Mount St. Mary's College

Brownson's Quarterly Review, April, 1849
 
Art. IV. - 1. Discourse on the Right Rev. John Dubois, D. D., Bishop of New York, Founder of Mount St. Ma­ry's, and Superior of St. Joseph's. Pronounced in Mount St. Mary's Church, January 24, 1843, on the Occasion of a Solemn Service for the Repose of his Soul, by Rev. John McCaffrey, Superior of the Seminary, and President of the College of Mount St. Mary's.
2. Discourse on the Right Rev. Samuel Gabriel Brute1, D. D., Bishop of Vincennes. Pronounced in Mount St. Mary's Church, August 19,1839, on the Occasion of a Solemn Service for the Repose of his Soul, by the Rev. John McCaf­frey, Superior of the Seminary, and President of the Col­lege of Mount St. Mary's.

We knew that we were going to College - to a Catholic College - somewhere among the mountains. We were - we speak personally, not editorially - too young to know its ex­act location, or to care much about it. It seems a century ago ; but we distinctly remember a dismal aversion to the black-gowned priests of Rome, who were soon to be our only guardians. It was a bright May morning ; and as we watched the graceful and ever-varying outlines of the Blue Ridge, we caught a glimpse of two white specks in the distance. " The College and the Church," cried the driver. We made no re­ply, but looked with the " fixed gaze" of Dante on Beatrice, as if, even then, we had a presentiment of the influence they were to exert on our after lives.

As we approached, those white specks became stately build­ings. And then, after passing through an avenue of noble oak and chestnut trees, we stood upon a smooth terrace, where a band of youths were slowly pacing, muttering over strings of beads. A tall man in an ominous cassock offered to conduct us to the church. We ascended the hill,- and a blaze of beauty burst upon us, such as we had never seen before. We knew not which was lovelier, - the sunset skies above, or the broad, verdant, limitless plain beneath, that looked tranquillity. For a moment, home-sickness and childish apprehension van­ished, and all was joy.

But we descended ; my companion left me, and I stood desolate and lone with the man in the cassock. He soothed me like a father, but he could not check my tears. That night - how well I remember it ! - I knelt by my little cot and prayed to the genie of Aladdin to transport me far away. And it was not without a hope of being heard ; for I had read the Arabian Nights until I half believed them. However, I woke exactly where I lay down, and rose a student of Mount Saint Mary's College, Maryland, doomed to a most matter-of-fact breakfast of dry bread and coffee.

The first day was, by prescription, dedicated to a ramble over the mountain. There were numerous flower-gardens - very small and very pretty- scattered at intervals along a shady ravine, through which a clear, cold stream, abounding in craw­fish, went merrily trickling.    And what surprised me most was to find, in almost every nook, three small wooden crosses plant­ed in beds of green moss bordered by round, white pebbles. All along the slope of the hill were neat and durable paths, some broad, some narrow, frequently intersecting each other, and many of them terminating in a time-worn grotto. I was told they were made by Mr. Brute. I did not know that I was treading hallowed ground, and, for some time, regarded Mr. Brute as a good old industrious day-laborer, who had been well paid for his work. I had yet to learn that his wages were not of this world.

The days went rapidly by, -home-sickness disappeared, -
I went through all the hustlings, - was initiated into the myste­
ries of "Gunjers" and "The Jug," and expanded into a
regular mountaineer. How the heart glows even now, to re­
view our Thursday joys ! - to recall the rapture with which
we shouldered our guns, and from sunrise to sunset, through
creek, and den, and swamp, pursued with unwearied foot the
hapless bird and fated squirrel ! or the ecstasy with which we
cast the seine in the "Ham's Hole" or u Crabb'sDam," and
dashed through the waters like hunted otters ! And when even­
ing came, those memorable debates in the Philomathian and
the aspiring Philalethian ! - who that has shared them can ever
forget them ? T/ien, it was an every-day feat to climb the
mountain for two miles at a steady trot, and descend at a run
with the captive rabbit, - bait the traps and all, - in less than an
hour. There was no dyspepsia then. And the rag-balls, with
" Friday " for the devil, -the concerts, with " Major's " eye
flashing through Figaro, - the annual supper and the annual
oyster, - Christmas, St. John's day, St. Cecilia's, and the
Twenty-second, each graced with the quarterly turkey, and
  but I could go on for ever.

