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A VILLAGE CONVENT AT CARRIGTWOHILL.

BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.

N the autumn of 1873, a sketch appeared in these pages of a reli

year 1847, and by the year 1870, numbered its subjects by hundreds, and comprised three provinces. This sketch further described the establishment in England of a branch of that congregation, distinct in government, but similar in its rule and in its spirit.

Since that day, many changes have taken place. Six or seven Polish houses of the order of the Poor Servants of the Mother of God, have been closed by the Prussian Government, and the doom of confiscation and exile is hanging over the whole institute.

In the meantime, the little seed sown in England has grown into a plant, still, indeed, in its infancy, but possessed of sufficient life and strength to stretch its branches across St. George's Channel and take root in Ireland.

The Polish nuns have calmly and bravely met their trials. If exile is to be their fate, they will cheerfully accept it. The MotherGeneral writes to the Superior in England: "We are touched to the heart by your affectionate invitation, and tears came into the eyes of all our sisters when I read to them your kind words. We will not leave our own land until compelled to do so; but if that day comes, it will be difficult to make a choice, for one and all are ready to go to England to-morrow." And then she adds: It rejoices my heart to hear of your progress. I am so happy to think that if we cannot carry on the good work, you will continue to do so to the greater glory of God."

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Thus, early in its history, the congregation has been marked with the stamp of the cross. But whilst checked in its labours by the hand of persecution, in the country of its birth, it begins, as it were, a new life amidst the colonies of our Irish poor in London, and in Ireland itself, whose daughters have enrolled themselves in this little army of Mary's servants.

If we were asked what is the distinctive character of this institute, so humble a one, so recently founded, so unexpectedly increasing, we should say, that it consisted, first, in a deep religious spirit applied to a life of constant labour, which enables the sisters to support themselves, and at the same time to minister to the spiritual needs of the poor amongst whom their lot is cast; and, secondly, in the facility with which they adapt themselves to the various requirements of the localities where they establish themselves. Poverty is both real and active in their case, and they realise, as nuns, that apostleship in humble life which brings the truths of faith and the influence of holiness close to the doors and to the hearts of those amongst whom they live and work.

Each house in England and in Ireland-all guided by the same

spirit, following the same rule, and under the authority of one Superior-General-differs in its works and in its circumstances. The foundation, which we would speak of at this moment, is singular in this respect, that, whereas, elsewhere the sisters are still obliged to live in hired houses, at Carrigtwohill a convent has been built for them in the midst of fair scenery and fertile pasture-land, and under the protecting shelter of the beautiful new church, which seems, from the rising-ground on which it stands, to keep watch over the lovely village at its feet. Within the sacred building, red crosses on the walls tell those who enter this House of God, that it is the consecrated abode of the Lord of Hosts. It is one of those sanctuaries which at once inspire devotion; and the beauty of the high altar is worthy, not indeed of Him of whom nothing earthly is worthy, but of the faith and love which have done their best to do Him honour.

It was a beautiful sight, in June, 1875, when the side aisles were filled with boys on the right and girls on the left, and the chief pastor went round giving confirmation. The progress of the mitred bishop and his clergy through the ranks of those kneeling children was a far more impressive sight than when, in accordance with modern custom, they are marshalled in files to the altar. It was like a picture of the olden times.

The church of Carrigtwohill is dedicated to the Mother of God; her dear image stands over the western porch. Through long, dreary ages of persecution she has been loved and invoked in this tranquil spot; and now the winter is past, the spring-tide has returned, she is openly honoured in a beautiful sanctuary, and a little band of her Poor Servants have been brought to dwell beneath her maternal eyes.

Just beyond the churchyard walls is seen in the distance an ancient and picturesque building, once the Catholic church of Carrigtwohill. A conventual one, tradition says, though of what order there is no clear record. It fell, of course, into the hands of the Protestants, and some of the additions which have propped up the old walls would have disfigured them but for the friendly ivy which covers the whole building with its green mantle.

The churchyard surrounding this ancient edifice has been, and still is, the village cemetery. The windows of the convent look upon it, and many a prayer will be breathed by the nuns for those faithful souls whose remains are awaiting in that quiet spot the great day of the Resurrection. Between the graveyard of the pious dead and the tabernacle where our Lord resides, most appropriately stands the abode of those who should be dead to the world, and live only a supernatural life. The lot of these nuns differs from that of their sisters who live and work in the "Seven Dials;" for instance, in the heart of great, huge, and wicked London, a bit of sky over their heads being the only one of God's works they have to gaze upon, and the sounds in their ears too often speaking of sin and impiety. But though the scene is different, the work is the same, that of drawing souls to God by the pure influence of holiness.

There is in Carrigtwohill a population of 2,500 inhabitants, and

great has been the change wrought in that locality since the Poor Servants of the Mother of God came to dwell there. The beautiful Irish faith has blossomed in rich beauty under their genial influence; and the pious people have been assisted in the varied forms of expressing that faith by outward tokens of devotion, seldom possible except in towns and cities. The guardian angels of the place must rejoice at the simple and earnest piety of the people, and bless their pastor for calling the good sisters into his own little portion of Christ's fold.

This leads us to speak of what has been done by this zealous priest for the glory of God and the good of his people: First, he built the church we have described at the cost of long and patient exertions; and when that was accomplished, at an age when many would have been content to sit down and rest, he determined to add to it a convent for the sisters whom he had invited to his parish. During the first year, they had resided in rooms over a shop, whilst, chiefly at his own expense, and with much anxiety and trouble, he erected the house, which was to be the centre of their works, and the comfort of his poor. But to finish it, a further sum is required, and for this purpose, a Bazaar is to be held on the 6th and 7th of September, with a strong hope that it will furnish the means of completing what has been so generously designed.

