
 
 E guardandolo nei giomi, 
 
 Che si triste, che si triste fa'l'mor. 
 
 Penser6 che io ritomi, 
 
 Potr6 stringerti al mio cuor. 
 
 If we go now in imagination to Venice, we shall hear a 
 very pretty serenade as sung by one of the gondoliers. 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 329 
 
 Dickens in his pictures from Italy describes his trip to Ven- 
 ice as a dream, and so it really seems after you have once paid 
 a visit to this delightful Queen of the Adriatic. You find there 
 a city unique amongst the cities of the world; a city whose 
 streets and highways are of water and whose house doors open 
 at the waters' edge; a city whose romantic story forms one of 
 the most delightful pastimes to the lover of historical truth. 
 
 It was while in a gondola on the Grand Canal that we passed 
 a merry party whose boat was gay with many vari-colored 
 lanterns, and heard the serenade of a gay young Venetian as 
 he accompanied himself on the guitar. 
 
 It was an exquisite melody which sounded all the more 
 beautiful perhaps because of the presence of the silvery moon 
 which emerged from under a dark cloud just as we were passing 
 under the Rialto. The song I cannot remember, but another 
 one written in the same vein will give you an idea of the Vene- 
 tian popular song. It is called: 
 
 NON TI RAMMENTI 
 
 Prendi uno stile 
 Squarciami il cuore; 
 Se il nostro amore, 
 Tu dei tradir. 
 Non ti rammenti, 
 Deir erba moUe? 
 Non ti rammenti 
 Del nostro amor ? 
 Non ti rammenti 
 Dell' erba moUe? 
 Non ti rammenti 
 Del primo amor. 
 
 Nel tuo giardino 
 Colsi un mughetto, 
 Che sul mio petto, 
 kiposa ognor — 
 Non ti rammenti, 
 Quelle serate; 
 L'ore passate 
 Insiem con me. 
 
330 Father Tom 
 
 Ami un rivale 
 Me I'hanno detto 
 Ma il cuor dal petto 
 Gli stapper6. 
 Non ti rammenti 
 Del erba molle? 
 Piu nulla senti 
 Del primo amor. 
 
 We followed the gay party, on past the Island of St. George 
 and around again to the piazzetta of St. Mark. Here the scene 
 was enchanting. All Venice seemed to have assembled in front 
 of the great basilica of St. Mark to witness the illumination 
 of the new fountain. It was a scene of gaiety that would be 
 sufficient to turn the heart of an anchorite for a while at least, 
 to the gayeties of the world. One of the pretty songs we heard 
 that evening was called La Barchetta, or the little boat. 
 
 La barchetta che scorre sull' onde, 
 S'awicina portando'l mio bene; 
 O! contento finiscon' le pene, 
 Fra brev'ora il mio amor rivedrd; 
 Vien t'aflfretta ad arrivar la la la la. la. 
 
 EgU riede ricolmo d'onori, 
 Conquistati sul campo di gloria; 
 La qual prod'il guid6 la vittoria, 
 Qui al mio fiance I'adduce I'mor; 
 Vien, etc. 
 
 Voga o voga o ! barchetta veloce, 
 Sopra I'alghe del placido mare; 
 Corri vola, non far piu penare; 
 Quest' afflitta che tanto spero. 
 Vien, etc. 
 
 Another lively ditty expresses the moon struck rhapsodizmg 
 of a swain whose tender words seem to make no effect upon the 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 33i 
 
 hard heart of his Httle Louise, for in the refrain at the end of 
 every verse he says to her, Ah, Luisella, why does the thought of 
 you torture me night and day ? 
 
 LUISELLA 
 
 Ne sta na giardiniera, 
 Se chiama Luisella, 
 Da coppa all'aranella, 
 Me vene a'ncojeta. 
 Ne tene 'no giardino 
 Chiu rose marina 
 Luisfe sera e mattina, 
 Non me viene a prettar. 
 
 Na capuzzella tonna, 
 Capille a filo d'oro 
 Che 'nee I'entrezza amore 
 Per far'la ciancia. 
 E co'ch'il ucchio pare 
 'Nna Stella matutina. 
 Luisfe, etc. 
 
 Luise ! se me te sposo 
 T'accatto li sciaquaglie, 
 L'azzietta d trenta maglie 
 Te voglio fa piglia! 
 Te viglio 'no corpietto, 
 Purzi 'na manteglina 
 Luise, etc. 
 
 If we leave Venice and take our way to central Italy to 
 glorious old Florence with its Duomo, and its Giotto's won- 
 drous tower and its gates of Paradise and all its treasures of 
 art, we shall see enough in one hour to make us understand 
 why Dante could find so many humble imitators, who, while 
 they could not climb Parnassus Heights as did the great 
 Florentine, yet tumbled and played around its base, and gave 
 great pleasure by their simple verses to those who could but 
 ill appreciate the lofty flights of the master mind. 
 
 He sang in sad strains of the Inferno and its woes, and then 
 
332 Father Tom 
 
 like Milton gave us glimpses of the celestial circles around 
 God's white throne. Whither he went the people could not 
 follow, even in imagination, for many of them had hell enough 
 and to spare on earth, without wishing to contemplate his too 
 realistic pictures of the eternal hell beyond the grave. 
 
 As for heaven, they saw what they deemed a reflection of it 
 that satisfied their cravings, in the wondrous fagade of their 
 own Cathedral or in the grand mountains and fertile valleys of 
 Tuscany around about them. 
 
 Their song writers attuned their lyres to themes of earth and 
 made the people sing the sweetest story ever told, in a way 
 that appealed strongly to their natures. Perhaps their in- 
 tention was to sing of a pure, unselfish love that ennobles men 
 and women, but alas! their songs often, with exquisite musical 
 setting, degenerate into ignoble sensual passion that degrades, 
 and tends to make of men mere animals. 
 
 Some of the plaintive ditties that tell the story of unrequited 
 love, are very pretty. One of these, called The Lily Maiden, 
 may serve as an example of the rest. 
 
 In the original the words are filled with a tenderness and 
 gentle reproach that are in perfect harmony with the sweet 
 strains that tell of the breaking heart of the maiden. The 
 girl is dying of consumption and reproaches her faithless lover, 
 yet with the tear blending with the smile in her eye, for very 
 joy at his presence, she pretends not to care and says, " By and 
 by when the roses come back to my cheeks you will regret that 
 you rejected the maiden with the lily face." 
 
 LA SMORTINA 
 
 Ti ho lasciato e son' contenta; 
 Non m'incresce, niente, niente. 
 Altro giovine ho gia in mente, 
 Piu beUino assai di te. 
 
 Piu bellino e piu galante, 
 
 Piu costante nel 'amore; 
 
 Gli ho donato tutto il mio cuore, 
 
 Finche vivo I'amero. 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 333 
 
 Non badar se son' smortina, 
 L'fe I'amor che mi tormenta, 
 Quando poi saro contenta 
 II color ritomera. 
 Piu bellino assai di te. 
 
 One of the Italian poets speaking of Venice says of her : 
 
 Music and song had in thee their birth, 
 Italia's most beautiful daughter thou art. 
 
 Beauty is a relative thing after all, and what may be beauty 
 to one, may seem ugliness to another, so we shall not gainsay 
 the words of the poet as to the relative beauty of Venice ; but 
 as to the birth of music and song within its borders — this is 
 another story. Even if it were true that these gracious 
 heavenly twins were born in Venice, yet did the majority of 
 their descendants move far South, for to-day we find that the 
 true home of popular melodies is in Naples or "Bella Napoli" 
 as the Neapolitans love to call it. 
 
 Who can wonder that Naples has produced melodies so 
 enchanting that they are sung the world over when we recall 
 the panorama that caused an enthusiast to exclaim, Vedi Na- 
 poli! e poi mori. "See Naples and then die." The city itself 
 nestling at the foot of the ever flaming Vesuvius, the magic 
 islands of Capri and Ischia that spring up like the enchanted 
 isles of the Arabian nights out of the clear azure waters of the 
 bay; the ever blue skies that hang over the romantic towns of 
 Pompeii, Torre dell' Annunziata with its walls of macaroni, 
 Castellammare, Amalfi, Sorrento; the boatmen of Santa Lucia, 
 the venders of fish and ices with their peculiar cries, these and 
 similar scenes give the inspiration to the Neapolitan for his 
 popular songs. 
 
 How disappointed I was when I first saw Santa Lucia ! The 
 whole world loves the song that sings the praises of this spot, 
 and yet to my foreign eyes it was but a commonplace quay 
 where fishermen landed and sold their fish, and kissed the 
 hand of the good-natured parish priest who sat near the church 
 door and watched them at their work. 
 
334 Father Tom 
 
 Yes, but I was told by one of these fishermen that it was from 
 this same old dock that the emigrants set out in the little 
 boats that were to carry them on to the great ships in the 
 harbor, which took them away to the land of the West. Then 
 I understood how a commonplace spot might become filled 
 with the most poetic recollections. Who has not heard that 
 sweet little ballad of 
 
 SANTA LUCIA 
 I 
 Sul mare lucica 
 L'astro d'argento. 
 Placida ^ I'onda 
 Prospero Ml vento; 
 Venite all'agile 
 Barchetta mia 
 Santa Luaia, Santa Lucia. 
 
 II 
 O! dolce Napoli 
 O ! suol beato 
 
 Ove sorridere voile il creato, 
 Tu sei I'impero 
 Dell 'armonia 
 Santa Lucia. 
 
 Ill 
 Su questo zefl&ro, 
 Cosi soave 
 O! come bello, 
 Star suUa nave, 
 Su! passagieri 
 Venite via, 
 Santa Lucia. 
 
 Many of the Neapolitan songs treat of the barchetta or little 
 boat and come under the general head of barcarolle. To those 
 of us who live in great cities there is very little poetry con- 
 nected with the fish market, or the boats that come up heavily 
 laden to the dock with the result of the fishermen's toil. 
 Those, however, who have spent a season at some of the fishing 
 towns of Maine or Nova Scotia, can appreciate the songs that 
 tell of the anxious hearts that await the return of the little 
 bark far out at sea in the midst of a storm. The little lamps 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 335 
 
 are lit and tapers burn in front of favorite shrines of the Ma- 
 donna, and heartfelt vows are made of varied decorations to 
 the shrine; or pilgrimages to be made to the distant cave of St. 
 Michael or even to Loretto And let it be said that the vows 
 are faithfully kept as is fully attested by the numberless thank 
 ofEerings adorning the shrines of Santa Lucia and other favorite 
 chapels. 
 
 One of the prettiest of these barcarolles is called La Maren- 
 arella or the Little Fishermaiden. Giovanni, a sailor is on the 
 sea and he sings to the following effect : 
 
 I am a mariner, on the coast living 
 For finest fish, I'm still on the watch. 
 And my strong nets are all of love's weaving 
 For a fine lamprey, fain would I catch. 
 And if good luck my fishing attend, 
 To lovely Nenna, the lamprey I'll send. 
 With love o'erladen, for that fishermaiden, 
 For her dear sake I could lie down and die. 
 
 II 
 Sprightly my bark is 
 And when I steer it, 
 None can come near it, 
 When in full sail. 
 Well it has borne me, 
 When storms raved round me, 
 Like some white seabird. 
 Borne on the gale. 
 
 Ill 
 Now it must aid me 
 To bring home my prey. 
 While yonder moon. 
 Shines brightly as day. 
 Down by the Chia Santa Lucia 
 I've an idea, blesses my net. 
 From harm defends me 
 Good fortune sends me. 
 And for success I'll 
 Trust to her yet. 
 
 If I can catch that fish in my net, 
 My thanks to her 
 I'll never forget. 
 
336 Father Tom 
 
 LA MARENARELLA 
 
 So marenare, de sta marina, 
 Li pesce fine, stongo a pesci. 
 La rezza mia, rezza d'amore, 
 E 'na murena, voglio 'ncappa. 
 E si la sciorta me fa figlia 
 A Nenna bella, I'aggia mannk. 
 Oh! quant h bella, 'sta marenarella, 
 A me puveriello ma fa muri. 
 
 La barca mia, 
 Tene o' temone, 
 Va 'na saetta, 
 Tanto che fe buona 
 M' ave sarvato 
 P'ogne tempesta 
 E sempre lesta 
 Stace a sfela. 
 
 Ma mo 'sto scoglio 
 
 Voglio iiumb^, 
 La lun'e chiara 
 Posso pesca. 
 
 Oh! quant' § bella, 
 'Sta marenarella, 
 A me puveriello 
 Ma fa muri. 
 
 Pe tutto chiaja 
 Santa Lucia 
 'Sta barca mia, 
 La guardia ik. 
 E cumm'a 'n'arco, 
 Faccia a veletta. 
 Si 'na murena, 
 Posso 'encappa, 
 E dint'arezza, 
 Quanno la veco, 
 Quanna priezza, 
 Che voglio ih. 
 
 Oh quant, etc. 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 337 
 
 To show the interest manifested in songs and song writers 
 by the Neapolitans we have but to recall the feast of the 
 Madonna of Piedigrotta which occurs early in September. 
 Naples on that day is gay with bright colored banners, mac- 
 aroni is devoured in strings a yard long, the farmers' two- 
 wheeled gigs that carry a dozen passengers on shelves one 
 over the other go rattling through the streets drawn by ever- 
 willing, yet well-whipped little horses. The little John the 
 Baptists clad solely in nature's garb cheer them as they rush 
 along the streets toward Piedigrotta whither every one is 
 going to-day. 
 
 The religious ceremony over, the great event of the feast 
 takes place, for this is the occasion of the annual contest among 
 the composers as to who will give the people the most popular 
 song for the year, and it means not only honor but a lot of 
 money for the fortunate one. 
 
 Triumphant cars or floats are prepared on which the com- 
 poser and his picked singers are mounted, and these cars, some- 
 times numbering as many as fifteen, go in slow procession 
 through the streets pausing at certain fixed places to sing the 
 composer's new song. 
 
 The royal representatives have a vote, so have the members 
 of the town council, so have the musical critics, and so have 
 the people a vote, and the voice of the majority prevails, so 
 that the most catchy song is chosen, and the victor wins not 
 only a prize, but also a large sale for his song. 
 
 Here again we have such an immense nvunber to choose from 
 that it is very difficult to select. I have chosen one wherein 
 the fishermaiden prays at the shrine of the Madonna for her 
 beloved Giovanni, who lies very ill with the fever, and the girl 
 in her fervor calls upon the Santissima Vergine to hear her 
 lowly petition, and promises her two votive offerings for her 
 shrine, a gold ring her mama bought her four years ago, and a 
 necklace of coral. She likewise promises to light a taper every 
 Saturday at the shrine if her Giovanni recovers. 
 
338 Father Tom 
 
 OGNI SABATO 
 
 O! Santissima Vergine Maria! 
 Concedetemi il vostro gran' favore, 
 Porgete ascolto al orazione mia, 
 Ti prego pe'il mio ben'che se ne muore. 
 Maria! Maria! 
 
 Ti voti di donarvi quel'annello, 
 Che mi compro la mama son quattr'anni 
 E il vezzo di corallo tanto bello. 
 Ma fate che guerisca il mio Giovanni, 
 E se quel poverin mi sara reso, 
 Ogni Sabato avrete il lume acceso. 
 Maria! Maria! 
 
 I cannot more fittingly bring our talk to a close than by 
 singing for you what has proven the most popular song written 
 in Naples during the last thirty years, it having become one 
 of the national airs, and the people always welcome it as 
 we do the Suwanee River or The Star Spangled Banner. It is 
 called, Funiculi I funicula ! which is a dialect term for the cable 
 or rope railway that runs up the side of Vesuvius. The song 
 tells of the youth asking his sweetheart to take a ride on the 
 funicular railway, and tells her of all the sights he will show 
 her when they reach the top. He promises her a view even of 
 France and Spain. Alas ! when they arrive at the summit, he 
 forgets all about the crater and France and Spain and all 
 else for he can only see as far as her soulful bewitching eyes, 
 and he gets the courage at that great height to say to her, 
 " My dear, will you marry me? " 
 
 Ai sera Nannin^, me ne sagliete, 
 
 Tu sai add6. 
 
 A do 'sto cuore ingrato chiude spetti. 
 
 Far me na puo. 
 
 Addo lo fuoco coce ma si fuie 
 
 Te lassa sta. 
 
 E non te corre appriesso 
 
 Non te struje 
 
 Suola guarda. 
 
Songs of Sunny Italy 339 
 
 Ne jammo della terra e la montagna, 
 
 No passon ch. 
 
 Se vede Francia Proceta I'lspagna 
 
 E io vecco h te. 
 
 Tirate coUe fune nitto fatto, 
 
 'Ncoelo se va. 
 
 Se va come al vento I'antresatto, 
 
 Que saglia sa. 
 
 Jammo, etc. 
 