I do not write for all; and the emotion that thrills me as I write may appear unwarranted and ridiculous. There are some who will see only an unmeaning jargon in the words that bring back to me and others the sweet, the balmy morning of life. But there are many, here and far away over the waters,- the gallant, unbroken band of mountaineers, who have adorned the sanctuary and the battle-field, whose hands are ever clasped wherever they meet, whose hearts still leap at the mention of their Alma Mater, - they will weep tears of joy when others sneer, and feel a meaning where others find none.

I speak of myself, but not for myself alone ; it is a language that sounds from Maine to Louisiana, from Missouri to Florida, - a language that is heard among the snows of Canada, amid the orange groves of Rio, and in the fair isles of the Caribbean Sea. Would that I could express more worthily this sacred voice of love and gratitude !

The years went by without a pang, except when idleness in­curred the frown of love. The name of Mary, the Blessed Virgin Mother of Jesus, became familiar to me, and I could not resist an inclination to pray to her and become an idolater- to that extent. Soon I ventured to make the sign of the cross, and to respond to the litanies. And at last, by the mercy of God, I knelt before the chapel altar, -the waters of regenera­tion were poured upon my head, - and I rose, a Catholic.

Ever blessed moment! - not only for me, but for another who knelt beside me, and was received into the bosom of the Church.

Shall we be sneered at for remembering and repeating this ? for clinging to a past that was full of light and beauty ? They are shouting around us, - " Begin to live ! - the realities of life are before you, -onward to riches, rank, and fame ! " So cried Catiline. We plunged into the world and tried its max­ims ; and we found, that, instead of beginning to live, we were beginning to die. We tried the realities of life and found them shadows, - Dead Sea fruits that turned to ashes on the lips. We tasted human applause, and felt, that, in setting our hearts on it, we had incurred the frown of God. We lifted the spangled veil from the face of riches, rank, and fame, and saw the can­kered Mokanna beneath it. We tried the round of fashion, and detected its heartlessness, its hopelessness, its martyrdom.

No ! in that little chapel where we received Catholicity, we began to live and to pursue realities ; and the fulfilment of our baptismal promises is still our only reality. And as we look around us, and see the true-hearted and the strong-minded groping in darkness for the light we there received, - as we feel more keenly every hour, that Catholicity is our only anchor, our only solace in danger, in despondency, in joy, and in death, - who can wonder that we turn with overflowing hearts to Mount St. Mary's, where our life began, and speak of her with a tenderness that makes the worldling smile ?

Let him read a portion of her history, and he will learn to respect her. " After studying the lives of Dubois and Brute, he will see the meaning of that immortal line, -
" The world knows nothing of its greatest men."
John Dubois was born in Paris, on the 24th day of August, 1764, and was educated at the College of Louis le Grand, side by side with Carnille des Moulins and Robespierre, - the cross of Christ and the guillotine ! His parents designed him for the army, but Heaven called him to a better warfare : he entered the seminary of St. Magloire, and was ordained priest at the beginning of the Revolution. He did not quail before the storm ; and, refusing to acknowledge the miscreants who were desolat­ing France, left Paris in disguise, and sailed for Norfolk, Vir­ginia.

