When St. Patrick was on his way to Ireland, with full powers from Pope Celestine, it is recorded that he was detained at Boulogne by the request of Sts. Germanus and Lupus, who were proceeding into Britain in order to preach against the Pelagian heresy; and that during their absence he temporarily exercised episcopal functions at Boulogne, and so came to be included in the list of its bishops. If St. Patrick were a native of the island, is it not probable that Germanus and Lupus would rather have [{757}] invited him to join their mission? But their object in asking him to interrupt his own special enterprise for a time in order to remain among the Boulonnais was, it is said, to guard against the spread of this heresy on the continent. And it is very natural that they should have asked him to stay for such an object, and that he should have consented, if this were indeed his native district, in which his intimacies were calculated to give him a special degree of influence; but not otherwise, hastening as he was under the sense of a divine call to the conversion of a whole nation plunged in paganism.
And, as I began by saying, all this proof is important mainly because it tends in some degree to elucidate the spirit and the work of the saint. We begin to see how with the Celtic character of a French Briton, which made him easily akin to the Irish, he combined the Roman culture and civilization, which added to his missions peculiar literary and political energy, that long remained. We see in him the friend and comrade of the great saints of a great but anxious age. We see how he connects the young Church of Ireland, not with Rome alone, but with the great militant Christian communities of Gaul—a connection which his disciples were destined so to develope and extend in the three following centuries; and we cease to wonder that both Ireland and France have clung so fondly to a tradition which linked together in their earliest days two churches whose mutual services and sympathies have ever since been of the closest kind.
From The Lamp.
THE BETTER PART.
"Sweet sister Lucille, I watch thee working,
From morning till nightfall, on cloth of gold,
On silks of purple, and finest linen,
And gems lie before you of worth untold.
Makest thou vestments for holy preacher,
And cloths to adorn the altar rare?"
"Ha, ha!" quoth Lucille, "thou simple creature!
The garments I make I intend to wear.
Dost thou not see I am nobly fashioned,
Regal indeed is my bearing and mien;
Are not my features as finely chiselled
As e'en were the features of Egypt's queen?
I'll work, and work, and I'll never weary,
Until rich garments be duly wrought,
Suited to clothe my unrivalled form.
For which tissues fitting cannot be bought.
[{758}] But, my gentle Mary, I watch thee praying.
And wasting many a precious day,
Sauntering out amid lanes and alleys,
And taking to beggars upon the highway.
You bring them on to sit at your table,
You feed them on savory meat and wine;
Are they above you, that you should clothe them,
And so humbly serve while they feast and dine?"
Then answered Mary: "God's poor, my sister,
Are more than our equals, I should say;
One day they'll feast in the kingdom of heaven,
For Christ will call them from hedge and highway.
I too am working a costly garment
With tears and penance, fasting and prayer;
'Tis to clothe my soul, and with God's needy
The raiment I weave I hope to wear."
Each walked her way through this vain world;
Lucille lived with courtiers who gave her praise,
Solicitous still to adorn her person,
She frittered time to the end of her days;
She work'd, and work'd, and never felt weary.
Changing her costume as changed her will;
When death came, unfinished still were her garments,
But withered and sinful he found Lucille.
Each walked her way through this vain world;
Mary sought neither courtiers nor praise,
But in the lazar-house, firm and steadfast.
Good she worked to the end of her days.
She smooth'd the couch of the sick and dying,
She taught the sinner the ways of the Lord,
She gave to the "little ones" drink refreshing;
Verily she shall not lose her reward.
From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD:
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
(CONCLUDED.)
CHAPTER XXVI.
On the night before the 10th of December neither Muriel nor I retired to rest. We sat together by the rush-light, at one time saying prayers, at another speaking together in a low voice. Ever and anon she went to listen at her father's door, for to make sure he slept, and then returned to me. The hours seemed to pass slowly; and yet we should have wished to stay their course, so much we dreaded the first rays of light presaging the tragedy of the coming day. Before the first token of it did show, at about five in the morning, the door-bell rung in a gentle manner.
"Who can be ringing?" I said to Muriel.