VIII 
 Gounod's sacred songs' 
 
 " Men are but children of a larger growth" is a trite saying. 
 Old toys are quickly thrown aside for new, old lamps for new 
 ones, old truths for what appear to be new truths, and the 
 result is at times the willful obscuring of some of the most 
 sublime truths in the world. Our men of science to-day, for 
 example, who profess to have no faith except in what their 
 reason united to their imagination tells them to be true, after 
 mixing themselves up with the mud of the earth and the slime 
 of the bottom of the ocean, in their endeavors to prove not 
 merely that they are land animals, but that they originally 
 partook of a fishy nature, are so delighted with their discover- 
 ies that they tell us that the Church was not only lazy and 
 indolent in all matters pertaining to science, but that she 
 also opposed as heresy such well-known scientific truths as 
 the Copernican system, and the geological history of creation. 
 
 After all their pretended discoveries, however, what truth 
 have they demonstrated concerning the origin of our globe? 
 What theory in fact have they suggested to improve upon that 
 given us by St. Augustine over fifteen hundred years ago? 
 What can they tell us concerning the origin of our soul or the 
 reason of our presence upon this earth? Absolutely nothing. 
 
 It is to be expected that those who are of the earth, earthy, 
 should keep their eyes fixed upon the earth, but even though 
 Holy Church has had in all ages her eminent scientists who 
 were at the same time ardent defenders of the ancient faith, 
 yet since her chief office is to prepare men for another and an 
 abiding life, she has her thoughts fixed mainly on the Kingdom 
 
 ' Round Table Talk at Catholic Summer School, July, 1899. 
 
 340 
 
Gounod's Sacred Songs 341 
 
 of heaven. Hence her principle has always been to cultivate 
 the superior part of man, the living soul, and to cater to its 
 aspirations, ever reaching higher and higher till she comes 
 to a profound study of the Eternal Creator and His Infinite 
 attributes. 
 
 It is for this reason that she cultivates to the highest per- 
 fection all those arts and sciences that improve, ennoble and 
 broaden men's minds, make their souls beautiful, and cause 
 them to long more and more for the vision of perfect beauty 
 which they feel must exist somewhere in the universe. 
 
 Let those men who are so fond of carping at the Church 
 pause for a moment in their work of undermining long estab- 
 lished truths and ask themselves, what has the Church done for 
 the architecture of the world? What stand has she taken 
 concerning painting and sculpture from the early days of the 
 Christian Catacombs with their rude mural paintings until 
 the present day? What has she done for the cultivation of the 
 divine art of music? The magnificent cathedrals of Europe, 
 the art galleries of the world's great capitals, as well as the 
 little wayside shrines, and the inspired compositions of the 
 world's greatest musicians are ever living answers to these 
 questions. 
 
 Ought not scientists then give credit to the Church not only 
 for attending to her duty in teaching everlasing truths, which 
 is the sole object of her mission here on earth, but also for cul- 
 tivating to the highest point those studies that have for their 
 object the true and the beautiful? 
 
 Let it not be imagined for a moment that we have not within 
 the church men of science, lay and cleric, who are continually 
 on guard, showing the close connection between modern dis- 
 coveries and the unchangeable teachings of Mother Church. 
 While their number is comparatively few, yet is it sufficient 
 to show the Church's interest in these matters; on the other 
 hand when there is a question of the fine arts, what a galaxy 
 of glorious names comes to our minds. 
 
 In music for example, we might run the gamut from Ambrose 
 in the fourth century and Gregory in the sixth, through a host 
 of brilliant names down to the eminent Perosi who to-day is 
 
342 Father Tom 
 
 the talk of the musical world because of his wonderful exposi- 
 tions of the possibilities of counterpoint. The names of 
 Palestrina, Orlando Lasso, Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Verdi, 
 Rossini, Liszt, and Gounod, are emblematic of the heights 
 which it is possible for musical genius to reach. If we have 
 chosen the eminent Frenchman Charles Gounod and his sacred 
 songs as the subject of this paper, it is not because he is greater 
 than all the rest, but simply because of his originality and 
 because of the heart touching effects of his truly classical 
 melodies. 
 
 Our thoughts go back in spirit to a Christmas morning 
 many years ago, when our heart was young and sentimental, 
 and when the awakening soul was ready to receive vivid and 
 lasting impressions of beauty real or apparent. On that morn- 
 ing we heard for the first time the Messe Solenelle of the great 
 French composer. Even still the heart throbs with emotion 
 as we recall the angelic voices with pianissimo accompaniment 
 that seemed to come like a faint echo from the far off hillsides 
 of Judea: Gloria in Excelsis Deo. What a sweet peace stole 
 over our sense as we listened to the Et in Terra Pax, and how 
 our pent up feelings seemed to gush forth even without a sound, 
 in harmony with the magnificent chorus as the fortissimo 
 Laudamus Te reverberated through the lofty arches of the 
 church. 
 
 One's faith seemed to grow stronger under the influence of 
 that majestic declamatory Credo in Deum, the very heavens 
 themselves seemed to reach down and touch the earth in the 
 sustained chords of the Et Incarnatus Est, while at the Vitam 
 Venturi Sceculi, one's soul seemed wafted away far beyond the 
 clouds by the celestial harmonies. Let us speak, however, of 
 the man and of his songs. 
 
 Charles Frangois Gounod was born in Paris, on June 17, 
 1818, and inherited from his mother, a well-known pianist, 
 his remarkable musical talent. The words he uses when speak- 
 ing of his mother in his Autobiography 0} an Artist are well 
 worth reproducing here, as they show the beautiful soul of the 
 musician. " This account of my life is a testimony of venera- 
 tion and affection for the being who has given me the greatest 
 
Gounod's Sacred Songs 343 
 
 love in the world — mother love. The mother is here below 
 the most perfect image, the purest and warmest ray of Provi- 
 dence; her never-failing care and watchfulness are the direct 
 emanation of the eternal care and watchfulness of God. If 
 I have succeeded in being, doing, or saying anything good, 
 however small in my life, it is to my mother that I owe it and 
 to her I wish to give the credit. It was she who nursed me, 
 who brought me up, who formed me, not alas ! in her own image 
 — that would have been too beautiful — and in whatever respect 
 I may have lacked, the shortcoming was not hers but mine. 
 She rests under a stone as pure and simple as was her life. 
 May this tribute of a well-beloved son leave upon her tomb 
 a wreath more durable than the ' immortelles of a day, ' and 
 asstire for her memory after my death, a respect that I could 
 wish to make eternal. " 
 
 The man who could have such a love for his mother, both 
 of them being possessed of musical and poetical tastes, could 
 not but be blessed by God in his undertakings, could not but 
 write the noblest kind of musical compositions. His father 
 a well-known painter and draughtsman died while Charles was 
 very young, leaving his widowed mother to care for her two 
 boys, and the height of her ambition was to see them both great 
 artists. Madame Gounod's soul was so full of music that she 
 seemed to sing from morning till night and thus did her young 
 son Charles unconsciously gain correct ideas of intonations 
 and the intervals they represent. So marvelously correct was 
 his ear that a friend entering the house one day asked the boy to 
 stand with his back to the piano while he played certain notes ; 
 he did so and when the notes were played upon the piano young 
 Gounod was able to name them from the sound alone. When 
 thirteen years of age he entered a theater for the first time and 
 heard Rossini's Othello, and the hearing of that work was the 
 changing point in his life. He was like one transfixed, so over- 
 powered was he by the lights and the scenery and the music, 
 and he kept awake all night forming high ideals, and deter- 
 mined that he would work till he had written as grand an 
 opera as Othello. When he broached the subject to his mother 
 she told him not to think of such a thing, because musicians 
 
344 Father Tom 
 
 were a clever but a poor set who had to struggle hard for a 
 living all the days of their lives. Urged by the mother, his 
 teacher, M. Poirson, tried to put the notion out of his head by 
 saying: "To be a musician, my boy, amounts to nothing!" 
 "What, Monsieur" he answered, "is it nothing to be Mozart 
 or Rossini?" Such were the heights to which young Gounod 
 aspired, and he was so persistent in his musical studies that 
 he gained the second "prix de Rome" for an original musical 
 composition, and two years later the "grand prix de Rome" 
 which entitled him to a two years' thorough course of music in 
 the French Academy at Rome, and one year under the best 
 musicians in Germany. 
 
 His favorite composers during those years were Palestrina, 
 Bach and Mozart, and his advice to younger musicians was 
 frequently "Read the Marriage of Figaro — this ought to be 
 the Breviary of Musicians, for Mozart is to Palestrina and to 
 Bach what the New Testament is to the Old, both being con- 
 sidered as parts of one and the same Bible. " 
 
 Of his stay in Rome he speaks with all the enthusiasm of an 
 artist; of its architecture, its paintings, its sculpture and its 
 music. Speaking of the music of Rome, some, who are not 
 acquainted with what is meant by real church music, will be 
 perhaps startled to hear him say: "In the matter of religious 
 music there was hardly more than a single place where one 
 could go satisfactorily and profitably and that was the Sistine 
 Chapel at the Vatican. What went on in the other churches 
 was enough to make one shudder ! Outside of the Sistine and 
 the one called the chapel of the Canons in St. Peter's, the 
 music was not even good for nothing; it was execrable. One 
 cannot imagine a more unsuitable collection of things brought 
 out in the other churches in the name of the honor of heaven. 
 All the gaudy tinsel of secular music appeared on the stage of 
 these religious masquerades. " 
 
 We need scarcely add that the same condition of affairs 
 existed in Rome until the present Pontiff Pius X gloriously 
 reigning issued his Motu Proprio, by which the Bishops of the 
 whole world were ordered to restore the Gregorian or plain 
 chant and the harmonies of Palestrina, the only two kinds of 
 
Gounod's Sacred Songs 345 
 
 sacred music that have received the full sanction of Holy 
 Church. 
 
 After giving a glowing description of the marvelous concep- 
 tions of Michael Angelo that adorn the ceiling and the walls 
 of the Sistine, he draws a magnificent picture of the relation- 
 ship of poetry and music to painting, and concludes by saying: 
 "The music of Palestrina seems to be a translation in song of 
 the vast poem of Michael Angelo, and I am inclined to think 
 that these two masters explain and illustrate each other in the 
 same light, the spectator developing the listener and recipro- 
 cally, so that finally one is to ask if the Sistine Chapel painting 
 and music is not the product of one and the same inspiration. 
 Music and painting are there found in a union so perfect and 
 sublime, that it seems as if they were the twofold expression of 
 one and the same thought, the double voice of one and the same 
 hjmin. It might be said that what one hears is the echo of 
 what one sees. The hearing of a work of Palestrina produces 
 something analogous to the reading of one of the grand pages 
 of Bossuet. Nothing is noticed as you go along, but at the end 
 of the road you find yourself carried to prodigious heights. " 
 
 His great veneration for Palestrina exercised a marked influ- 
 ence over the impressionable young student, and it was from a 
 deep study of this great master that he received the inspira- 
 tions that mark him as a perfect interpreter of deep religious 
 thought. It would appear that the study of his favorite 
 master in religious music influenced his writings throughout, 
 for insensibly it creeps in even in many parts of Faust, declared 
 to be his masterpiece, as well as in Romeo and Juliette both of 
 which operas deal with anything but heavenly love. 
 
 After two delightful years spent in Rome, he wended his 
 way to Germany, spending some time in Vienna, where he had 
 the pleasure of hearing some of the works of Schumann per- 
 formed. A study of this master made him see the great possi- 
 bilities that existed for the further development of the lighter 
 and gayer style of music, as of the more serious style which he 
 had studied so faithfully in Rome. 
 
 We may easily imagine the impression made on the mind of 
 the young man when we read that on his return to Paris, he 
 
346 Father Tom 
 
 attended a course of theology and took preliminary steps 
 towards assuming Holy Orders. Abb^ Liszt who was a con- 
 temporary and a friend of Gounod went a little further, took 
 minor orders and assumed a semi-cleric dress; but Gounod, 
 finding he had no real vocation to the higher life, devoted 
 himself entirely to his art. Knowing also, despite his great 
 gifts, from the struggles of Berlioz and others in Paris, that 
 "a prophet is not without honor save in his own country, " he 
 went across the channel in 1846 — to seek his fortune among the 
 music loving people of the great English capital. 
 
 It was here after five years of retirement and close study, 
 that he first produced his Messe Solenelle. It was a veritable 
 triumph, the critics declaring it to be a wonderful masterpiece. 
 These with numerous other friends and admirers said: "If 
 Gounod would only write for the operatic stage and sing of 
 worldly love and passion, and put the same soul into the music 
 that characterizes the inspired Messe Solenelle, he will be pro- 
 nounced the greatest musician of the age. " 
 
 This was the encouragement that Gounod wanted and which 
 had been denied him at home, despite the perfection of his 
 many worthy compositions. His resolution was made. His 
 poetic inspiration and dramatic power, which had been stimu- 
 lated by the German romantic school of music, now asserted 
 themselves, and he entered into a new career that was to make 
 him one of the most popular classical composers of the century. 
 
 Sappho, produced in 1851, was a comparative success. Le 
 Medecin malgre lui, an opera comique, had a long run in Lon- 
 don but did not give him the prestige which he felt was his due, 
 so he set all his genius to work and at length gave to the world 
 his chef d'wuvre, Faust and Marguerite. 
 
 Musical critics, with few exceptions, unite in saying that no 
 contemporary composition can equal this masterpiece of 
 Gounod in exquisite melody and dramatic passion, as well as 
 in great orchestration, and never surpassed it in operatic art. 
 
 The best proof of its real worth is that it hushed the critics of 
 the different schools effectually and was received as enthu- 
 siastically in Berlin, Vienna, Milan, and St. Petersburg as it 
 was in Paris, where it was first produced. 
 
Gounod's Sacred Songs 347 
 
 Philemon and Baucis, LaReine de Saba, and Romeo and Juli- 
 ette showed the heights which he could reach in romantic 
 opera, while Tobias, Mors etVita, and the Redemption mark him 
 as a master in oratorio. 
 
 In orchestral music he possesses a wonderful faculty of lofty 
 and imposing harmony, and his music is characterized by a 
 refinement and spirituality that is purely his own. For this 
 reason we find his works invested with a unique musical and 
 psychological interest, because we find in them frequently the 
 contending characteristics of sensuous attraction and spiritual 
 mysticism coming from his profound study of the German 
 romantic school and his equal veneration for the works of 
 Palestrina. 
 
 A master of church music, a master of oratorio and orches- 
 tration, and a master of operatic music, it remained for him to 
 show the world that he could also be a writer of songs. Here 
 again his marvelous genius showed itself. He did not write 
 any ballads that became so popular that the common people 
 could learn them and love them, although his March Song from 
 Faust might and did prove an exception when detached from 
 the opera. Gounod, however, had a soul that soared above 
 what was to please the people at large. He wrote not for 
 them, but rather for the musical critics, and hence, we find 
 his songs classical in the highest degree as was to be expected 
 from a master hand. Secular songs and love ditties, he wrote 
 in abundance, but his best known compositions in this depart- 
 ment of music are his sacred songs. These melodies are des- 
 tined to be held in highest esteem forever by lovers of the true 
 and beautiful in classical music, and by the very force of the 
 music itself are able to produce a feeling of religious awe in the 
 breast of the average listener whose soul is attuned by faith 
 alone. Nay, on the mind of the man of pure reason who boasts 
 of his want of faith, the sacred songs of Gounod must exercise 
 a mystic influence which reason alone cannot explain. 
 
 One of these exquisite songs speaks to us of the lowly cave 
 at Bethlehem and the story of that wondrous night nineteen 
 hundred years ago when angels announced to shepherds the 
 glad tidings of Christ's birth. The song is called Nazareth, 
 
348 Father Tom 
 
 though from the words we should be inclined to think that its 
 proper title ought to be "Bethlehem. " 
 
 Though poor be the dwelling, 
 Come here, come and adore; 
 Lo ! the Lord of Heaven 
 Hath to mortals given 
 Life for evermore. 
 
 Shepherds who folded 
 
 Your flocks beside you. 
 
 Tell what was told 
 
 By angel voices near. 
 
 To you this night 
 
 Was bom He who will guide you 
 
 Through paths of peace 
 
 To living waters clear. 
 
 Kings from a far land 
 Draw near and behold him, 
 Led by the beam 
 Whose warning bade ye come. 
 Your crowns cast down, 
 With robes royal enfold him ; 
 Your King descends to earth 
 From brighter Home. 
 
 Wind to the cedars. 
 Proclaim the joyful story, 
 Wave of the sea 
 The tidings bear afar. 
 The night is gone; 
 Behold in all its glory 
 All broad and bright rises 
 The Eternal morning Star. 
 