He was welcomed by James Monroe and Patrick Henry, and celebrated mass in the capital.    Bishop Carroll soon dis­covered, that, in sheltering the fugitive, they were receiving an angel, and John Dubois became the pastor of all western Mary­land and Virginia.    Gifted with an iron constitution and indom­itable energy, and filled with the Spirit of God, he allowed him­self no idle moments, no respite from toil, or relaxation after fatigue.   No matter how inclement the weather, or how long the journey, this faithful  shepherd  never disappointed his flock. Once, on a Saturday afternoon, as, almost exhausted by fatigue, he was entering the confessional, a distant sick call came.   Di­recting the usual preparations for the Sunday mass to be made, he mounted his horse, stopped not until he reached the death­bed,   administered  the  consolations of religion, and, after a journey of fifty miles, and twice swimming the Monocacy at the risk of his life, was again in the confessional at nine o'clock the next morning, without having broken his fast, sang mass and preached, with so little appearance of fatigue, that many of the congregation never suspected that he had stirred abroad in the interval.    Efforts nearly as great as this were often his great­est happiness.

He made himself all to all, that he might win all to Christ; and though habituated to the elegant refinements of the most polished society in the world, he loved to mingle with the rude and illiterate. For u he was as an eye to the blind and a foot to the lame, and the father of the poor ; and he sat as a king with his army standing about him, and as a comforter of them that mourned."

With the bold and sanguine spirit that marks the leader, he exhibited his plan of a Catholic church in Frederick, at a time when there was neither money to build, nor Catholics to fill it. But he created both ; and, to the amazement of all, built it, paid for it, and filled it.
This was but the beginning of his mission. In a dense, miry, and almost inaccessible thicket at the foot of a mountain near Emmittsburg, this friendless foreigner, lisping an unknown lan­guage, saw a fountain of pure rock water, - that fountain which is now dearer than Helicon to many a heart ! - and he told the people, that there he meant to establish a College for the edu­cation of their children and the supply of the holy ministry. There were looks of surprise, smiles of incredulity ; many a laugh and jeer went round, and some privately pronounced him crazy. How human wisdom dwindles into littleness beside the bold, indefatigable, heaven-inspired servant of God !

But before proceeding with this great work, he selected a site of unrivalled beauty and grandeur, a stone's throw above the fountain, whence half of Maryland, a large part of Pennsyl­vania, and something of Virginia are seen, blended into one im­mense semicircle, and erected the church which still stands a monument of his energy and virtue.

A log building, with a narrow clearing in front, was the be­ginning of the College, or rather of the Seminary ; for the edu­cation of ecclesiastics was his primary object. He was soon surrounded by aspirants to the holy ministry, and the Queen of Sciences was enthroned at Mount St. Mary's.

This was the beginning. In a few years the scene had changed, as if by magic. The thicket was cleared, the stumps of trees were removed, the grounds inclosed and broken into terraces. The water, " taught a better course," flowed through artificial channels to the spot where it was needed ; a garden bloomed with flowers and the fruits of many climes, where but yester­day the fox and wolf were howling ; there were shady walks along the mountain-side, or on the margin of the murmuring brook ; scholars had gone forth to tell their friends what beau­tiful things were a-doing at the foot of the Blue Ridge. The Feast of Pentecost, 1824, saw a noble edifice on the point of completion, and a hundred youthful students ready to occupy it.

Yet this was the madness at which cool and calculating heads shook so very sagaciously. It was the wisdom of the world ; for how could an exile flying from the sword of persecution, a penniless priest, without one dollar of endowment or donation from the Stale, with no munificent grant, no rich bequest, with nothing but his own energies and the1,help of God to rely on, - how could he be expected to accomplish that to which the authority and treasures of Maryland were scarcely adequate ? " Verily, that which is foolish of God is wiser than men " !
The sun of Pentecost gilded the cross that crowned the cu­pola of that majestic structure : the next morning glittered in mockery over its ashes and ruins. Roused by cries of terror, at the dead of night, from the sweet sleep of the good man, John Dubois beheld at a glance the ruin of his hopes ; - that new and glorious edifice was on fire, and fierce flames were streaming from every window. Come ye who sicken over the loss of a few thousands which ye scarcely miss, - ye who droop and wither before the frown of beauty, - ye who blaspheme be­cause your cook has spoiled some favorite morsel, - and ye who groan beneath real affliction, - come and take a lesson from this venerable old man ! Mark him, as he sees the harvest of years perishing before him, - mark him, as the ruthless fire that de­vours the child of his heart lights up his silvery hair and splen­did features, - not tearful and heart-broken, as you may sup­pose, but deliberately arming himself with the sign of the cross, and exclaiming with Job, " The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away ', blessed be the name of the Lord !" And come ye who go to Plutarch for your great sayings, - or to Roman history, - or to the American savage, - hear this servant of God, though the snows of sixty winters are whitening his head, exclaiming, as he calmly eyes the flaming edifice, which had ex­hausted his means and his hopes, " There are some .defects in the plan of this building, which I'll remedy in the next." Go, and contrast it with the reply which has just elected Zachary Taylor President of the United States : it will not suffer even by that contrast.