Carrigtwohill lies between Queenstown and Youghal. A green, shady lane leads from the station to the village. Is it too much to expect that at that lovely time of the year, when so many are travelling about for pleasure and for health, some may be tempted to visit this pretty spot, and to co-operate in the work on which so much depends?

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Perhaps we may be allowed here to relate a little instance of the Holy Father's kind and genial sympathy, which may interest some of our readers, and incline them to help the Carrigtwohill Bazaar. One who has its success greatly at heart, asked a friend, a dignitary of the Church at Rome, to solicit from Pius IX. some little prize for the charity-sale in the remote Irish village, and spoke of the sisters' work amongst the poor. His Holiness had before him on his table white boxes containing some small cameos. He smiled, and said: "These would not be good enough.' The answer, of course, was that, had they been far less pretty than they were, the gift of the Holy Father would make them most precious. "Take two of them, then," he said, in his kindest manner, and then spoke of other things. But the thought of the poor little humble convent near Cork was still in his mind, for before his visitor left, he said: "Two are not enough, take four for that Bazaar." And thus four chances of possessing the gifts of the Father of the Faithful are held out to those who will kindly respond to the oft-repeated request "to take tickets," the acceptance of which will help on the holy work we have described. Many other prizes of various sorts will swell the list of the Carrigtwohill Bazaar. But the richest that could be devised would hardly tempt the faithful children of the Church as much as the little gifts of the Holy Prisoner of the Vatican.*

*Tickets for the raffle, and also for the special drawing of the Pope's presents, can be had from the convent, Carrigtwohill, county Cork.

"HOW BEAUTIFUL IS GOD!"

BY WILFRID MENNELL.

OW beautiful is God!"
A dying poet said.

"H°

Within the abbey dim,

With holy prayer and hymn,
His body low they laid,

While weeping friends stood round,
With sorrow's girdle bound.

How beautiful is God

In all created things!

The earth His feet once trod
This silent anthem sings.

And yet we hear it not,
Because our ears are dull;

Because our hearts are full
Of self and selfish scheming,

Of love's delight and pleasure's dreaming.

O sing the message loud,

That all the busy crowd

May hear, and hear for ever,

As wearily they plod

Up life's so long endeavour

How beautiful is God!

THE CHANCES OF WAR.

BY A. WHITELOCK.

CHAPTER XXX.

THE LAST REVIEW.

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,
That make ambition virtue! Oh, farewell!
Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, th' ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And, O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell!

Othello.

THE fate of the royal cause in Ireland depended, in a great measure, on O'Neill's fulfilment of the engagement into which he had entered with the Lord Deputy. The Irish general was honestly desirous to discharge as quickly as possible his portion of the contract. But with all the diligence he could employ he was unable to set his troops in motion before the end of September. The difficulty of collecting

provisions, and of organising a large force for a lengthened campaign, detained him in the neighbourhood of Derry for three weeks after the departure of Ormonde's commissioners. At length he began his march southwards. The violence of the disease from which he suffered increased every day. He could not ride, nor walk; and even the easy motion of a litter caused him intense suffering. Worn out in body, and by no means hopeful in mind, he was carried at the head of his troops. The progress of the army was slow, for the condition of the invalid who led it did not permit of rapid motion. Great events had meanwhile taken place in Leinster and Munster. Drogheda had been stormed, the garrison and the inhabitants had been indiscriminately put to the sword, and Cromwell had turned his face towards the south, avowing his intent of treating to the same mercy all who, stubbornly loyal to Charles II., refused allegiance to the supreme Parliament of England. The news of these misfortunes fell heavily on the heart of O'Neill, and, despite the exquisite tortures he endured, he struggled onwards to encounter the foe against whom he alone might hope to contend with success.

A fortnight after it had quitted Derry, the Ulster army halted, after a day of slow and toilsome marching, within a few miles of the town of Cavan. The spot chosen for the bivouac was in the midst of a region of rich and variegated scenery; it was surrounded by gently sloping hills, dotted with yellow groves, and green with luxuriant verdure. The little river Annalee poured its shallow flood over a bed of shingle with a rumbling noise which filled the woods upon its banks with countless echoes. A planter's stone house rose upon the summit of a hill close by, and looked out timidly from its bawn of sods upon the frothy stream; and below it a deserted mill kept its motionless wheel suspended in melancholy silence over the flowing waters. The locality, or "precinct," as the government surveyors of the reign of James the First were wont to style it, was one of the choicest allotments made to the English undertakers of Ulster. The untenanted stone house and the silent mill remained as monuments of the industry of the settlers; they themselves had, early in the rebellion, fled before the fury of the exasperated natives. In later days, another colony of settlers occupied the spot. The house was again inhabited; the mill-wheel was repaired and was again whirled round by the stream, and, in course of time, the village, which to-day is distinguished by the name of Ballyhaise, grew up around

the manor and the mill.

"Whose is the castle on the hill ?" asked O'Neill of a dust-covered

officer who rode beside his litter.

"Egad, mon Général," returned the officer, with a laugh, "you inquired, raising his voice to make himself heard by a horseman who more conversant with such subjects. How, now, MacGuire ?" he was approaching from the direction of the house in question, "have you discovered who is the proprietor of yon fair mansion ?"

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questioned. "I dare say the house and all the lands here about

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