 In another song he treats a theme when the life of the Master 
 is at an end. The preaching is over, the work is accomplished, 
 " all is finished. " The picture of Our Saviour is presented to 
 us hanging upon a cross, dying for love of mankind, and a 
 touching appeal is made to the Christian heart to return love 
 for love. These beautiful strains are known by the name: 
 There is a Green Hill Far Away. It is centuries since Calvary 
 was anything but a barren rock, the place of skulls. It is 
 
Gounod's Sacred Songs 349 
 
 centuries since it stood without the city walls of Jerusalem, but 
 we can in imagination picture it as it once existed and this 
 will add to our enjoyment of the song. 
 
 There is a green hill far away, 
 
 Without a city wall; 
 Where the dear Lord was crucified. 
 
 Who died to save us all. 
 We may not know, we cannot tell 
 
 What pains He had to bear. 
 But we believe it wa,s for us. 
 
 He hung and suffered there. 
 He died that we might be forgiven. 
 
 He died to make us good; 
 That we might go at last to heaven. 
 
 Saved by His Precious Blood. 
 
 There was no other good enough, 
 
 To pay the price of sin; 
 He only could unlock the gate 
 
 Of heaven and let us in. 
 Oh! dearly, dearly has He loved 
 
 And we must love him too ; 
 And trust in His redeeming Blood 
 
 And try His works to do. 
 
 In another song we have on record a manifestation of the 
 sublime faith of Charles Gounod in the Holy Sacrament of the 
 altar. Surely no man could affect the sentiments of reverence 
 and love and awe in God's Majestic Presence, depicted in the 
 music and words of Adore and Be Still. One can easily imagine 
 Gounod in the days of his early fervor, when he was getting 
 daily inspiration in his visits to the shrines of the saints during 
 his stay in the Eternal City, receiving with deep humility and 
 faith, the Blessed Sacrament in the church of Trinita di 
 Monti. All the worshipers but himself have left the church; 
 all the lights have been extinguished save the one red lamp 
 that recalls the perpetual presence of the King of Kings. 
 Gounod remains upon his knees wrapt in meditation and 
 thanksgiving, and is so filled with the divine presence that he 
 can only whisper " Trembling soul, adore and be still. " 
 
350 Father Tom 
 
 High heaven hath stooped to earth so lowly, 
 
 God's glory doth my bosom fill, 
 O ! wondrous light, O ! presence holy ; 
 
 Trembling soul, adore and be still. 
 
 Fleeting love of this earth excelling, 
 
 Is Jesus love so freely given. 
 In my heart hath He made His dwelling 
 
 Who is the Lord of earth and heaven. 
 
 Bright in my soul new love now gloweth, 
 Pure love that from thine own takes birth; 
 
 And my every thought heavenward floweth. 
 Seeking its home no more on earth. 
 
 When time is done and light is ending, 
 
 O! be my refuge on that day; 
 So shall my soul in love ascending, 
 
 Within Thy Heart live for aye. 
 
 All the poets and artists who have ever lived in Italy, have 
 written about the magic hour of the Ave Maria — the hour of 
 sunset, when all the bells of the land ring out a joyous peal in 
 honor of the mystery of the Incarnation of the Son of God. 
 How exquisite is Lord Byron's description of this sunset hour: 
 
 Ave Maria! blessed be the hour. 
 
 The time, the clime, the spot where I so oft 
 
 Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft. 
 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower 
 
 And the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft 
 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
 
 And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer! 
 
 Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! 
 
 Ave Maria! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above! 
 
 Ave Maria! o'er the earth and sea. 
 
 The heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest thee. 
 
 Charles Gounod, captivated by the potent spell that comes 
 over the Christian soul at the sound of the Angelus bell in fair 
 Italia, wrote one of the sweetest of all his songs. 
 
Gounod's Sacred Songs 351 
 
 RING ON SWEET ANGELUS 
 
 Hark 'tis the Angelus sweetly ringing 
 
 O'er hill and vale; 
 
 Hark now the melody maidens are singing. 
 
 Floats on the gale. 
 
 On such a night in years long perished 
 
 I too have sung, 
 
 Those dear old lays so sweet, so cherished 
 
 When life was young. 
 
 Ah ! ring on sweet Angelus 
 
 Though thou art shaking 
 
 My soul to tears; 
 
 Voices long silent now 
 
 With thee are waking 
 
 From out the years; 
 
 Oh! sweet Angelus ring on. 
 
 Now o'er my heart a spell 
 
 Gently is stealing. 
 
 For words too deep. 
 
 When to the wanderer 
 
 Cometh that feeling 
 
 He can but weep. 
 
 I've heard the lute in dulcet measure, 
 
 'Neath stately dome. 
 
 But Ah! its tunes brought me no pleasure 
 
 Afar from home. 
 
 Ah! ring on sweet Angelus, etc. 
 
 Other songs of Gounod that have achieved a marked popu- 
 larity are Ruth and Naomi, The Guardian Angel, Glory to thee 
 My God this Night, Forever with the Lord, and The King of Love 
 my Shepherd Is. Let us take the last mentioned song as ex- 
 pressing not only this faith and childish confidence in his 
 Heavenly Father, but likewise his repentance — his return to 
 the House of his Father, as it existed deep down in the soul of 
 the musician, and showed despite the fact that he had wan- 
 dered far away from the high ideals that he formed as a young 
 man, and even though there be pages of his life he would 
 willingly have blotted out (and which of us cannot say the 
 same) yet did he firmly believe all the while in the great here- 
 after, and that his ardent hope was to come one day to the 
 sight of the beatific vision and be "Forever With the Lord." 
 
352 Father Tom 
 
 Forever with the Lord, 
 
 Amen, so let it be; 
 Life from the dead 
 Is in that word 
 
 'Tis immortality. 
 Here in the body pent, 
 
 Absent from Him I roam 
 Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
 
 A day's march nearer home. 
 
 Forever with the Lord, 
 
 Father if 'tis Thy will, 
 The promise of that faithful word, 
 
 E'en here to me fulfil. 
 Be Thou at my right hand; 
 
 Then shall I never fail. 
 Uphold Thou me and I stand. 
 
 Fight and I must prevail. 
 
 So when my latest breath 
 
 Shall rend the vail in twain. 
 By death I shall escape from death, 
 
 And life eternal gain; 
 Knowing as I am known. 
 
 How shall I love that word, 
 And oft repeat before the Throne 
 
 Forever with the Lord. 
 
 Like all men, the great Gounod had to die, and when he was 
 lying on the bed of death, awaiting confidently the dread 
 summons, and fortified by the rites of that holy religion he 
 had loved so well and to which he devoted the greater part of 
 his genius, his friends asked him which requiem he preferred to 
 be sung at his funeral mass and his reply was: "Sing the music 
 of the Gregorian chant for that is the most beautiful requiem 
 of all. " 
 
 May our rising church musicians and organists when 
 tempted to write Masses and other sacred music, seek inspira- 
 tion where Gounod was wont to seek it, in the music of Pales- 
 trina, which is but the perfect development of the Gregorian 
 chant, and which Charles Gounod with his dying breath, de- 
 
Gounod's Sacred Songs 353 
 
 dared to be the most perfect of all the music of Holy Mother 
 Church. ' 
 
 With this last mentioned song, we shall conclude this talk. 
 Gounod wandered far from the high ideals he had formed in 
 youth. There are pages of his hfe we fain would blot out, 
 (but which of us cannot say the same of our own lives) but in 
 the end he returned to the bosom of Holy Church and died 
 strongly fortified with the last rites of religion. When dying^ 
 he was asked what requiem he would prefer sung at his ob- 
 sequies, and he said, "Sing the Mass of the Gregorian chant — 
 that is the most beautiful of all. " 
 
 The King of Love exquisitely and pathetically expresses the 
 idea of the Prodigal's return to his Father's House — where 
 allusion is made to the Shepherd carrying home the lost sheep 
 on his shoulders to the sheep-fold. The words of the 23d 
 Psalm of which this song is a paraphrase is as follows : 
 
 "Psalm 23. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 
 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me 
 beside the still waters. 
 
 " He restoreth my soul ; He leadeth me in the paths of right- 
 eousness for His name's sake. 
 
 "Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of 
 death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me — Thy rod and 
 Thy staff they comfort me. 
 
 "Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine 
 enemies; Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth 
 over. 
 
 "Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of 
 my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. " 
 
 ' Father McLoughlin made a slight change in the conclusion of this lec- 
 ture, and substituted the following conclusion. The last mentioned song 
 refers to The King 0} Love my Shepherd Is. 
 
IX 
 
 THE SMILES AND TEARS OF ERIN' 
 
 I have listened ntunberless times to panegyrics on the great 
 apostle of Ireland; I have attended many lectures that spoke 
 the praises of the liberator or the patriot; I have listened to 
 the never-ending, well-deserved praise of the Irishman at home 
 and abroad ; I have tried my best to entertain many audiences 
 by extolling the music of the green isle, and I had come to the 
 conclusion that there was nothing more to hear or to say on 
 the subjedt of Ireland. This naturally led me to ponder on the 
 subject and to ask myself the question: Is there not some new 
 way of presenting an old story? The result of my thoughts 
 you will hear for yourselves this evening. If you have come 
 to hear an old time dry lecture, you will be disappointed, be- 
 cause I cannot dignify this entertainment by the name of a 
 lecture — it is intended as a pleasant recreation for an hour and 
 a half spent with the literary geniuses that have illuminated 
 the firmament of Ireland's literature, and if at times there may 
 come unbidden this evening the quivering to the lip, the tear- 
 drop to the eye, it will be quickly dispensed by the glimpse of 
 sunshine that follows and the tear will change to a smile. 
 Such is the character of the Irishman wherever we find him the 
 world over, like the land that gave him birth. 
 
 Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, 
 
 Blend hke the rainbow that hangs in the skies. 
 
 Shining through sorrow's stream, 
 
 Saddening through pleasure's beam 
 
 Thy suns with doubtful gleam weep while they rise. 
 
 ' A lecture delivered in Transfiguration Church, New York. 
 
 354 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 355 
 
 Erin thy silent tear never shall cease, 
 Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, 
 Till, like the rainbow's light, 
 Thy various tints unite. 
 And form in Heaven's sight, 
 One arch of peace. 
 
 Such is the language in vsrhich the poet describes the Island 
 of Saints and it is perfectly descriptive of the typical Irish- 
 man of to-day. The tear and the smile succeed one another 
 so quickly that they appear to blend one with the other. This 
 is one of the reasons why the Irishman's character is so much 
 misunderstood. His nature is so mercurial and impulsive 
 that he is quickly moved either to good or evil. His judgment 
 is quick and he acts hastily, be it for the right or the wrong 
 side. Hence he differs very much from his neighbors. It 
 has been well said that an Englishman thinks and then speaks, 
 a Scotchman thinks twice and then speaks, an Irishman 
 speaks first and then thinks afterwards. More truly might it 
 be said that the Englishman and the Scotchman think with the 
 head, but the Irishman thinks with the heart. He is as quick 
 as a flash to understand a joke even though it be at his own 
 expense, and to give a quick retort, if retort or repartee is 
 called for. He is extremely sensitive to ridicule, especially 
 if this comes from one who is not of his own nationality. He 
 will enjoy it, perhaps, if it come from one of his own kind. 
 Far be it from me to utter one word of ridicule against the 
 noble race from which I have the honor to spring. After my 
 own beloved Columbia, the land that gave me birth, I love 
 and revere the Island of Saints where my father and mother 
 came from, and where their ancestors lived before them for 
 hundreds of years, and I glory in her history as the history of 
 my people; and as a true son of Erin I live in the hope to see 
 her what my heart fondly wishes her: "Great, glorious, and 
 free, first flower of the earth and first gem of the sea. " 
 
 I have said that an Irishman is a rather sensitive plant. 
 Sometimes he may carry this trait too far, and is actually 
 looking for insults the whole time, imagining that people are 
 trying to make game of him. You have all heard of the 
 
35^ Father Tom 
 
 fellow at Donnybrook fair who was accustomed to walking 
 around dragging his long coat-tail in the mud and daring 
 any one to tread on the tail of his coat, actually itching for 
 a fight. 
 
 I knew an Irishman once who actually got offended if you 
 said that the Irish speak with a brogue. Now, it is positively 
 absurd to say they do not. The Irish all have a brogue, 
 some more and some less. If you hear the English language 
 spoken by a Cork or a Dublin lady, you hear perfect English, 
 but you have the sweetest little brogue you would want to 
 listen to. On the other hand if you hear peasants from the 
 hills of Connaught who speak with their mouths open, or 
 countrymen from Ulster who speak with their teeth shut, you 
 sometimes are puzzled to tell whether they are speaking Eng- 
 lish or Irish. Brogue! Why, when the great Daniel O'Con- 
 nell arose to speak in the British Parliament, for the first time, 
 the assembled members roared at his rich Kerry brogue, but 
 they soon learned that the most perfect English grammar is 
 often heard under the broad accent. 
 
 I remember well back in 1871, when a boy, that my mother 
 brought me to the Academy of Music in Brooklyn to hear the 
 celebrated Dominican lecturer, Father Tom Burke. Never 
 shall I forget the wild enthusiasm of that immense audience 
 as the humble friar clad in his white robe came upon the stage 
 to speak on: "The Pope, the Crown which he wears and of 
 which no man can deprive him. " Never shall pass from my 
 memory the opening sentence of that lecture when with a 
 broad Irish accent he said: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the 
 poet has told us that an honest man is the noblest work of 
 God, but I say to you to-night that the noblest work of God 
 is the Holy Catholic Church." This pronunciation of the 
 English language, my dear young American friends, is worth 
 noticing. It goes by the comical name of brogue, but it is not 
 so funny after all, if you will but Usten to the explanation of it. 
 First of all let me tell you that if you went to the country 
 districts of Yorkshire in England and not so far from London 
 itself you would not understand half what the people are say- 
 ing. If you went up into Scotland you would understand stiU 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 357 
 
 less. If you went into the heart of London and took the aver- 
 age Londoner, you would be obliged to smile very often at his 
 funny pronunciation of the English language. I remember 
 very well hearing a young English lady of education and re- 
 finement singing a song and the burden of the chorus was : " Let 
 us be guy to-die. " I found out by looking at the words that 
 she was trying to say, "Let us be gay to-day. " 
 
 Now, I am going to make an assertion which many of you 
 may think extravagant, and that is that the Irish brogue, or 
 at least the broad accent is the only correct pronunciation of 
 the English language. Let me prove it to you. There was a 
 time when Ireland was a nation with a language of her own, 
 the Gaelic. That language is still spoken in some of the 
 mountain regions of the West and the North. There are 
 many of the old folks in this parish who don't know their 
 prayers except in Irish. Not so many years ago quite a con- 
 gregation used to assemble in this dear old church and say the 
 rotary every night in Irish. 
 
 Henry II at the head of the English entered into Ireland, 
 and tried to rob them of their language, but he failed. Henry's 
 successors for three hundred years tried to do the same, and 
 at last those who were left were forced to learn English against 
 their will, and did learn it under Elizabeth. But they were 
 consistent and for three hundred years have stuck to the pro- 
 nunciation that was taught them, the same that was used by 
 the great Shakespere himself. The cultured English have 
 changed the pronunciation and the spelling of many words 
 time and time again since then; but the Irish though they 
 changed the spelling still cling to the sounds that were taught 
 them in the sixteenth century. The Dublin gentleman may 
 affect the pronunciation of the Londoner, but the common 
 people pronounce to this day as they were taught three hun- 
 dred years ago. 
 
 Just to give you one example. Shakespere in speaking of 
 an obstinate person, says of him, "He is like a beast wanting 
 discourse of reason. " The old folios of Shakespere's work 
 show by the spelling that this line should be pronounced, " Like 
 a baste wanting discoorse of raison. " A thousand like ex- 
 
358 Father Tom 
 
 amples might be quoted to show that the pronunciation of the 
 English language in Shakespere's time, if we may go by the 
 spelling, was almost identical with the Irish accent of to-day. 
 Call it brogue, if you will ; laugh at it if you please, but all the 
 same it was the correct pronunciation in the time of Shake- 
 spere. 
 
 When Father Burke on one occasion met a certain elegant 
 lady who, surprised at his accent, said: "Why, Father, you 
 have quite an Irish brogue, haven't you?" "Yes, ma'am, I 
 have, " he answered with a merry twinkle in his eye, "and my 
 father and mother had it too ; but my grandfather and grand- 
 mother did not have it, for they spoke nothing but Irish." 
 If, therefore, I have occasion to use a little of the brogue this 
 evening, you will do well to call to mind that I am but using 
 the accent of the English language that was taught in the time 
 of Queen Elizabeth and Shakespere. 
 