He kept his word; - another and a better edifice began to rise, whilst the ashes of the first were smoking. Unscathed by fire and time, it still remains *, and Mount Saint Mary's College, pure as the fountain that gushes beside it, has never ceased, from that moment, to scatter blessings through the world.

To the Mother of God he dedicated his Church, his College, and his Seminary. The hill, the spring, the woods, and every thing around him, were sacred to Mary. And it was not long before the Virgin Queen of Heaven crowned his labors with success far exceeding his brightest hopes.
Yet all this is but the half of what John Dubois accomplish­ed. From the platform of the mountain church may be seen, a mile or two distant in the verdant plain, a group of stately buildings, producing an effect superior to any thing on this side of the Atlantic, - St. Joseph's. When Mother Seaton and her little band of resolute associates left ease and rank behind them,to feed the hungry, to rear the orphan, to nurse the sick, and, like tutelary angels, to throw themselves between pestilence and its victim, John Dubois gave them a home - when other they had none - on his own consecrated hill. There he consoled, encouraged, and sustained them amid trials and difficulties which would have shaken souls less devout than theirs, and, from the scanty stores of his own poverty, supplied them with bread, when, but for him, they had no alternative but to abandon their undertaking and disperse, or perish for want of food. There he initiated them into the practice of the rules laid down by St. Vincent, and instructed, trained, formed, and directed them all.

But the authority that forms the key-stone of the grand arch of Catholic unity called him from his dear mountain and beau­tiful valley, - from the spot which he found a wilderness and made a paradise ; and, in the autumn of 1826, he was conse­crated to the See of New York. We shall not follow him there, through his unostentatious, but active and untiring, career of benevolence.

A few years ago, that man of God was permitted by Heaven to revisit the scene of his early labors, and to behold again the mansions of piety'he had made for others in this life, ere he en­tered the abodes of bliss which angels were preparing for him in the life to come. He was weak with age and increasing in­firmity, but his quick, commanding eye, even then, sparkled with energy and benevolence. We knew not what he thought, - he said but little, - he only looked and smiled, as the old and the young tottered or sprang for his blessing. It was the last he ever gave us on earth. At the foot of Blue Ridge, his epi­taph is written in living characters that expand and deepen every year. They need not the chisel of Old Mortality to preserve them.

In all these labors, John Dubois was seconded by a brother priest from France, -a spirit akin to his own. Simon Gabriel Brut6 was born at Rennes on the 20th of March, 1779. He soon gave evidences of superior talent and promise of a brilliant career. In the public schools of his native city, he was distin­guished and eminently successful. At the age of twenty, we find him in the medical school of Paris, where, for three years, he attended thje lessons of the first masters of the age. The professional chairs were then indeed " chairs of pestilence," and impiety reigned among the licentious students. But the young Brute was armed against this. His virtuous parents had brought him up in the fear and love of God ; and at the beginning of the Revolution, when the prisons were crowded with those who were too noble-minded to conceal or abjure their faith, Simon Gabriel Brute, then but a boy of tender years, might be seen, in the disguise of a baker's boy, penetrating the prison and supplying the victims of persecution, not only with that bread which nourishes the body, but with the bread of an­gels, - the food that gives life to the soul. Thus consecrated to heaven in his infancy, he was uninjured by the sneers and sophisms of La Marck and Fourcroy, and, like the children of Israel in the fiery furnace, passed unscathed through the midst of the flames ; t; for the angel of the Lord walked with him." He defied infidelity, and, throwing down the gauntlet to his professors, came off conqueror, and secured the approbation of the First Consul.