 While speaking of the sensitiveness of the Irish character, 
 I am reminded that an Irishman does not want to be told 
 by an Englishman that he makes bulls. In fact they will 
 deny outright that they do make bulls any more than do the 
 French or the Italians ; — but again it is true that they do make 
 bulls and amusing ones. You all have heard of John Boyle 
 O'Reilly. God rest him. He was a true Irishman and a 
 true American; a man who suffered for his country and was 
 sent into exile — a convict in liberty's cause. Yet that es- 
 caped convict was honored by all the great men of New Eng- 
 land, Protestant though they were, as a great light that cast 
 a brilliant luster equal to that of Longfellow, Whittier, Emer- 
 son and Holmes. Well, O'Reilly in the Boston Pilot, of which 
 paper he was editor, gave, some years ago, an account of a 
 dinner given in classic Boston on Patrick's Day. Many 
 speeches were made and many jokes were told and Irish btdls 
 related to the great amusement of the assembled company. 
 It so happened that many of these stories were told by Protest- 
 ant New Englanders and hence a certain Irishman present 
 grew nettled and angry; and so, when he was called upon for a 
 speech he was determined to avenge the insult and stand up 
 for the honor of his countr3rmen. The recital of so many 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 359 
 
 Irish bulls aroused his resentment, and so in an offended tone 
 he began his speech as follows: "Gentlemen, I wish to utter a 
 strong word of protest against the language used by some of the 
 speakers this evening. They have represented the Irishman 
 in a way that would seem to indicate that an Irishman cannot 
 open his mouth without putting his foot in it — without saying 
 something absurd, or making a bull. Now, let me tell you 
 gentlemen right here, that one-half the lies told about Irish- 
 men are not true. " The roars of laughter lasted so long at 
 this outrageous bull that he had to sit down without finishing 
 his speech, for he had only proved the truth of what the others 
 had been saying. 
 
 To-night I propose to give some account of the things that 
 bring the smile and the tear in the eye of an Irishman; but to 
 understand the question thoroughly you must get an idea of 
 the different combinations of circumstances that have devel- 
 oped the character that we find displayed in the Irishman of 
 to-day. How does the Irishman of to-day differ from the one 
 who existed in the days of St. Patrick or of Brian Boru. Those 
 of you who had the pleasure of seeing the opera of Brian 
 Boru, and that of Shamus O'Brien, will have noticed the dif- 
 ference in manners and customs, but the essential characteris- 
 tics were the same even as represented on the stage in the 
 twelfth and the nineteenth centuries. 
 
 You know from history that there was a time ere Ireland's 
 woes began ; when every rood of ground maintained its man. 
 Those were the golden days of Ireland's history before the 
 Dane or the Norman or the Saxon set foot on her soil — the days 
 when she cultivated to the highest point the arts and sciences 
 and more than all the divine art of music — the days when the 
 green banner with its harp of gold floated unfurled over every 
 castle in the land, and when her numberless colleges and con- 
 vents and schools were so flourishing, that the island was like 
 one big university. In those days, while France, Germany and 
 Spain were always at war — barbarians for the most part — 
 thousands upon thousands of scholars flocked from all parts 
 of Europe to receive a classical education in the Island of 
 S^nts; to drink in wisdom and faith 9,nd a. knowledge of 
 
36o Father Tom 
 
 music, poetry and all the fine arts. Rome had sent her Pa- 
 trick and other apostles and now, within a hundred years, she 
 herself sends out missionaries to Germany and Switzerland 
 and Italy, and the monasteries founded by these saintly men 
 are standing even to-day as silent witnesses of the zeal and 
 piety of these good Celtic monks. Then after three hundred 
 years of peace came the invasion of the Danes in the eighth 
 century and it was war to the knife for three hundred years 
 more. After the Danes came the Normans and then the 
 Saxons until at last Ireland was conquered by sheer force of 
 numbers. For centuries it was a war for the sake of booty, but 
 afterwards it became a war of creeds, a war of religion. 
 
 The English when they had conquered them and taken their 
 lands and had driven the remaining inhabitants into the wilds 
 of Connaught, for that brutal soldier Cromwell told them that 
 they could go to Connaught or go to hell, and they showed their 
 good taste by preferring Connaught — then came the fight to 
 take from them their religion. Poor Ireland ! Her chieftains 
 could not be united when there was question of preserving 
 the integrity of the nation. Every county was in opposition 
 to the next one, faction against faction evers^where, but when 
 her faith and her religion, all that was left to her was attacked, 
 at last England struck a point upon which the bulk of the peo- 
 ple were one. Cromwell, Henry VIII, and Queen Elizabeth 
 wanted to take from the Irish people their religion, handed 
 down to them untarnished for centuries, a pure religion, that 
 came direct from the Catacombs of Rome; and they wanted 
 to substitute for it a religion founded on hatred of the Pope, 
 disobedience to all ecclesiastical superiors, and the breakage of 
 all the commandments, particularly the sixth, seventh, ninth 
 and tenth, but they failed ignominiously. 
 
 Now, it stands to reason that from the frequent invasions of 
 the Danes, the Normans and the Saxons, all of them warlike, 
 powerful nations, that mingling as they did with the Irish 
 and intermarrying with them, the Irish of the present day are 
 the descendants of four powerful races — the ancient Celts, 
 the Danes, the Normans, and the Saxons; and hence it is not to 
 be wondered at that we find them exhibiting to-day two dis- 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 361 
 
 tinguishing characteristics that make them unique in the 
 history of modern civilization. First, their wonderful prac- 
 tical faith and belief in the supernatural and second their war- 
 like nature and indomitable bravery and courage. 
 
 As to their faith, little need be said. When St. Patrick 
 brought to Ireland the great gift of the faith, it was near the 
 feast of Eastertide, and it so happened that the King had given 
 orders that no fires should be lighted before a certain hour of 
 the morning. St. Patrick and his monks assembled together 
 on the mountain side, in ignorance of this law and as it was 
 Easter Saturday night, they lit the sacred fire in accordance 
 with the rubrics of the Roman Church. One of the royal 
 attendants rushed in and aroused the King and advised him of 
 this extraordinary occurrence, and he rising from his couch 
 exclaimed: "Who has dared to light a fire against the King's 
 orders?" A soothsayer present, in the spirit of prophecy, is 
 said to have answered, "Know, oh King, that that is a fire 
 that will never be extinguished in Ireland till the end of the 
 world. " That fire was emblematic of the faith of the Irish 
 people that was to come soon after. 
 
 How are we to judge of the strength of a man's faith, if not 
 by what he suffers for it, and the sacrifices that he is ready to 
 make for it. Comparisons are odious, but if you compare 
 the Irish, even with the ancient Romans, who suffered martyr- 
 dom in the Coliseum, you will have to remember that the 
 Roman Emperors were proud pagans and idolaters who did 
 not believe at all in Christ or in Christianity. Remember that 
 the rich were the Lords of the earth and the poor the slaves, 
 owned body and soul by their masters. If the slave disobeyed 
 he was called before his master, stripped, beaten with rods, 
 and if his master saw fit, killed. 
 
 God forbid that we should make light of the sufferings of 
 those martyrs, whose red blood planted in the yellow sands of 
 the Coliseum, became the seed of the church from which 
 sprang up so glorious a tree; but we do want to call attention 
 to the fact that when the Irish suffered for the faith, the per- 
 secution came from the minds and arms of Christian men and 
 Christian women, who openly professed belief and hope in 
 
362 Father Tom 
 
 Christ, and whose hatred of their fellow Christians was the 
 strongest, most diabolical kind of Christian hate — simply 
 because the Irish clung tenaciously to the faith and the old 
 religion which for centuries they had possessed together in 
 common. And what was the result of Ireland's pertinacity 
 in holding thus steadfastly to the old religion? Ah! the story 
 is a heartrending one. 
 
 Not satisfied with burning her churches and great libraries; 
 not content with beheading her priests and religious or sending 
 them into exile, not satisfied with cruelly torturing them in 
 body and mind, before they finally perished, England was 
 determined to root out every chance of preserving the faith 
 amongst them. Therefore, did she set a price of five pounds 
 on the head of a priest, the same as she set on the head of a 
 wolf. Just like the dog catchers of to-day men were sent out 
 to catch priests and wolves, and when they were caught they 
 were killed just as though the priest were no better than the 
 wolf. She set a price also on the head of every school teacher 
 and forbade all education to everybody — except such as would 
 consent to turn Protestants — and there were found a few turn- 
 coats, but not many. 
 
 For many years this state of affairs went on and what has 
 been the result ? Are the Irish, after so many years of enforced 
 ignorance, an ignorant people? No, decidedly no, for we can 
 boastingly say that with all their advantages of education the 
 peasantry of England, France, Spain, or Italy placed side by 
 side, the peasantry of Ireland not only compare favorably, 
 but an impartial judge must decide everytime in favor of the 
 Irishman for natural quick perception of right and wrong, of 
 justice and injustice, of good or evil. What has been the 
 result of this persecution? Those who did get the chance of 
 education have not their superiors in the world in whatever 
 walks of life they may have appeared. The names of Curran, 
 Grattan, Shell, Sheridan, Burke and O'Connell are emblematic 
 of the highest pinnacle to which the English language, written 
 or spoken, can ever be carried, and they were all Irishmen to 
 the backbone. The eloquence of these men was so great (and 
 inost of them were Protectants, too), that they achieved fo? 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 363 
 
 Ireland what all her soldiers could never think of doingf. 
 Their appeals for justice to Ireland were so magnetic in their 
 power that finally, under the hypnotic spell of the voice of 
 the great Daniel O'Connell, England was obliged to give poor 
 struggling Ireland Catholic Emancipation — the right to con- 
 sider themselves men with human souls and not mere cattle fit 
 only for slaughter — the right to cast a vote for their own im- 
 mediate rulers — the right of freemen. 
 
 The Reformation took a strong hold in Germany, in Switzer- 
 land, in England, in Scotland, in Norway, and in Sweden and 
 in Holland. In a word, wherever it was preached; but thank 
 God, we say it to-night with pride — we the children of an exiled 
 race — Ireland never 3delded an inch in her allegiance to the 
 throne of St. Peter. Her faith to-day is identical with that 
 which Patrick delivered to her on Tara's Hill fifteen hundred 
 years ago. This thought, therefore, is one that causes an Irish- 
 man to feel happy and smile over this great moral victory. 
 This is the reason that in his speeches and in his writings he 
 is always fond of a good joke or a comic song, for it comes from 
 a good heart, a heart that beats in the right direction, a heart 
 which is inspired first by love of God and of native land, and 
 then urged to good deeds by faith, for it is his firm undying 
 faith that a happy home awaits him beyond the grave that 
 makes him contented with his lot. 
 
 Just as an Irishman smiles to himself and enjoys a joke, so 
 is he the most clever fellow in the world for making others laugh 
 with him. To prove that he can enjoy a joke by himself you 
 have but to recall the story of Pat and the bull. A large bull 
 was quietly grazing in a field and as Pat looked over the wall 
 he said to himself: "Wouldn't it be great fun to catch the 
 bull by the horns and stick his nose in the ground and see him 
 kick his hind legs in the air. " The thought of this funny pic- 
 ture so amused him that he commenced to smile, then to grin, 
 and at last he burst out laughing and commenced to clap his 
 hands on his knees at the thought of the fun he was going to 
 have. At last he crept stealthily into the field and suddenly 
 pounced down on the bull and caught him by the horns. The 
 bull, of course, was surprised, but only for an instant. The 
 
364 Father Tom 
 
 earth's gravitation is so strong that whatever is thrown into 
 the air falls again to the earth, otherwise we might have to 
 record that Pat went to join the cow that spent her leisure 
 moments in jumping over the moon. No. Pat returned to 
 mother earth. True, his knowledge of astronomy was magni- 
 fied to a great extent, for he saw many constellations of greater 
 or less magnitude in midday, but the truth is he landed on his 
 head. But did he cry or weep or mourn ? No, he saw the bull 
 looking at him from the other side of the fence and he philo- 
 sophically remarked: "Begorra, I'm glad I had my laugh 
 first." This is not stupidity; this is true philosophy. Why, 
 even when an Irishman is stupid he is good-naturedly so, and 
 it is what one may call, if you will permit me to make a bull, a 
 sort of intelligent stupidity. You have all heard of Handy 
 Andy, written by Samuel Lover. Lover was an Irishman who 
 appreciated the humorous side of the Irish character and who 
 has given us some stories that have made us hold our sides with 
 laughter. 
 
 In contrast to Handy Andy, with which you are all familiar, 
 let me read you an exquisite poem from the same pen. It is 
 called The Angel's Whisper. A belief exists among the Irish 
 peasants that when a child smiles in its sleep it is talking with 
 the angels. 
 
 A baby was sleeping, 
 
 Its mother was weeping ; 
 
 For her husband was far on the wild raging sea. 
 
 And the tempest was swelling 
 
 Round the fisherman's dwelling. 
 
 And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh, come back to me." 
 
 Her beads while she numbered, 
 
 The baby still slumbered, 
 
 And smiled in her face as she bended her knee. 
 
 Oh, blest be that warning, 
 
 My child, thy sleep adorning, 
 
 For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 365 
 
 And while they are keeping 
 
 Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 
 
 Oh pray to them softly, my baby with me, 
 
 And say thou wouldst rather 
 
 They'd watch o'er thy father. 
 
 For I know that the angels are whispering with thee. 
 
 The dawn of the morning 
 
 Saw Dermot returning. 
 
 And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see; 
 
 And closely caressing 
 
 Her child with a blessing, 
 
 Said: "I knew that the angels were whispering with thee." 
 
 Now, we shall have the pleasure of listening to some of these 
 songs put to music. The first that I shall ask you to listen 
 to is called : 
 
 MOLLY BAWN 
 
 Oh, Molly Bawn, why leave me pining 
 
 All lonely waiting here for you ; 
 
 While the stars above are brightly shining, 
 
 Because they've nothin' else to do. 
 
 The flowers late were open keeping. 
 
 To try a rival blush with you, 
 
 But their mother nature set them sleeping 
 
 With their rosy faces washed with dew. 
 
 Now, the pretty flowers were made to bloom, dear. 
 
 And the pretty stars were made to shine; 
 
 And the pretty girls were made for the boys, dear; 
 
 And maybe you were made for mine. 
 
 The wicked watch dog here is snarling. 
 
 He takes me for a thief, you see, 
 
 For he knows I'd steal you Molly darling 
 
 And then transported I should be. 
 
366 Father Tom 
 
 THE BOYS OF KILKENNY 
 
 Oh, the boys of Kilkenny are neat roving blades, 
 And whenever they meet with the sweet Irish Maids 
 They kiss them and coax them, and spend their money free; 
 Oh, of all towns in Ireland, Kilkenny for me. 
 
 Through the town of Kilkenny, there runs a clear stream; 
 In the town of Kilkenny there lives a pretty dame ; 
 Her cheeks are like roses, her lips much the same. 
 Like a dish of ripe strawberries smothered in cream. 
 
 Her eyes are as black as Kilkenny's famed coal; 
 
 And 'tis they through my heart have burned a big hole; 
 
 Her mind, Hke its river, is deep clear and pure. 
 
 But her heart is more hard than its marble, I'm sitre. 
 
 Oh, Kilkenny's a fine town that shines where it stands; 
 And the more I think on it the more my heart wanes; 
 If I were in Kilkeimy, I'd feel quite at home, 
 For it's there I had a sweetheart, but here I have none. 
 
 I have said already that the Irish people are celebrated for 
 making bulls in speaking a language which is not their own. 
 It is not so easy to give you a comprehensive definition of a 
 bull ; but if I give you an illustration or two, you will see prac- 
 tically what a bull means. Often the bull is made by accident, 
 often by design. 
 
 An Irishman from Dublin visited some friends in Cork, and 
 was treated with that regal hospitality for which Cork and 
 Kerry are famous. He was kept eating and drinking from 
 morning till night, till at last he said to his host: "Faith if I 
 live long here I'll die soon." 
 
 You have seen and understood now, some of the smiles of 
 Erin, and how it is that her strong faith not only enables her 
 to bear up under adversity, but to make merry over it. Dur- 
 ing all those ages of faith, however, she still continued a war- 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 367 
 
 like people, and loved her land next to her God, and it is the 
 remembrance of her sufferings, her defeats and her tortures 
 and persecutions, that cause the tear to come to the eye, only 
 to be driven away again by the quick-succeeding smile. 
 
 We will not dwell here on the ancient warriors when Ireland 
 was a united country, and when the great Brian Boru, at the 
 head of United Ireland rushed madly against the thousands 
 of the Danes at Clontarf and drove them from the shores of 
 Ireland into the sea. But we can recall the valor of that war- 
 like race in more modem times. We can recall with pride the 
 glorious name of Hugh O'Neill, when he stood at Yellow Ford, 
 and did not let one English soldier escape from under his hand. 
 We can recall, with joyful hearts the day when Owen Roe 
 O'Neill marched with his Irish Army to Benburb and shattered 
 to pieces the flower of the English cavalry. But also the tear 
 comes to the eye when we remember the defeat of the Irish 
 at the Boyne Water. When we recall the day that those brave 
 fellows, by sheer force of numbers, were hurled from the Bridge 
 of Athlone into the Shannon, which was swollen by the winter's 
 rain, and were borne out on the tide into the great Atlantic — 
 the heart is sad when we recall the story of that noble soldier, 
 Patrick Sarsfield, as he defended the grand old City of Limerick, 
 the city of the violated treaty. No wonder that the Irish 
 treasured up that outrage in their hearts and swore to be 
 revenged. No wonder that a few years later when they went 
 over to France to fight for King Louis, when they were on the 
 battlefield at Fontenoy, and Marshall Saxe called upon the 
 Irish to charge upon the enemy, the English, a shout went up 
 from their lusty throats that made the hillsides resound and 
 it became a battle cry: "Revenge, remember Limerick." 
 They dashed down the Sassenach, sure enough. Ah, well 
 does the poet say even of those sad days : 
 
 Who fears to speak of '98? 
 