Surrounded by infidel teachers and libertine fellow-students, with the echoes of irreligious sophistry and blasphemy inces­santly tingling in his ears, -beset with the bustle and giddy dis­sipation of the gayest capital in the world, while the star of Na­poleon was in the ascendant, and tidings of victory after victory flushed and almost maddened the youthful minds of France, - he thought only of storing his mind with knowledge and sancti­fying his soul.

Medicine was not his only study : he excelled in mathemat­ics, philosophy, and drawing. In 1803, he graduated as a doc­tor of medicine, with the highest honors of the school. It was then, in the budding of his triumph, he turned his thoughts from the cure of the human body to the cure of the immortal soul. After fervent prayer and mature reflection, he took the advice of a prudent director, and, obedient to the Divine voice within, entered the Seminary of St. Sulpitius, at Paris, a candidate for the holy priesthood. There he carried on his studies at the foot of the cross, and laid both deep and strong the foundations of his ecclesiastical learning, on which he reared that solid and magnificent edifice which so long commanded the admiration of all that beheld its towering height and fair proportions.

For five years he devoted the retirement of the Seminary to sacred study and pious exercises, respected and beloved by equals and superiors, and giving an example of humility, sim­plicity, and obedience. In this manner he went from virtue to virtue, having the word of God u for a lamp to his feet and a light to his paths."

A single incident will mark his fearless and disinterested gen­erosity.    A young friend of his, having incurred the suspicion of the imperial government, was threatened with death. Con­vinced of his innocence, M. Brute sought to have the case revised. But in vain. As a last resource, he prepared a me­morial, hoping to deliver it as the emperor left the chapel. But, foiled by the rapidity of Bonaparte's motions, he pursued him so eagerly, that he was nearly bayoneted by the gens d'armes in attendance.

Soon after his ordination, in such estimation was he held, that he was offered the appointment of assistant chaplain to the emperor. Had he accepted it, this young ecclesiastic might have changed the history of the world. But, in obedience to his bishop, he declined the offer, and taught theology at Rennes, until appointed to the mission of the United States in the sum­mer of 1810, when, bidding adieu to France, he set sail for America, and joined his brethren of the Sulpitian society at Baltimore.

His association with M. Dubois commenced in 1818, when he took charge of the Seminary at Mount St. Mary's College, and nurtured with pious solicitude and zeal the growing institu­tion. If his genius and learning were conspicuous when he ex­patiated on theology and moral philosophy, they were not the less admirable when he descended to the humble task of teach­ing youth geography, or explaining the little catechism to chil­dren. In addition to his multiplied duties as teacher, he was also confessor to the Sisters of Charity, and for many years pas­tor of Emmittsburg. His labors were rewarded with the most abundant fruit. His cheerful piety, amiable manners, and lively interest in the welfare of his pupils were sure to win their hearts ; while his eminent holiness of life secured their venera­tion. His exhortations to virtue and piety could scarcely fail of effect, because he recommended what he himself practised. No standard of Christian or priestly excellence to which he pointed could appear too high, since he was himself a living instance of its attainment. If, forgetful of this earth, he always pointed and allured to heaven, he also led the way.