 Who blushes at the name? 
 When cowards mock the patriots' fate 
 
 Who hangs his head for shame? 
 
368 Father Tom 
 
 He's all a knave or half a slave 
 Who slights his country thus; 
 
 But true men like you men 
 Will fill your glass with us. 
 
 We drink the memory of the brave, 
 
 The faithful and the few; 
 Some lie far off beyond the wave, 
 
 Some sleep in Ireland too. 
 All, all are gone, but still lives on 
 
 The fame of those who died; 
 All true men, like you men 
 
 Remember them with pride. 
 
 If you want to know why the heart warms to that dear 
 Island, and causes it to throb with emotion, you have to re- 
 member, not only the valor of the patriots who fought and bled 
 for her, but the beauty of the land itself, every portion of which 
 partook in a greater or less degree of that valley of which the 
 poet tells us : 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; 
 
 Oh ! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, 
 
 E'er the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart. 
 
 Every county, every town, had its own traditions. Every 
 city was loved for the history of the past, and the stories 
 handed down from sire to son. To this day the ringing of the 
 Shandon bells from the old Protestant church in Cork City 
 brings back the pleasantest recollections — the tear and the 
 smile to him who has heard them : 
 
 With deep affection and recollection 
 
 I often think of those Shandon bells, 
 
 Whose sounds so wild would, 
 
 In the days of childhood. 
 
 Fling round my cradle 
 
 Their magic spells. 
 
 On this I ponder, where e'er I wander, 
 
 And thus grown fonder, sweet Cork of thee, 
 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 
 That sound so grand on 
 
 The pleasant waters of the river Lee. 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 369 
 
 Where in the wide world, in so small a space, are there to be 
 found such lakes and rivers and smiling valleys and green hills, 
 such genial sunshine, such gentle showers? Every place has 
 its history dating back one or two thousand years. There in 
 an open field we find the old marble altar used by the Druids 
 in their worship. Here the round tower, whose origin and 
 object are lost in the twilight of fable. Here is the ruin of an 
 old monastery or castle wrapped in a beauteous mantle of 
 green ivy. 
 
 Besides the physical aspects, there is the long line of tradi- 
 tions descending from one generation to another, mingling 
 truth and romance together after the fashion of an imagina- 
 tive people. The fairy tales that are unsurpassed; the stories 
 of the banshee and the leprechaun and the jack-o'-lantern 
 and the pooka and the good people. The ghost stories that 
 were wont to make one's hair stand on end with fright, as 
 gathered around the hearth of a winter's evening, the story- 
 teller told tales that would rival those of the Arabian Nights 
 could they but be gathered together. 
 
 The remembrance in the exile's bosom of these things may 
 make the heart beat faster for a moment; he may recall the 
 humble cabin where he lived as a boy ; he may hear in imagina- 
 tion the wild song of the thrush or the blackbird or the linnet. 
 He may recall the merry scenes of the wedding or the christen- 
 ing, when the neighbors gathered around to enjoy the feast and 
 to make the floor resound as they danced to the gay notes of 
 the fiddle or the bagpipes; he may recall the county fair or the 
 races or the hurling matches between rival parishes, or the 
 tally-ho of the huntsmen, as like a scarlet meteor they flashed 
 through the air in pursuit of the fox. He may recall with 
 reverence the old churchyard with its celtic cross in the center, 
 and if he thinks but for a moment of the loved ones who sleep 
 there, the vow will involuntarily come to his lips that he will 
 always keep alive the hope and the trust that she will one day 
 recover the glories of the past. 
 
 Is it any wonder now that an Irishman when he thinks of 
 the long record of unsuccessful battles for freedom against 
 superior armed force and numbers — when he recalls the p»rse- 
 24 
 
370 Father Tom 
 
 cutions for conscience' sake, when he remembers the pestilence 
 and the famine and the numberless evictions and the men, 
 women and children thrown on the roadside to die by the 
 hundreds, is it any wonder that he feels sad and dejected and 
 the teardrop starts to his eye? Is it any wonder that his heart 
 in reaction is aroused to indignation, and finding he can do 
 nothing for his own country with his powerful right arm, that 
 he should leave his native land and go to fight the battles of 
 other lands struggling for independence? 
 
 This thought it was that inspired these Irish exiles in France 
 and in Spain. This thought it was that made them rally round 
 the father of our country, the immortal George Washington. 
 Why, my dear fellow American citizens, have you read the 
 history of your country ? If you have, then you will know that 
 at the time of the American Revolution, when the British 
 Government sent word across the Atlantic to know how the 
 army of Washington was made up, Major General Robertson, 
 a British Commissioner gave this reply: " One-half are Irish, 
 one-fourth native, and the rest Scotch, German, and English. " 
 Don't forget that, Uncle Sam! And they were not merely 
 among the ranks of the foot soldiers, but among the leaders. 
 General Sullivan commanded the right wing of Washington's 
 army at Brandywine and Germantown. Stark, the hero of 
 Bennington — Montgomery at Quebec — Morgan at Cowpens — 
 Knox under Washington — Irvine on the frontier, Wayne at 
 Stony Point, Campbell at King's mountain — all of these were 
 Irishmen and Generals in the War of the Revolution. 
 
 Who was Commodore Barry, the Father of the American 
 Navy. An Irishman. Who was General Reed? An Irish- 
 man who was offered fifty thousand dollars if he would desert 
 the Colonial cause. His Irish answer will ring down through 
 American history: "I am not worth purchasing, but such as 
 I am the King of England is not rich enough to buy me. " 
 
 Eight of the signers of the Declaration of Independence 
 were either Irish by birth or the sons of Irishmen, and not the 
 least of them if the last to leave this world was Charles Carroll 
 of Carrollton. 
 
 We have seen now some of the reasons of Erin's smiles and 
 
Smiles and Tears of Erin 371 
 
 tears; but why do they blend like the rainbow that hangs in 
 the skies ? It is because her hope is as strong and as firm as her 
 faith. In the midst of all her trials she calls to mind those 
 noble souls that have used the weapons of the tongue and the 
 pen, and accomplished by their words and workings more than 
 her armies could think of doing, and she has seen changes com- 
 ing slowly but surely that make her hope that her deliverance 
 is at hand. 
 
 Are Irishmen capable of self-goverimient ? Two things are 
 necessary for this capability, that is, the head to govern and the 
 strong arm to control — intellectual and physical vigor. Who 
 can deny these attributes to the Irishmen? In what depart- 
 ment of intellect have they not excelled? In the House of 
 Parliament we find such giants as Grattan, Flood, Burke, and 
 Sheridan. At the Bar of Justice, Curran, Plunkett, O'Connell, 
 and Shiel. In the field, Owen Roe O'Neill, Sarsfield, and the 
 Duke of Wellington, the Hero of Trafalgar. In letters. Swift, 
 Goldsmith, Moore, and O'Leary. 
 
 Here in the United States the three greatest orators of the 
 last quarter of a century — bear the names of Daniel Dougherty, 
 Bourke Cockran, and Wilham J. Bryan. We have had with- 
 out number Irishmen in the State Legislatures; Irishmen in the 
 Senate and the House of Representatives ; Irishmen Governors 
 of States and Mayors of our cities and descendants of Irishmen 
 in the Presidential chair. Now, we have a McKenna in the 
 Cabinet, and McKinley President of the United States. Oiur 
 large cities are flooded with doctors and lawyers and journalists 
 bearing Irish names. Our singers and musicians cannot be 
 surpassed, and even this year in Dublin (1896), while England 
 and the rest of the world is talking of war, Ireland is prepar- 
 ing for a grand musical competitive festival to encourage the 
 arts of peace. 
 
 If you are looking for physical strength, you have but to 
 look around the world — to India, Egypt, China, Suez, Canada, 
 Australia, Gibraltar, and wherever you find the red coat 
 English Regiment you wUl find one-third at least Irishmen. 
 You have but to recall the name of Marshal MacMahon, First 
 President of the French Republic — you have but to remember 
 
372 Father Tom 
 
 the names of O'Brien, Dillon, and Devereaux in Chile, Bolivia, 
 and Venezuela — you have only to recall the pet of the army in 
 our own rebellion, the gallant Phil Sheridan. These are the 
 thoughts that cause the tear and the smile to blend— the thought 
 of the sorrow and trials and defeats of the past, the thought 
 of the victories won, the firm hope of realizing the prayer of 
 Robert Emmet that Ireland may yet take her place among 
 the nations of the earth. 
 
MELODIES OF MOTHER CHURCH 
 
 The subject of this evening's discourse is one that transcends 
 all questions of nationality, language and race prejudice; for 
 it is a subject thoroughly Catholic in the broad sense, and con- 
 sequently of deepest interest to Jew or Gentile, Pagan or Chris- 
 tian, Protestant or Catholic, young or aged, ignorant or learned. 
 
 Critics may disagree as to the comparative beauty of the 
 national melodies of different countries, but when there is ques- 
 tion of that music which has for its object and end the worship 
 and praise of the Most High God, there is struck a common 
 chord which finds a responsive echo in the hearts of all who 
 believe that our true home is beyond the skies, in the land of 
 the living, when after this our short exile is ended, we hope 
 one day to dwell forever — to see our God face to face — nor be 
 blasted by His Brow ! 
 
 I would that I had the eloquence of a Chrysostom or a 
 Lacordaire, or a Father Burke, that I might befittingly treat 
 this theme. I would that to me were given the learning of an 
 Aquinas and the unction of a Bernard, that I might give ex- 
 pression to the thoughts that I feel welling up within my soul, 
 when I try to ponder on this subject! 
 
 Alas! the beautiful thoughts must remain unexpressed; for 
 words — mere human words— cannot give adequate expression 
 to ideas that can be but imperfectly portrayed even by master 
 minds. Critics may disagree as to our particular method of 
 treating so grave a subject, but I am not talking to critics, 
 I am speaking to faithful children of Mother Church on a 
 subject that we all love very dearly — music — not such music 
 
 » A Lecture given at the Catholic Summer Schcxil, August 3, 1897. 
 
 373 
 
374 Father Tom 
 
 as is calculated to arouse the passions of men; not the war 
 songs that stir men to fight for fatherland; not the love songs 
 and romantic ballads that make men at times forget entirely 
 the Author of all Love — but music — heavenly music that is 
 able to soften the hardest heart, music that can assuage grief, 
 music that can bring the tear of consolation to the eye, and 
 balm to the wounded spirit — melodies that are capable of 
 raising these poor weak souls of ours almost out of our bodies — 
 away from the sordid, sensual things of earth, away from the 
 gross pleasures and delights of the world, away from the con- 
 templation of all things material to the beholding of all that is 
 good and holy and beautiful in Heaven above, to the knowledge 
 and love of God Himself. 
 
 "The Melodies of Mother Church." There is an inspira- 
 tion in the very title of our lecture, for she whom by Christ's 
 Divine appointment, we love to call by the sweet name of 
 "Mother," has thought it but right to make use of what is 
 most abundant in nature to help us to attain the end for which 
 an all wise Providence placed us in this mundane sphere. 
 And what is more abundant in nature than music? What is 
 there that can so perfectly express the harmonies of the Divine 
 Mind, as the harmonies of nature? There is music in the 
 mighty waves of old ocean as they dash against earth's sands, 
 and sing a solemn eternal requiem; and even as little children 
 were we wont to place the seashells to our ears to hear the 
 echoes of those solemn sounds. There is a wild weird melody 
 in the four winds of Heaven, as they chase one another in mad 
 fortissimo fury through the universe; or as they breathe a 
 gentle lullaby in the cool of a summer evening. 
 
 There is delightful melody in the mountain stream as it 
 wildly dashes over the precipice, or as it murmurs gently — a 
 babbling brook, through the silent meadows. 
 
 There is music in the roar of the African lion and all the 
 other animals of the forest and field as they make the air 
 resound with their peculiar cries. There is delicious music in 
 the matin song of the birds, as they lift their shrill sweet 
 voices in praise of that loving Creator without the cooperation 
 of whose Divine Will, not one of them will fall. There is 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 375 
 
 music in the rustling of the leaves of the forest, as fanned by 
 summer breezes, they become like the strings of an ^olian 
 harp, and change their weird notes at every movement of the 
 winds. 
 
 Everywhere throughout God's world there is music; every- 
 where in nature there is harmony. If we ask for an explana- 
 tion of this, we must go back in imagination into the ages far 
 beyond the days of the "Gloria in Excelsis" of the Angels; 
 far beyond the time when the exiled children of Israel hung 
 their harps on the willow trees by the waters of Babylon, 
 and sang their plaintive chants of fatherland; far beyond 
 the ages of the creation of the earth, when we find, accord- 
 ing to the words of the inspired writer, that, "the morning 
 stars sang to one another the praises of the Lord and the 
 children of God shouted for joy," far beyond all this till we 
 come to the Divine Being Himself, the Great God of all, whose 
 very essence is harmony — yes — perfect harmony ! for just as 
 He has given us the idea of His Being through Christ, that 
 He the Only One, True Infinite God, is One — in essence — 
 yet three in persons — a Triune God; so also is the perfection 
 of harmony on earth, found in three notes of what we call 
 the musical scale. 
 
 Since, therefore, God is harmony itself, being the Author 
 of harmony, it follows that all nature, under Him must as a 
 consequence be harmonious. This being true, it is but natural 
 that man should take out of nature some of the harmonies to 
 give delight to the ear and to the heart, to make his wayward 
 soul feel more and more its spirituality, and realizing from its 
 longings, its own immortality, to make it dominate by force of 
 will over the body, and thus while giving pleasure to the ear 
 and spiritualizing the soul more and more, to make man give 
 perfect praise to the Author of his being. This should be the 
 object and end of all music, to bring the soul nearer to perfect 
 peace, nearer to perfect harmony, nearer to God. How 
 beautifully is this sentiment expressed in those words, which 
 though not written by one of her children, yet has been adopted 
 by Holy Church, because of the sublimity and Catholicity of 
 the sentiments. 
 
376 Father Tom 
 
 Nearer my God to Thee, nearer to Thee, 
 E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me, 
 Still all my song shall be 
 Nearer my God to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee. 
 
 Though like a wanderer the sun gone down. 
 Darkness be over me, my rest a stone. 
 Yet in my dreams I'd be 
 Nearer my God to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee. 
 
 Or if on joyful wing cleaving the sky, 
 Sun, moon, and stars forgot, upward I fly, 
 Still all my song shall be 
 Nearer my God to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee. 
 
 We need not wonder now that the Jews of old, as well as the 
 pagan nations in their religious rites, found music of such 
 avail in making men fear and love the Lord. Descendants of 
 Jubal, the seventh lineal descendant of Adam, and the father 
 of all such as play on musical instruments, they learned full 
 well the value of the trumpet blast to which Jehovah had given 
 such power, that at its sound, the walls of Jericho toppled over 
 and fell to the earth They fully realized the energy of pur- 
 pose and the patriotism aroused by the fiercebattle songs of the 
 minstrels. They thoroughly appreciated the softening influ- 
 ence of the love songs amongst the youths and maidens: and 
 so it was when Holy Church, established for the purpose of 
 realizing the Kingdom of Christ on earth, began to have a 
 fixed ritual for her sacrifice of the New Law, she began the 
 teaching of her solemn chants, founded doubtless on what she 
 had learned from the Jews: and under her patronage and in- 
 spiration, music as a science as well as an art, has been brought 
 to the highest standard of perfection. 
 
 To the better understanding of our subject, it will not be 
 amiss if before considering more modem and popular chants in 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 377 
 
 the church, we pass in review some of her ancient melodies, her 
 time honored songs and anthems; this will naturally make us 
 briefly review the three great schools of music in the church, 
 the Gregorian, the Palestrina, and the modern, which some 
 are pleased to call the operatic, and others the realistic school. 
 
 To write a poem, to carve a statue, to paint a picture, one 
 must have an inspiration, a high ideal, a dominant thought. 
 So it is with sacred music. If we wish to get at the keynote of 
 all music — the divinely given inspiration for all sacred song, 
 we must go back in spirit to that period of the world's history, 
 when we are told that the whole earth was sunk in spiritual 
 darkness and idolatry; and when the few just souls who were 
 upon the earth fervently prayed that the Lord would open 
 the Heavens and rain down the Just One. 
 
 I had the pleasure last year of visiting the scenes hallowed 
 by the footsteps of Our Saviour. Never shall I forget our ride 
 along that picturesque highway that leads from Jerusalem to 
 Bethlehem. We paid our respects to the shrines of the Basilica, 
 we kissed with reverence the silver Star that marks the spot 
 where Christ was born ; and then after a short ride outside the 
 town our guide suddenly paused, and pointing over a toppling 
 stone wall, to a large field, rocky and barren, save for the tufts 
 of grass that grew here and there, he said: "This is the field 
 of the Shepherds. " There was perfect silence, to break which 
 would have been a sacrilege, for it would be to harshly cut the 
 chords of a sweet sounding harp, whose harmonies were re- 
 echoing in our heart of hearts, and the sounds that we seemed 
 to hear were the far distant strains of that heavenly song, which 
 nineteen hundred years ago, filled the shepherds with delight, 
 when with bated breath they saw the heavens opened, and 
 heard the Angelic choirs sing out on the midnight air — " Gloria 
 in Excelsis Deo, et in terra pax hominibus, bonae voluntatis. " 
 Here is the inspiration of all the sacred music of the Chris- 
 tian Chvtrch — the song of songs, the canticle of canticles of the 
 New Law, whose echoes have come down through the centur- 
 ies, bringing always with its never tiring repetition, the same 
 glad message of benediction and peace and happiness that it 
 brought to the shepherds on the hillsides of Judea. Many and 
 
378 Father Tom 
 
 beautiful are the songs of the church that have for their sub- 
 ject this midnight vision of the angels; but the song of these 
 blessed spirits to which other words were afterwards added by 
 Holy Church, must ever be the grandest, most sublime — the 
 first of all the melodies and harmonies of mother church. 
 
 When we listen to the soul stirring strains of this hymn as 
 portraying the conceptions of Mozart or Beethoven or Gounod, 
 we are made to reflect that those wonderful compositions were 
 not such as were sung by the Christians of the early church; 
 no, far from it. In music as in every other study there has 
 been an evolution, the work of centuries. 
 
 An ancient Hindoo saying has it that the beautiful sounds 
 of music uttered upon earth, are but the recollections of a 
 former existence in a state of perfect happiness. Facts, how- 
 ever, go to prove that whatever knowledge primitive man may 
 have had of music and whatever the science of music may have 
 amounted to among the Jewish and Gentile nations, certain 
 it is that there has been in the last sixteen hundred years a 
 development in the art of music that has kept pace with the 
 spiritual and dogmatic and architectural development of 
 Holy Church. 
 
 When after three hundred years of persecution, she emerged 
 from the Catacombs, she began to present to the pagan world 
 the worship of the True God with all the beauty and majesty 
 of Holiness. She found in the Roman Empire a style of archi- 
 tecture full of dignity and simplicity and this she adopted as 
 her own. 
 
 After many years. Catholic faith and genius with its noble 
 aspirations, ever reaching to higher and holier things, adopted 
 a new style of building copied from nature itself, copied from 
 the tall trees of the forest, which by their great height and 
 pointed arches gave better expression to the faith and the hope 
 of man and the aspirations and longings of poor fallen htmian 
 nature to return again to Paradise lost. This was at length 
 realized, and the poet's dream became a reality as the world 
 gazed awe-struck upon the great cathedrals of Cologne, West- 
 minster, and Notre Dame de Paris. Nevertheless the church 
 did not neglect the old style of architecture which had served 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 379 
 
 her for so many centuries, and which she brought to its perfec- 
 tion in the grand basilica of St. Peter at Rome, beside which 
 "Diana's marvel was but a cell. " So was it with the melodies 
 of the church. The solid plain chant was the music that was 
 known alnd appreciated by the people of those early ages of 
 faith — but when the development began in earnest and when 
 some holy men had the temerity to say, " It is too bad for the 
 devil to have all the good music, " then the musicians of the 
 church set their genius to work to write a new style of music 
 that would be in perfect accord with the Gothic architecture ; 
 and to this thought we owe the marvelous conceptions of 
 Palestrina, Orlando Lasso, Beethoven, Mozart, and Haydn. 
 Nevertheless the church does not neglect the plain chant 
 which was the foundation of the religious music of latter times, 
 on the contrary, she insists that certain portions of her liturgy 
 be sung in this very ancient style of music. 
 
 Before we speak of the plain chant our attention is called 
 to the musical scale, which is the foundation stone on which 
 are erected all musical compositions. Very likely you all 
 learned while at school the "Do, Re, Mi" and just as likely 
 your teacher of those days never explained to you the origin 
 of these syllables. In parenthesis, I might say, whenever you 
 are in doubt as to the origin of a science or an art, it would be 
 well to look up its history in the old Catholic monasteries of 
 Europe, and you will likely find abundance of light coming 
 from the illuminated books of the Dark Ages — those volumes 
 that speak even to-day so eloquently by their very silence, of 
 the labors of the monks of old. 
 
 There is an ancient hymn written by Paul the Deacon at the 
 time of Charlemagne, i. e., in the eighth century, and it was 
 composed in honor of St. John the Baptist, and is still sung in 
 the Lateran Basilica every year on June 24th, his feast day. 
 Guido, of Arezzo, a Benedictine monk and the father of mod- 
 em music, who lived about the beginning of the eleventh 
 century, striving to simplify musical notation, (for up to that 
 time there was no such thing as the musical staff), happened to 
 enter the church on the feast of St. John as the vesper hymn 
 of the day was being sung. He perceived that the first syllable 
 
38o Father Tom 
 
 of each of the first lines ascended regularly above the preceding 
 in diatonic order, and he caught therefrom the idea of using 
 these syllables for the purpose of solmization and also of sub- 
 stituting a hexachord scale or gamut for the tetrachord of the 
 Greeks, and the octave scale of St. Gregory. The words of 
 the verse referred to are the following : 
 
 UT queant laxis, 
 i?£-sonare fibris, 
 Ml-ta. gestorum, 
 FA-raaM tuorum, 
 SOL-ve polluti, 
 LA-hi reatum, 
 Sancte Joannes. 
 
 In St. John Lateran's every year the students gather to listen 
 to the singing of this first V2rse, for under a mass of embellish- 
 ing harmonies you can clearly distinguish the sounds. 
 
 It is true the Greeks used the syllables Ta-te-to-te for 
 the same purpose. It is equally true that in the scale of Guido, 
 there were only six notes, but in the sixteenth century the oc- 
 tave scale was restored by Henry du Puy of Venloo, a seventh 
 syllable "bi" was added, which was afterwards changed to 
 SI by M. le Maire of Paris about the year 1660. These syl- 
 lables are still universally employed for solmization, but the 
 Italians and those who follow the Italian methods substitute 
 for what they consider the unmusical sound of UT — the more 
 euphonic DO. 
 
 The different scales were distinguished one from the other 
 by a movable DO or UT. These were known by the letters of 
 the alphabet. Guido took the Greek letter G or Gamma as the 
 symbol of his lowest UT and hence the origin of the compound 
 word GAMUT. When we admire the harmonies of modem 
 composers therefore, let us not forget to give honor to whom 
 honor is due. Let us remember that during the early ages of 
 Christianity, as well as what are known as the Dark Ages, the 
 only place that music and painting and sculpture and science 
 and all the fine arts found a refuge was in the monasteries where 
 hidden from the world, these holy men of God, who had vowed 
 themselves to poverty, chastity and obedience, cultivated the 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 381 
 
 beautiful and the useful in every form. Let us remember that 
 if we have any knowledge of the pagan classics, any knowledge 
 of the sacred scriptures, any knowledge of the first principles 
 of music it is owing almost entirely to the patient toil and 
 prayer of these same good men, who gave up the world and its 
 pleasures, not only to sanctify their own souls, but to enlighten 
 their fellow men in all that tends to make earth a peaceful 
 paradise and at the same time to lead the world to the knowl- 
 edge and love of God. 
 
 Having the idea of the scale in our minds we must now go 
 back again to the palmy days of the church in Milan, when the 
 great St. Ambrose had the courage to write back to the reign- 
 ing Pope who had criticized him for his innovations in the 
 chants and in the liturgy; "We also are men of judgment 
 and have common sense in these matters." This great 
 Archbishop gave to the world some strains that will last as 
 long as the world. Simple, plain chant, and yet Mozart, one 
 of the greatest of modem musicians, on hearing one of these 
 simple melodies was moved to tears, and said, "I would rather 
 be the author of that one exquisite air, than of all the operas 
 I have ever written." The chant to which he referred is 
 familiar to you all, for it is none other than the Pater Noster. 
 
 Some people whose highest ideal of music is one of the 
 Vienna waltzes, look upon the plain chants of the church, 
 much as the average American looks upon the Grand Army of 
 the Republic when they put in an appearance at some national 
 celebration. The usual remark of such people is: "Oh, 
 here comes the Grand Army; let's go home." " Pshaw," says 
 the light-headed Christian, "it's only a plain chant vespers; 
 let's go to some church where they have ballet music. ' ' 
 
 But there are other people whose souls look not for what 
 tickles the ear, but for what moves the heart by its devotion, 
 and to such, the ordinary chant of the church ever ancient, 
 ever new, is the highest type of sacred music. To this same 
 period are ascribed the delightful chants that may be heard 
 every Sunday at vespers, the psalms, the antiphons, the versi- 
 cles, and responsories, and many of the hymns that were 
 perfected later on in the sixth century by Pope Gregory I, 
 
382 Father Tom 
 
 who, because he took such interest in sacred music, and 
 brought about such reforms in its rendition, and took such 
 interest in estabhshing schools for its further cultivation, is 
 called the father of plain chant. That the chants might not 
 become monotonous, there were no less than eight different 
 tones, and as many endings — and the same may be said of the 
 Its Missa est and Benedicamus Domino. A little later we find 
 the church laying what proved to be the foundation of modem 
 opera — namely the introduction into the church of the dra- 
 matic rendition of certain parts of her sacred chants. During 
 Holy Week her ministers were wont to chant with special 
 ceremonies the Passion of Our Lord; one taking the part of 
 Christ, another that of the narrator, a third that of the syna- 
 gogue; and the music to which the passion of Christ is set, 
 has not been surpassed in its solemn simplicity even by Sebas- 
 tian Bach. During the three days of Tenebrae it was the 
 same; the lamentations of Jeremias were sung to a sad strain, 
 so sweet and beautiful that I cannot refrain from giving you an 
 idea of it. The Jews are represented as mourning over the 
 destruction of their temple, and their prophets call upon them 
 to be converted to the Lord their God. That you may better 
 appreciate the melody I shall translate the verse before render- 
 ing it in Latin : 
 
 To what shall I compare thee 
 
 Or to what shall I liken thee, 
 
 Oh, daughter of Jerusalem? 
 
 To what shall I equal thee, 
 
 That I may comfort thee. 
 
 Oh ! Virgin daughter of Sion? 
 
 For great as the sea is thy destruction. 
 
 Who shall heal thee? 
 
 Jerusalem, Jerusalem, be converted unto the Lord your God. 
 
 Cui comparabo te, vel cui assimilabo te, filia Jerusalem? 
 Cui exaequabo te, et consolabor te Virgo filia Sion? 
 Magna est enim velut mare, contritio tua, quis medebitur tui? 
 Jerusalem, Jerusalem, convertere ad Dominum Deum Tuiun. 
 
 To those who imagine that all plain chant is alike, I offer 
 in contrast to those sorrowful strains, the majestic notes of 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 383 
 
 the Exultet as sung on Holy Saturday — the triple Alleluja, and 
 the short but triumphant and exultant vespers that ends the 
 service. Take for example the intoning of the Magnificat, or 
 the still more triumphant lie missa est alleluja. To these same 
 early centuries are ascribed many of the beautiful hymns of 
 the church, notably, the Te Deum Laudamus of St. Ambrose; 
 the Veni Creator by Gregory the Great; the, Ave Maria Stella by 
 Bishop Fortunatus (a. d. 600) , likewise the Vexilla Regis or 
 praise of the true cross by the same author; the Salve Sancta 
 Parens by Sedulius in the fifth century. 
 
 In regard to the Gregorian chant, it must be said that to be 
 effective it must be properly studied and properly rendered. 
 Modem choirmasters, especially in this country, do not want to 
 study it or teach it at all, and the result is that it very often 
 disgusts rather than edifies the listener. This was not so at 
 the time of St. Augustine, for he speaking of the chants in the 
 Cathedral of Milan says in his Confessions — ' ' How much I wept, 
 in thy hymns and sacred songs, being deeply moved by the 
 tunes of Thy sweet sounding church. Those tunes flowed in 
 at my ears, and thy truth was distilled in my heart, and thence 
 through its power the love of piety came and tears ran down 
 my cheek, and I was happy." Another remark about the 
 chants of the church is this : — for many centuries the ecclesi- 
 astical authorities strictly forbade the use of musical instru- 
 ments in church. They felt that the praises of the true God 
 should be sung without the aid of profane instruments such as 
 were used at the religious festivals or orgies of Venus and 
 Apollo and Bacchus. They felt that if such instruments were 
 allowed in the church, that the solemn chants would become 
 corrupted, and that variations would be introduced into the 
 church's music that would so change it, that it would be diffi- 
 ctdt to distinguish it from the music of the world. I am not a 
 pessimist by any means, but I confess that I think the judg- 
 ment of the church was in a great measure correct. It was 
 only in the thirteenth century that even organs began to be 
 tolerated in the churches, and even then they were used merely 
 to fill in the interludes or to play the melody in a loud tone 
 just as a cornet leads the Salvation Army hymns. That such 
 
384 Father Tom 
 
 rigor in regard to the music of the church was a fact, may be 
 seen from the custom of the Greek church to this day — and 
 Hkewise the fact that although the lightest kind of operatic 
 music is tolerated even in St. Peter's— yet the ancient tradi- 
 tion is adhered to in the Vatican; and the singing of the Sistine 
 Chapel is always unaccompanied. Nay, when the Pope goes 
 to visit another church, his choir must follow him, and not 
 even the organ is allowed to interfere with the harmonies that 
 have been Dronounced unrivaled in the world. Those of you 
 who have had the pleasure of listening to the Holy Week music 
 in St. John's or St. Peter's or St. Mary Major's will agree with 
 me that the human voice, unaided by any other instrument, 
 is capable of giving out the most perfect melodies and delight- 
 ful harmonies that the mind of man can imagine or his soul 
 desire. I might, did time permit, dwell on the beauties both 
 of words and music of those grand old hymns of the Middle 
 Ages — -hymns written and sung for centuries before Old Hun- 
 dred or Greenland' s Icy Mountain were even dreamed of : the 
 Dies Irae, the Stahat Mater, the Lauda Sion, the Pange Lingua; 
 but let us go a step forward and witness the wonderful develop- 
 ment that took place about the close of the thirteenth century. 
 The Popes were right, the music of the church by means of the 
 organ did become corrupt, did utterly depart from that solem- 
 nity and dignity which becometh the house of God. The 
 compositions of choirmasters at this period were calculated to 
 astonish rather than to edify; so that the church finally called 
 " Halt ! " The glorification of the composer was sought, rather 
 than the glory of God. The text was so overladen that no 
 words could be distinguished. While one voice cried "Sanc- 
 tus, " a second sang "Deus" and a third vociferated "Sab- 
 baoth." While one chorus shouted Genitum non Factum, 
 another drowned them out with the cry Factum non Genitum, 
 so half of the time the choirs were unwittingly singing the 
 rankest kind of heresy. 
 