Long before the morning dawn, this " blameless priest" arose to converse with God and give him the first fruits of the day ; and when he approached the altar to offer up the holy sacrifice, his heart, full to overflowing, was always overpowered by min­gled emotions of reverential awe, gratitude, and love, that often found relief in copious tears. When descending to the dis­charge of his ordinary duties, like Moses, he bore the marks of converse with his God, and the seraph seemed to have touched his lips with living coals of fire. His time was divided between prayer and good works, and his recreation was but variety of labor. At one time, you could find him kneeling for hours be­fore the blessed Sacrament, - at another, in his superb library, surrounded by the writings of the fathers and doctors of the Church, pursuing his elevated studies with intense application, - and again, plunging into the mountain torrent, and swimming amid masses of floating ice, to hear confessions on the opposite shore. Or, after a journey of fifty miles performed on foot in a single day, book in hand, praying and reading by turns, and scarcely stopping to take the simple refection that nature re­quired, you might see him meeting his friends in the evening with a freshness of spirits and gayety of conversation that could not be surpassed.

Often did he strip himself of the garments necessary to his own comfort, to bestow them on some shivering victim of pov­erty. The bigot, who drove him from his door by day, could not prevent him from bringing clothes and provisions to his needy family by night : ingratitude but inflamed his charity the more. When scandal arose, his soul burned within him until it was extinguished and the evil remedied. When neighbours were at enmity, cowering under the fury of a winter storm, and pelted with driving sleet and snow, he could be seen return­ing from the blessed work of reconciliation. And when he entered the pulpit, how those who understood him well loved to follow the eagle flights of his genius ! - how they felt their faith shaking off its heavy slumbers, as conscience, from the deep abysses of the heart, responded to his bold appeals, and the spark of charity grew to a consuming flame ! And even those who caught no meaning from his foreign accent went away deeply moved and edified, saying that he appeared to them as an angel speaking to their souls in the name and by the authority of God.
And amidst all these occupations, and others which are record­ed only in heaven, Simon Gabriel Brute and JohnDubois, hand in hand, hovered like twin angel guardians over the tender plant, which is now the great, the beautiful Saint Joseph's.

But the time arrived when this " burning and shining light" was to be placed on the golden candlestick of the Apostles, and M. Brute was appointed to the newly erected See of Vin-cennes. A splendid episcopacy he would undoubtedly have declined ; but to make new sacrifices, - to take up his lot in poverty and privation among strangers, - to go far from whatever was dear to him on earth, - to spread the glad tidings of salvation in the rising West, and use his influence in the mother country to secure missionaries for the land of his adoption, - these were temptations he could not resist. He therefore bowed his head to a thorny mitre, and, in the autumn of 1834, proceed­ed towards his distant diocese.

At Vincennes he found himself a stranger, poor, and alone. Around him were little more than the wrecks of the Catholic faith and discipline of the original settlers. Every thing was to be commenced, and all was to be effected by himself. In less than eight months, he had travelled more than a thousand miles on horseback over roads almost impracticable, visited every part of his extensive diocese, and was as familiar with the missions of the West in general as if his whole life had been devoted to them exclusively. He then proceeded to Europe for succour, - stood amid the ruins and resurrection of the Eter­nal City, - received the blessing of the common Father of the Christian world, - offered up the Victim of salvation in the eu-charistic sacrifice on the tombs of the Apostles,- scanned with the eye of genius and cultivated taste the noble productions of ancient and modern art, -plunged into the labyrinths of Rome's greatest libraries,- and, by his enlightened curiosity, profound erudition, and virtuous simplicity of manners, won the admiration of Mai and Mezzofanti. At Vienna he was courted by the great, the learned, and the pious, and treated with marked respect by the imperial family. In his own beautiful France, he found himself encircled by relatives and friends, honored by the noble, the powerful, and admired by all. And then, with more than twenty missionaries, he hurried back to the wilds of Vincennes.

In a short time he opened a College, a free school for boys, which soon numbered eighty pupils, and an orphan asylum for girls, superintended by the Sisters of Charity. The enumera­tion of his labors and privations would fill a volume. Wasting away under an incurable consumption, he still proceeded on his errand of mercy, going about like his Divine Master, doing good to all. Difficulties that would have disheartened, and obstacles which might have been called insurmountable, but animated his zeal and charity. Once, having commenced a journey of four hundred miles, in such a state of bodily suffering that he could not sit upright on his horse, he nevertheless completed it, with­out the intermission of a single day. And shortly before his death, he left Vincennes to visit a distant mission, which he had already visited thrice within the year ; and, though so weak and attenuated that he could scarcely support his tottering frame, he answered, in the absence of the pastor, three distant sick calls on the same day, and, almost dying, administered the con­solations of religion to those who appeared no nearer to mortal dissolution than himself.

In 1834, he found one priest and three churches in his dio­cese : after five years, he left there twenty-three missionaries, and a temple to the living God in almost every town and many a country place.

To such a man death was no unwelcome visitor. As they wept around his death-bed, he murmured, as if to console them, "I am going home. To-day with you, -to-morrow with God." And then, abandoning himself to prayer, he calmly and sweetly surrendered his soul into the hands of his Creator.

The mayor and civil authorities, with the learned societies of Vincennes, passed resolutions to attend his funeral. The whole population poured forth to accompany in solemn silence his hon­ored remains to their last resting-place on earth. They were outnumbered by attendant angels.

In meditating upon the lives and deaths of these men of God, whilst filled with joy and hope for them, we return into our­selves with fear and trembling.

This imperfect narrative of Dubois and Brut6 has been compiled exclusively from the discourses, noticed in the be­ginning, pronounced by the Rev. John McCaffrey, who knew and loved and witnessed many of the shining virtues of those he celebrates. There are no finer biographies in the language than those two noble orations, in which he has given to the world some knowledge of its truly great men. Every page breathes a tenderness and a sincerity which cannot be imitated ; for he wrote from a heart overflowing at the memories that every word suggested. I have not presumed to vary his exquisite language : I felt that it would be injustice to him and to the dead - and to the living. But if this mutilation of his eloquent discourses retains a particle of their beauty and piety, it must be acceptable to every genuine Catholic.

Instead of poring over histories hostile to the Church and in­imical to Christianity, or of devouring novels whose insidious poison corrupts the very fountain of domestic peace, whose scenes of gilded guilt are dancing in the giddy brain of youth, and leading on, with siren music, millions of souls to eternal ruin, - instead of weeping for Consuelo or Fleur de Marie, or sobbing tenderly over the fate of Lara, or Hafed, or Selim, or feeling a generous compassion for Milton's Lucifer, - would to heaven that all Catholics would read their Catholic literature, and learn to relish the trials and the triumphs of their saints, and feel with men whose souls are in heaven, instead of sympa­thizing with empty images shaped in hell ! And would to hea­ven that Catholic writers, instead of brewing us a stale decoc­tion of Bulwer, James, and Eugene Sue, - instead of wedding theology to fiction and converting Protestants to - anything but Catholicity, - would content themselves with finding proper words for the preservation of the real labors of the real orna­ments of our holy faith, instead of decking out their imaginary heroes and heroines in what is, after all, no very creditable cos­tume. Eminent Catholic sanctity actually accomplishes more than most poets and authors can invent or imagine ; and fact is a far better panegyrist of the Church than fancy.

There is no theme more deserving, and more capable of de­veloping true genius and poetry, than the labors of Catholic missionaries from China to California, from Norway to the Sandwich Islands. And what more elevated or praiseworthy occupation can there be than to hold up to the love of all the shining patterns of Catholic piety, and thus share the merits of their illustrious example by a faithful narrative of their virtues ?

We hope to see the Alumni of St. Mary's reproducing the splendid history of the noble and saintly Dubourg, and fol­lowing that great man through his majestic career of good, from the time that he heard and confirmed the heroic resolution of Mother Seaton, until, in the name of Heaven, " he set out as a giant to run the way " and build up religion in the West. And when the writer is inspired by the memory of Dubourg, let him not forget the names of Nagot and Gamier.

It cannot be long before some master hand, which owes its grace to Georgetown College, will unfold the magnificent life of his Alma Mater, and point out a group of gems glittering almost unseen amid the glorious light that flashes from the crown of the Society of Jesus, - that immortal crown, bright with the blood of countless martyrs and the redemption of half the heathen world.