 A writer of the period tells us that "they sang with certain 
 howls and bellowings that would make one think of cats in 
 January rather than flowers in May." This must have been 
 literally true and the abuses evidently must have reached 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 385 
 
 the Papal Choir, for Pope Nicholas V., on one occasion asking 
 Cardinal Caprinica how he liked the singing of the Sistine 
 Chapel, is said to have answered candidly: "Your Holiness, 
 they are like a sackful of young pigs — for I can hear an awful 
 row, but cannot distinguish one articulate sound." If that 
 good Cardinal were alive to-day, I wonder if he would not 
 have equally pleasant remarks for some of our own choirs. 
 Not satisfied with the Plain Chant or the simple two or three 
 part Mass, our average country choirs are not content till they 
 have rendered Mozart's Twelfth, a Mass which perhaps was 
 never written by the great composer. Will you pardon me if 
 I here enter a protest against some of the flagrant abuses 
 tolerated in our church music in this country. I feel that you 
 will agree with me, and that perhaps you will be stirred to do 
 what you can to check the abuse. I refer to the introduction 
 of purely secular music into the divine service. I know per- 
 fectly well that it is the organist who is responsible, but if he is 
 a man of faith, and if he realizes the responsible position he 
 holds of singing and directing the praise of God in His Holy 
 of Holies — he will never introduce popular love ballads or well- 
 known operatic airs into the sanctuary and think he has made 
 them sacred by substituting Latin words for the original pas- 
 sionate love words. To make even more clear my meaning — 
 I shall say, that within the past two years I have heard in 
 city choirs, O Happy Day, Stralezki's Dreams, and Answer 
 with the words of the Salutaris repeated without sense over 
 and over again. I have heard Marguerite and Love's Sorrow 
 masquerade under the sublime words of the Tantum Ergo. 
 More bold than this, I saw advertised in a city paper the list of 
 music for a certain grand feast amongst other items Offertory 
 "Ai nostri monti" from // Trovatore. I was present at the 
 Solemn Mass, and actually heard the celebrated duet rendered 
 as an offertory with the original Italian words. A choirmaster 
 that will allow such an abuse to exist is unworthy of his posi- 
 tion, for I do not think a Protestant church in the land would 
 tolerate such flagrant violation of religious decorum. It is an 
 insult to God Almighty; it is an insult to the priest; it is an 
 insult to the intelligence of a Christian congregation; and it is 
 es 
 
386 Father Tom 
 
 an abuse that should be crushed out from the temple of the 
 Lord. No greater insult can be offered to God than to make 
 Venus and Apollo masquerade as the Virgin and her Divine 
 Son. Grand Opera is well enough in its place, but its place is 
 the opera house or the theater, not the church. Ballads and 
 love songs are at times delightful to hear, but their proper 
 place is the drawing room or the concert hall, not the sanc- 
 tuary. And why do it at all when we have endless catalogues 
 of beautiful masses, and motets and duets and solos and 
 choruses. If a halt is not called soon to these abuses we may 
 have a decision of the Church on this subject some day soon 
 that will say authoritatively ' ' Reform it altogether. " It was in 
 truth, practices such as I have referred to that brought down 
 the just odium of the Church on the choirmasters of the 
 fifteenth century, and it was only the genius of Palestrina 
 that saved the Church from going back to the use of Plain 
 Chant exclusively. 
 
 Pius IV, in 1563, to carry out the reforms suggested by the 
 Council of Trent (reforms it is needless to add, in discipline) , 
 authorized a commission of eight cardinals to reform the church 
 music. By the advice of St. Philip Neri, Palestrina, whose real 
 name was Pierluigi, the founder of the new school of sacred 
 harmonies, was chosen by Cardinal Charles Borromeo, then 
 Arch Priest of St. Mary Major's, to reform the chants, and he 
 set all the powers of his genius to work. His idea was to 
 make the music of the Church dramatic, i. e., that the sounds 
 of the music should express the meaning of the words in the 
 liturgy, for the Sacrifice of the Mass is but the repetition of 
 the greatest drama the world has ever seen — the tragedy of 
 Calvary. 
 
 When Palestrina' s famous Missa Papae MarceUi was sung 
 in the presence of the Pope and assembled critics — (a poly- 
 phonic mass for six voices) — His Holiness was in ecstasies 
 over the delicious strains, and he declared that it must have 
 been strains similar to those that St. John heard in his visions 
 of the New Jerusalem, as recorded in the Apocalypse. 
 
 It is interesting to know of this great man, that although he 
 was choirmaster of St. Peter's, he received only six dollars a 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 387 
 
 month and a house to Hve in. He died poor, although he 
 wrote no less than 93 masses, 63 motets, 45 hymns, and 68 
 offertories. So sublime and difficult are his compositions that 
 it would necessitate a large choir of well-trained voices after a 
 series of several rehearsals to give you even a faint conception 
 of this style of music. As the modem CEccilian school, how- 
 ever, is based on the same line, it is a consummation devoutly 
 to be wished for that our choirs take up as their standard this 
 particular style of music. Not that it is to relinquish entirely 
 the masterpieces of modem mass writers — but that its music 
 de resistance be the Csecilian which if properly rendered is full 
 of dignity, majesty, power and sweetness — music that will 
 give no distracting thoughts at Mass or Benediction — music 
 that is not filled with endless repetitions for the sake of showing 
 off the notes, and frequently no connection whatever between 
 the notes and the words. Glorias that end with one grand 
 Amen, and not sixty foolish reiterations of the word, Tantum 
 Ergos that make one pray, and bend down head and heart, in 
 humblest adoration and love. Such is the music of the Cascil- 
 ian school combining as it does the simplicity of melody with 
 richness of harmony in a manner that is calculated to delight 
 the religious ear and mind and heart. 
 
 Before we leave Palestrina to speak of other composers, we 
 must refer once more to that great saint for whom he had such 
 friendship — Philip Neri, the founder of the Oratory in Rome. 
 Philip, in order to attract the young men to the church, was 
 accustomed to produce a peculiar sort of entertainment in 
 which a sacred drama was enacted, narrating events in the 
 life of Our Lord and of the saints, or portraying events in 
 secular history. These plays, partly recited and partly sung, 
 are called Oratorios, and laid the foundations for Grand Opera. 
 When will our Catholic choirs in large cities combine and give 
 us Haydn's Creation? The music of most of the popular 
 oratorios is written by Protestants — but who that ever lis- 
 tened to the inspired strains of the Messias will say that it is 
 anything but Catholic and truly Catholic? The words are 
 from King James' version it is true, but they are the inspired 
 words of God throughout; and Cardinal Newman was right 
 
388 Father Tom 
 
 when he said that the Church should claim all such compositions 
 as her own — for she it was that gave the inspiration for them all. 
 Once Palestrina had laid the foundations of the new school 
 of music, it is not to be wondered at that the genius of Haydn, 
 Mozart, and Beethoven not long afterwards brought forth 
 masses that are in perfect keeping with the Gothic Cathedrals 
 of Cologne, Milan, and Vienna. Wonderful masterpieces are 
 these compositions, destined to last till the end of time. Here 
 we have not merely the solid foundation of Gregorian music 
 and the solid walls of Palestrina — but we have flying buttresses 
 and pinnacles and gargoyles and statues of saints and turrets and 
 minarets and lofty spires — all of which tend to fill a void in the 
 heart and cause it to re-echo more and more the refrain "nearer 
 to Thee. " I am not of the kind that would utterly condemn 
 the compositions of these geniuses and say that their works 
 savor too much of the opera and the theater, to be heard in our 
 churches. I will confess that I have been thrilled with delight 
 at many passages in the masses referred to — but it was always 
 where the words and music were in perfect harmony, and where 
 the real sentiment was expressed by the sounds conveyed to 
 the ear. To try and write phrase after phrase of florid music 
 and then set the words of the Credo underneath, is to my mind 
 as absurd as for Haydn to try to describe perfect silence by 
 soft music. Gounod amongst the modems seems to have 
 caught the correct idea and hence his magnificent declama- 
 tory Credo which is unsurpassed. (In this lecture as originally 
 written I had a quartette and chorus to illustrate during the 
 course of my remarks the different styles of church music.) 
 Now, I can simply ask you to use your imagination and think 
 of some of those glorious compositions which you have heard 
 time and time again in some of our large city churches — for 
 example the solo and chorus of Gounod's Sanctus — when the 
 soul, even if it be of the earth earthy, is raised for the moment 
 almost out of the body — seeming to think that the heavenly 
 gates are ajar for the moment, and that the invisible choir is 
 heard singing the inspired words holy — holy — holy lord 
 
 GOD of SABAOTH. THE HEAVENS AND THE EARTH ARE FULL 
 OF THY GLORY. HOSANNA IN THE HIGHEST. 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 389 
 
 We must leave the chef d'ceuvres of these master minds as 
 food for imagination, and not forget that while sacred music in 
 modern times has had its epic poets, who never tired of telling 
 in measured beats the old and wondrous story of the life of 
 Our Lord; there have been also in the church lyric poets who 
 have given us delicious morceaux in the form of hymns, anti- 
 phons and motets. Amongst them all there is one that seems 
 to be, and with good reason, a favorite with all composers of 
 every age and it is one that simply repeats the few solemn words 
 that an archangel once addressed to a poor village maiden, an 
 humble peasant girl, but such were the words that no one be- 
 fore or since has had like words addressed to her; for the words 
 were "Ave Maria, Gratia Plena, Dominus Tecum Benedicta 
 Tu in Mulieribus." Hail Mary! full of grace, blessed art 
 thou amongst women. 
 
 Such a wealth of compositions is here before my mind that I 
 am loath to select one in preference to another. So many 
 Salutaris' and Tantum Ergos of real worth; the Ave Verum, 
 Ave Maris Stella, but I shall rather pass to some of the 
 English hymns now in use in our liturgy. Let it be well 
 remembered that the present enlightened Pope, who fully 
 realizes the advantage of the vernacular in the songs of the 
 church, has, through the Congregation of Rites in a rescript, 
 said that the use of hymns in the vernacular ought to be 
 encouraged, and that therefore during the exposition of the 
 Blessed Sacrament before Benediction English hymns may 
 be sung, provided that the Tantum Ergo and versicles are 
 sung in Latin. The same holds good for the Missa cantata, 
 so long as the proper parts of the Mass are sung in the lan- 
 guage of the Church. I have found it very devotional for 
 example in processions of the Blessed Sacrament, between 
 each verse of the Pange Lingua, to have the whole congrega- 
 tion sing in English, "Sweet Sacrament we Thee Adore, 
 Oh, make us love Thee more and more." The Catholic 
 Church is truly catholic and it is a sign of narrow mindedness 
 and bigotry to try and be more catholic than the Catholic 
 Church. Surely Cardinal Manning was a most devout and 
 learned member of Holy Church, yet he introduced into 
 
390 Father Tom 
 
 England what had been the means of attracting a great many 
 to the afternoon and evening services, namely the singing of 
 Vespers in the English language, and this has the full approval 
 of Rome. But here the question may be asked, is not this 
 likely to be abused? Those who think so, advance as an argu- 
 ment that in nearly every Catholic Church now you hear the 
 Protestant hymns — Nearer, my God to Thee, Lead Kindly Light 
 and Rock of Ages, Jesus Saviour of My Soul and Abide with Me. 
 The question is, "What is a Protestant hymn?" — "What 
 makes a hymn Protestant?" Is it because it happens to be 
 written by one who is not a member of the body of the Catholic 
 Church? If this were true, we would have to reject all the 
 Psalms of David, and all the canticles of the old law. We 
 would have to reject the Magnificat of Mary, the Benedictus of 
 Zachary, the Nunc Dimittis of Simeon, for they were all mem- 
 bers of the Jewish religion. What really makes a hymn 
 Protestant is Protestant or heretical doctrine and therefore 
 as that grand old saint Cardinal Newman well said: "What- 
 ever is true and beautiful and religious in poetry belongs to the 
 Catholic Church, for it is she alone who has inspired all good 
 poetry, for she holds up as ideals of poetry and of the beau- 
 tiful — God, His Son, Christ Our Lord and the Virgin Im- 
 maculate." 
 
 Hence, when we find hymns written by those outside of the 
 Church, provided their theology is orthodox, the Church can 
 claim and does claim them as her own. Who, but a cynic, 
 could, as unorthodox, reject for example the inspired words of 
 Newman, who represents the soul struggling, longing to know 
 the truth and casting himself with childlike faith in the arms of 
 the Father, when he so beautifully sings: 
 
 Lead kindly light, amid th' encircling gloom, 
 
 Lead Thou me on, 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home. 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 Keep Thou my feet, I do not ask to see 
 The distant scene, one step enough for me. 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 391 
 
 II 
 
 I was not ever thus nor prayed that Thou 
 
 Shouldst lead me on, 
 I loved to choose and see my path, but now 
 
 Lead Thou me on. 
 I loved the garish day and spite of fears. 
 Pride ruled my will, remember not past years. 
 
 Ill 
 So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
 
 Will lead me on. 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone. 
 And in the morn' those angel faces smile 
 Which I have loved long since and lost a while. 
 
 In like manner who can reject as uncatholic that truly 
 Catholic hymn, inspired by the scene of the disciples of Em- 
 maus, as they pressed Our Lord to remain with them as evening 
 came on — 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME 
 
 Abide with me, fast falls the eventide. 
 The darkness deepens. Lord, with me abide. 
 When other helpers fail and comforts flee. 
 Help of the helpless, O ! abide with me. 
 
 I need Thy presence every passing hour. 
 What but Thy grace, can foil the tempter's power. 
 Who but Thyself my guide and stay can be, 
 Through cloud and sunshine. Lord, abide with me. 
 
 Ill 
 I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless. 
 Ills have no weight and tears no bitterness. 
 Where is death's sting, where grave thy victory? 
 I triumph still if Thou abide with me. 
 
 Place Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes, 
 Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies — 
 Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee 
 In life, in death. Oh Lord, abide with me. 
 
392 Father Tom 
 
 Amongst all the subjects treated by modern composers there 
 is none more popular than the triumphant entry of Christ into 
 Jerusalem; and no wonder, for it is a truly inspiring scene. 
 To have Himself publicly acknowledged as a King was amongst 
 the designs of Providence in regard to His Christ. How 
 beautifully in words and music is this scene of Christ's triumph 
 portrayed by a modern writer: 
 
 Behold ! your King draws near the city gates, 
 
 Go forth Jerusalem with shout and song. 
 And moved as by one thought, the people rise 
 
 And hasten forth a glad tumultuous throng. 
 
 From out the peaceful village along the sunlit way. 
 
 The Prince of Peace leads onwards 
 A pilgrim band this day. 
 
 When lo ! with shout triumphant 
 They hear the hillsides ring. 
 
 With shouts of crowds that hasten 
 To greet their Prophet King. 
 
 He rides as Israel's rulers once rode in kingly state. 
 
 The pakn leaves wave around Him, the people throng the gate. 
 
 Rejoice, oh golden city, let loud hosannas ring. 
 
 For through thy streets He rideth, thy Saviour and thy King. 
 
 Hosanna in the highest. 
 
 Redeemer, Lord and King. 
 
 Among the many songs written descriptive of this scene and 
 which seems to have become a classic in France, in England 
 and in the United States is the well-known song Les Rameaux 
 by M. Faure. 
 
 Before I finish these remarks on modem music and the ver- 
 nacular in church music, I cannot let this opportunity pass 
 without saying a word or two on congregational singing in our 
 churches. I heard a celebrated preacher say once — "Nearly 
 every man has a hobby, and if you have not, get one as soon 
 as possible, for unless you do, you will never be in earnest on 
 any subject." Every church has a choir more or less well 
 trained to sing the difficult parts of the Mass. Sometimes they 
 give us pleasure by their singing, at other times pain. Even 
 in our large city churches (I speak as a provincial frpm New 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 393 
 
 York) the High Mass is very poorly attended, even in churches 
 where the music is of a very high order. On the other hand 
 in many churches the faithful flock to the children's Mass even 
 though they must pay extra for a seat. Why is this ? It is be- 
 cause they love to hear the soul stirring chorus of children's 
 voices as they sing the well-known vernacular hymns of the 
 Church. This is not to be wondered at, for a solo beautifully 
 sung by a tenor or a soprano, and perhaps, moved even to tears 
 by its pathetic rendition, yet it requires the chorus of many 
 voices to rouse the soul from its lethargy and stir it to action. 
 This is true whether it be said of Oratorio, Opera, Mass, or 
 National music. It is a large_ chorus, if they sing in unison and 
 harmony, that is capable of rousing not merely the individual, 
 but the whole congregation. 
 
 We do not want choruses the whole time to be sure, but we 
 do want them very frequently. Have our congregations no 
 rights at all ? 
 
 How often, for example, on a Christmas morning have we 
 not heard the Adeste Fideles and hummed it with the choir, 
 only wishing that the priest might turn around and say — 
 "Let us all join in singing the Adeste Fideles this morning." 
 How often at Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament has the 
 same thought come to our minds as we listened to the solemn 
 notes of the Tantum Ergo. Can it be done? Can we teach 
 our people to sing? The Council of Baltimore urged the bis- 
 hops to reestablish this old usage of the church in their re- 
 spective dioceses, therefore it not only can, but ought to be 
 done. 
 
 In our schools nowadays, it is a rare exception to find a child 
 that has absolutely no ear at all for music. All of us have 
 attended either parochial or Sunday schools and have listened 
 to and learned melodies that are as familiar to us as the 
 "Our Father." We know them by heart. Why do we not 
 sing them together as grown men and women. First of all 
 because a distinction was made when we were children, the 
 best voices were picked out and those formed the children's 
 choir. Very good indeed if they are set aside to learn to read 
 music, to be able to render the more difficult parts of the 
 
394 Father Tom 
 
 Mass — but for all that a grievous mistake. Every Sunday 
 there should be at least one or two standard hymns in which 
 every child in the school, young and old, shall be permitted to 
 join, during the mass. 
 
 The second reason is because these select children's choirs 
 are taught to look after novelties in hymns — and learn to de- 
 spise the old famihar strains. This should not be. Whatever 
 new tunes are learned, the old famihar airs must be heard 
 regularly if we would wish to make a lasting impression on the 
 minds of the people. Start out with the simple tune Sweet 
 Sacrament we Thee Adore or Mother dear, Pray for Me, and 
 the old-fashioned air of the Tantum Ergo and let the people 
 learn it by frequent repetition so thoroughly that it will be 
 as easy to sing it as to say the "Hail Mary." 
 
 And Oh ! the inspiration it is to priests and people to hear 
 that magnificent volume of sound as it wells up from a thou- 
 sand throats and sings the praises of the Great God Omnipotent. 
 Why, the music of the Miserere of Allegri, as sung in the Sis- 
 tine Chapel, is not near as soul inspiring to the average listener 
 as is the choral singing of a large body of the faithful. 
 
 How was it that Martin Luther managed to make his ser- 
 vices popular with the young people? How do our separated 
 brethren to-day contrive to hold their congregations together? 
 
 It is not by their preaching; it is not by their doctrines; it 
 is not by their sacraments or sacrifice; it is by the power of 
 sacred song. Heart and voice go out together and they feel 
 they are taking part in a great sacrifice of prayer and praise. 
 It is an inspiration to hear them as they let their voices ring 
 out in such hymns as Old Hundred, Sun of My Soul, and Rock 
 of Ages. Shall we be behind them in such laudable practices? 
 Shall we not rather remember that the church from the begin- 
 ning has fostered congregational singing? Shall we not recall 
 that in Italy, Germany, and France, the practice still flourishes? 
 Shall we not remember our history that tells us that it was 
 persecution and the sword that closed the mouths of the Eng- 
 lish, Irish, and Scotch Catholics, and made them afraid to heai- 
 the sound of their own voices, especially in praise of their faith 
 and their church? But here in our own beloved land, where 
 
Melodies of Mother Church 395 
 
 there is no fear of persecution and where we are free to worship 
 God as we please, with all the established rites, ceremonies 
 and customs of the old Church, let the people sing. Call to 
 mind, those of you who are descendants of emigrants who fled 
 from persecution and starvation — call to mind the ancient 
 days when your forefathers made the hillsides resound with a 
 psalmody that went up from their hearts to the throne of the 
 Great King. 
 
 Teach our young people to sing in church and you cultivate 
 and refine them. You soften their nature and force them to 
 remember that they are not mere children led to church to be 
 amused by listening to others sing God's praises, but that 
 they, as members of the church, have inalienable rights to take 
 active part in divine services, that they have living souls fit 
 to join in divine worship, that they are the temples of the living 
 God; that their heart-strings are like the strings of a lute or a 
 living lyre; and that in the sacred songs that come from their 
 lips they may feel the gentle fingers of God touching those 
 heart strings and making melody thereon, that brings peace to 
 their minds and happiness to their souls and repentant tears 
 to their eyes— that make them lead purer, better, holier lives. 
 
 Do you not believe what I say ? Then to prove it, I ask you 
 to rise one and all and use the slips which have been distri- 
 buted, and you will find thereon an old familiar hymn, Holy 
 God, We Praise Thy Name. Rise and let every one with heart 
 and soul join me in singing this beautiful hymn of Thanks- 
 giving: 
 
 Holy God, We Praise Thy Name. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Aix-la-Chapelle, 60, 143 
 
 Aix-les-Bains, 142, 192 
 
 Alapal, Mr., no 
 
 Alexandria, 144, 145 
 
 American College, 25, 36, 41, 49, 
 
 106, 192 
 Amsterdam, 156 
 Anagassan, 63 
 Ancona, 59 
 Annecy, 192 
 Antwerp, 156 
 Ardee, i, 9, 60, 61, 63, 68 
 Armagh, 118, 122, 157 
 Ars, 154, 155, 156 
 Assisi, 44, 46 
 Augustine Mother, 64 
 
 B 
 
 Bad Nauheim, 142, 192 
 
 Ballapousta, 62, 63 
 
 Ballybunion, 64 
 
 Bandon, 159 
 
 Bartnett, John, 126 
 
 Bayley, Rt. Rev. John R., 10 
 
 Belfast, 157, 158 
 
 Bellevue Hospital, 69 
 
 Beltrasna, 63 
 
 Bethany, 146 
 
 Bethlehem, 146 
 
 Betts, George, 130 
 
 Beyrout, 144, 145 
 
 Blanc, Dr., 193 
 
 Blue Mt. Lake, 73 
 
 Bock, Prof. Fred., 207 
 
 Boston, 25, 27, 181 
 
 Bradley, Brother, 23 
 
 Brennan, Dr., 193 
 
 Britt, Catherine, 81 
 
 Brooklyn, i, 6, 108 
 
 Bucknam, P. A., 126 
 
 Burnett, Mrs. Richard, 126 
 
 Burtsell, Rev. Richard L., 18, 180 
 
 C. Y. M. A. White Street, 81 
 
 California, 160, 162 
 
 Callan, Philip, 62 
 
 Calvary Cemetery, 1 1 
 
 Canedy, Rev. Charles P., 189, 206 
 
 Cannon, Pather, 203 
 
 Canterbiiry, 153 
 
 Catholic Summer School, 73 
 
 City Island, 11, 12 
 
 Clark, Ex-Mayor, 189 
 
 Clifford, Rev. Cornelius, 20, 178 
 
 Cologne, 143, 147 
 
 CoUon, 9 
 
 Conboy, Rev. Henry, 203 
 
 Cormelly, Denis, 81 
 
 Conroy, Fr., 11 
 
 Cork, I, 159 
 
 Corley, Rev. Charles, 70 
 
 Corrigan, Abp., 55, 79, 121, 201 
 
 Crowley, Rev. James P., 27, 34, 36, 
 
 53, 71, 144. 178, 192, 203, 208 
 Curry, Rev. James B., 27, 53, 203 
 Cusack, Bishop, 208 
 
 D 
 
 David's Island, 15, 127 
 
 Devin, John, 62 
 
 De Costa, Rev. Benjamin, 136, 144 
 
 Dillon, Anne Havey, 125 
 
 Dillon, John, 125 
 
 Doem, Jacob, 131 
 
 Doem, Peter, 131 
 
 Doem, Valentine, 131 
 
 Donnelly, Rev. E., 203 
 
 Donohue, Rev. Wm. J., 82, 136, 
 
 203, 208 
 Dossert, Prank G,, 69 
 Dowling, Rev. Martin, 12 
 Dresden, 148, 149 
 DriscoU, Rev. James, 207 
 Drogheda, 158 
 Drought, Bridget, 126 
 
 397 
 
398 
 
 Index 
 
 Drought, James, 126 
 
 Duagh, 2 
 
 Dugan, Major, 130 
 
 Duhigg, Rev. T. S., 27, 203, 208 
 
 Duncan, Rev. W. W., 207 
 
 Dunleer, i, 61 
 
 Dunn, Charles, C, no 
 
 Dunwoodie, 4, 130 
 
 Dwenger, Bishop, 106 
 
 E 
 
 Egypt, 142, 144, 145 
 Emmett, Robt., 183 
 Emmitsburg, 2, 133, 180 
 England, 142, 150, 157 
 
 Farley, Abp. John M., 123, 130, 
 
 134, 182 
 Farrell, Rev. Thos., 18, 180 
 Figaniere, Caesar de, 126 
 Figaniere, Henry de, 126 
 Figaniere, Joaquin de, 126 
 Forbes, Robert L., 207 
 Fordham College, 10, II, 20, 27, 
 
 106, 185 
 Fort Slocum, 127, 129, 130 
 
 Galvin, Father, 203 
 George, Lake, 71, 72 
 Germany, 142, 168 
 Gertrude, Mother, 64 
 Gimp, Tony, a story, 83 
 Glasnevin, 159 
 Gockeln, Rev. Father, 21 
 Graham, Bishop, 151 
 Grotta, Ferrata, 43, 44, 46 
 
 H 
 
 Halk, Annie, 81 
 
 Hanna, Most Rev. Edward, 27 
 
 Hanrahan, Rev. N., 23 
 
 Harley, Rev. John, 10 
 
 Harnett, Rev. T., 2 
 
 Harrison, II, 12 
 
 Hasson, Rev. James, 79 
 
 Hayes, Most Rev. P. J., 130, 182 
 
 Healy, Bishop, 25 
 
 Heely, Rev. J., i, 61 
 
 Heely, Jane, 9 
 
 Holy Land, 142 
 
 Holy Sepulchre Cemetery, 134, 216 
 
 Honolulu, 108 
 
 Hudson Park, 8 
 
 Hughes, Abp. John, 9, 10, 11, 19, 94 
 
 Hughes, Rev. James T., 123, 135, 
 
 194, 198, 200 
 Hume, Nelson, 134 
 Hutchison, Anne, 126 
 
 I 
 
 Ireland, i, 9, 60, 66, 142, 157, 158 
 Irish College, 2 
 Isidore, Brother, 6, 180 
 
 Jaffa, 144 
 
 J 
 
 K 
 
 Kennedy, Bishop, 195 
 Kenny, Rev. George, 21 
 Keogh, Hon. M. J., 186, 190 
 Kessler, Father, 158 
 Kildare, Owen, 114 
 Kingstown, 60 
 Knights of Columbus, 216 
 Kreitler, Ellen A., 126 
 Krill, Father, 174 
 
 La Rochelle, 8 
 
 La Valetta, Cardinal, 58, 181 
 
 Lenane, Helen S., 125 
 
 Leo XIII., 196 
 
 Lester, Henry M., 206 
 
 Levins, Rev. John, 9 
 
 Lewis, Mgr., 130 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham, 19 
 
 Lincoln, Cathedral, 153 
 
 Listowel, 64 
 
 Logue, Cardinal, 118, 157 
 
 Loreto, 59 
 
 Los Angeles, 167 
 
 Lourdes, 142, 154, 194 
 
 Louth, I, 9, 60, 194 
 
 Lowry, Chaplain, 15 
 
 Lucerne, 60 
 
 Lynch, Rev. T., 79 
 
 Lynch, Rev. Thos. J., 27, 51, 55, 
 
 130, 208 
 Lyons, 154, 156 
 
 M 
 
 McCarron, Father, 11 
 McClellan, Rev. Wm., 79 
 
Index 
 
 399 
 
 McCloskey, Cardinal, 25 
 McCormack, Father, 130 
 McDonnell, Bishop, 94 
 McDougall, Surgeon, 15 
 Mac6, Brother, 23 
 McElhinny, Rev. John, 35 
 McGean, Rev. James H., 79 
 McGinley, Rev. Edward, 70 
 McGlynn, Rev. Edward, 13, 18, 69, 
 
 180, 188 
 McLoughlin, Jane, 5, 125 
 McLoughlin, John, 1,81 
 McLoughlin, Patrick, 9, 10, 125 
 McLoughlin, Peter, 9, 10, 125 
 McLoughlin, Rev. Thos, 9, 11, 12, 
 
 13, 14, 16, 17, 180, 186, 187 
 McLoughlin, Thomas P. (Father 
 
 Tom), childhood, i; at Fordham, 
 
 20; in Rome, 25; curate, 70; at 
 
 Transfiguration, 77; lecturer, 104; 
 
 in New Rochelle, 121; Silver 
 
 Jubilee, 177; illness and death, 
 
 191; appreciations, 200 
 McSweeny, Dr. Daniel E., 133 
 McSweeny, Rev. E. F. X. 2, 16, 
 
 178, 180 
 McSweeny, Ellen, 133 
 McSweeny, Rev. Francis P., 2, 41 
 McSweeny, Rev. John O'C, 2 
 McSweeny, Mary F., i 
 McSweeny, Rev. Patrick, 2, 64 
 McSweeny, Rev. Patrick F., 2, 3, 
 
 18, 180 
 McSwiney, Canon Denis, 159 
 McSwiney, Daniel, 63 
 Madrid, 154, 156 
 Magillicuddy's Reeks, 64 
 Mamaroneck, 11, 12, 17, 134 
 Manning, Cardinal, 13 
 Marshall, Rev. Benj., 185, 189 
 Mashboeuf, Bishop, 35 
 Maxcy, Rev. Joseph, 126, 135, 198 
 Meath, 9, 62, 63 
 
 Meister, Rev. Isidore, 17, 134, 204 
 Metcalf, Father, 25 
 Mexico, 169 
 Milan, 60, 142 
 Molloy, John, 125 
 Molloy, OUie G., 126 
 Molloy, Sarah Murray, 125 
 Molloy, Wm. V., 126 
 Monterey, 162, 165 
 Mooney, Rev. Jos. F., 70 
 Mooney, Richard V., 207 
 Mount Hope, 133 
 Mount Kisco, 108 
 Mount Vernon, 12 
 
 Murphy, Mary Anne, 81 
 Murray, Father, 63 
 Murray, Margaret, 126 
 
 N 
 
 Navan, 9 
 
 Newburgh, 70 
 
 New Rochelle, 5, 8, 9, 11, 12, 18, 
 
 19, 66, 69, 122, 123, 178, 190 
 New Rochelle College, 134 
 New York City, 2,8, 18,66,78, 108, 
 
 148 
 Nilan, Rev. James, 180 
 Nova Scotia, 73 
 Nulty, Bishop, 13 
 
 O 
 
 O'Brien, Patrick, 81 
 O'Brien, J. C. P., 81 
 O'Connell, Most Rev. Wra. H., 27, 
 
 107, 181 
 O'Leary, Jane, 126 
 O'Malley, Austin, 106 
 Orizaba, 169, 171, 173 
 Orvieto, 44 
 
 Palestrina, 32, 36, 41 
 Pallen, Conde B., 183 
 Paris, 2, 148, 155 
 Parocchi, Cardinal, 47 
 Paso Robles, 166 
 Pelhamville, 11, 12 
 Perugia, 44, 45 
 Peterborough, 153 
 Pius IX., 27 
 Pius X., 194 
 Plymouth, 150, 152 
 F^o int O' Woods, 198 
 P'ortchester, 11, 12 
 Port Jervis, 136 
 Poughkeepsie, 2 
 Propaganda, 2, 4 
 Pyrenees, 154 
 
 Q 
 
 Queen's Daughters, 126 
 Queenstown, 66 
 Quinn, Rev. Daniel, 185 
 
 R 
 
 Racicot, Father, 21 
 Raymond, Mayor Geo. G., 183, 
 189, 190, 205 
 
400 
 
 Index 
 
 Riordan, Abp., 193 
 
 Rogers, Rev. Andrew, 61, 63, 68, 
 
 118 
 Rogers, Bishop, 106 
 Rogers, Patrick, 126 
 Rome, 2, 4, 25, 142, 181 
 Roosevelt, Theodore, 109, 127, 128 
 Russell, Rev. Matthew, 61 
 Rye, II, 12 
 
 St. Augustine, Pla., 79, 94 
 
 St. John Lateran, 41 
 
 St. Malachy's, 122 
 
 St. Mary's-Mount, 2 
 
 St. Patrick's, Newburgh, 70 
 
 St. Rose's, N. Y., 70 
 
 St. Stephen's, 18, 69 
 
 Salford, 191 
 
 Salisbury, 153 
 
 San Francisco, 108, 165 
 
 San Marino, 60 
 
 Scotland, 158 
 
 Scully, John, 22 
 
 Serra, Junipero, 162 
 
 Shanlis, 9, 60 
 
 Shaughnessy, Margt., 81 
 
 Sheehan, Canon, 151 
 
 Sheridan, Matt., 62 
 
 Simon, Prof., 23 
 
 Sisters of Charity, 2, 5, 133 
 
 Sister Ellen, 133 
 
 Sister Irene, 133 
 
 Sister Isabelle, 133 
 
 Sister Marguerite, 5, 51, 180 
 
 Spain, 142, 150 
 
 Spokane, 167 
 
 Stafiford, Monsignor, 199 
 
 Smyrna, 146 
 
 Syria, 144 
 
 Tamaro, Prof., 11 1 
 TannersviUe, 200 
 Teapy, Josie, 81 
 Thames River, 152, 156 
 Ticonderoga, 71 
 Tierney, M. J., 126 
 Toledo, 154 
 
 Tracy, Rev. Henry, 208 
 Tralee, 64 
 
 Treanor, Rev. Thos., 79 
 Trinity Church, N. R., 134 
 Tuckahoe, 11, 12 
 
 V 
 
 Valentip, Father, no 
 Varela, Rev. Felix, 79, 94 
 Vaughan, Cardinal, 191 
 Venice, 60 
 Vera Cruz, 162 
 Vienna, 149 
 
 W 
 
 Wall, Rev. F. H., 27, 71, 107, 108, 
 
 203 
 Ware, Howard R., 206 
 Washington, D. C, 127 
 Webster, Warren, 15 
 Whitehead, Mrs. Bridget, 125 
 White Plains, 11, 12 
 
 Yellowstone Park, 119, 167 
 Yonkers, 12, 70, 78 
 Yosemite, 119, 167