standing, was built on the site of the monastic edifice. We read that Alexander de Bicknor rebuilt it in 1324; and that from 1340 to 1821 it was the country residence first of the Catholic, and then of the Protestant Archbishops of Dublin. George Browne, an Englishman who ruled in the diocese in 1535, became a Protestant, and thenceforth the place was the property of the prelates of that Church till it ceased to be their residence (1821), when at the instance of Dr. one that was attached to the document excommunicating the Archbishop? Who can tell? Those who are competent to form an opinion on the matter think it is. In 1573, when Adam Loftus was Archbishop, the "Irishry," who, as he said— writing to the Lord Deputy-"were never more insolent," invaded Tallaght, and killed his nephew and his servants at the very gates of the palace. A great part of the old castle was pulled down in 1729 by Archbishop John Hoadly, and a mansion built with the formation next morning to the constable at Tallaght. Another fact in connection with the place, and of interest to Nationalists, is that the Protestant curate in 1821who was the last to live in the old palace -was tutor to Isaac Butt, the Father of Home Rule. A Major Palmer, inspector of prisons, bought the place from Archbishop Magee in 1822, and demolished the palace lest it should ever become a monastic institution. With part of the materials he built a mansion, which may still be seen at the rear of the new convent. Later on, he disposed of his interest to Mr. (afterwards Sir John) Leutaigne, who lived there for some years, and who had the lower story of the old tower, of which mention has been already made, converted into a chapel in which Mass was sometimes celebrated, and to which he very kindly admitted the people of the neighborhood. It was about that time, or a little earlier, in 1829, that the present Protestant church, which stands about eight yards from the site of a former one, was built, partially with the materials of the old church. May we not suppose that the spirits of Aengus and Maelruain and Joseph, and the hosts of other holy men who had dwelt in this once hallowed spot, were yearning for a renewal of the days of old, longing to see the place once more peopled by religious, and to hear the voice of psalmody ascending thence to heaven? And their wishes were at last fulfilled, their hopes realized. In the August of 1855, close on fifty years ago, there came to the place the white-robed sons of St. Dominic to found a novitiate, and, later on, a house of studies, for the students of their Order. Among them was one but lately ordained, who, years after, was to charm the English-speaking world by his eloquence the illustrious Father Thomas Burke. They found but few landmarks of the past, few relics of the times that are gone. Of the old buildings there stood, as there still stands, a tower from which a view of Snowdon may be had on a clear day. It is incorporated in the new convent, part of which was opened on the 13th of September, 1867, and part of which was built only a few years ago. Up and down its stone steps, formerly trodden by the households of successive Archbishops, Catholic and Protestant, do the religious now go many times a day to the church, to chant the same psalms of King David that were chanted in the old church by Saints Maelruain, Aengus, and Joseph, and the countless other Culdees of holy Tallaght. In the garden close by is what is called the "Friar's Walk." It is planted on each side with elm and yew trees. At the northern end of it is a moat-like eminence called the "Bishop's Seat," and at the other end is a large block of granite having a screw-like hole through the middle. Some think it was the pedestal of the Cross of Tallaght. There is, not far off, lying on the ground, another large stone said to be porphyry, which was found in the fosse that surrounded the castle. It was evidently a holy-water font. One cannot help thinking when looking at it of the thousands of hands, now mouldering in dust, that were reverently placed in it in bygone days, as the worshippers entered the house of God. To the right stands an immense walnut tree, many hundred years old, called "St. Maelruain's Tree," which is said to have been planted by the saint. It is still healthy and bears fruit. A part of the ruined palace which ran southwards from the tower already mentioned, was remodeled and turned by the Dominicans, when they came to Tallaght, into a temporary chapel in which they ministered to the people till the present beautiful church was consecrated about seventeen years ago, when it was taken down to make room for the new wing of the convent, built upon the site. Once, on a memorable occa sion, one of their number was called upon under peculiarly historic circumstances to discharge his sacred functions. It was the night of Shrove Tuesday, 1867, that night remarkable in the chequered history of our country, when the Fenians marched out from the city by different roads, and proceeded towards the Dublin mountains. When the contingent that came along by Tallaght reached the village, they attacked the constabulary barracks. The police fired, and one of the assailants, poor Stephen spent between Dublin and Rome, and fresh from his victory over Froude in the United States, Father Burke, the great preacher. He came, it may be said, to die; for albeit he lived nearly ten years more, and preached frequently during that time throughout the country, the fell disease that was to take him off had seized upon him. Those were years of intense suffering, borne I have been told by one who lived with him (and to whom I am indebted for much information concerning him), with Christian the custom at the death of a Dominican, the "Salve Regina," he gave up his soul to God at the comparatively early age. of fifty-two. Gently did his brethrensome of whom had been trained in religious life by himself-a few days after, lay him beneath the walls of his unfinished church, in the presence of a large concourse of people, a great number of priests, many of whom came from England and Scotland, and nearly the entire Catholic hierarchy of Ireland. Soon did his countrymen complete it as his chief memorial. Within its consecrated walls, at the right as you enter, does he rest, awaiting the Resurrection; whilst daily in its choir the children of Dominic, professing the same faith as Aengus and Maelruain, sing the praises of the Lord. Verily, we may say, in the words of the great Lacordaire, "Monks and oaks are eternal." Veni Creator Spiritus Come, Spirit of the mighty Word, Well art Thou called the Paraclete; Thy mercies comfort and condole, Thou fount of life, the love, the heat, And soothing unction of the soul. Bearer of seven-fold blessedness, Finger of God to guide and teach, Shedding from heaven the promised grace, Enriching tongues with holy speech. Kindle our senses with Thy light, Thy love into our bosoms pour, Sustain each weakness with Thy might, And raise our souls for evermore. Drive from our paths the evil one, Bring gentle peace to crown our day; With Thee before us leading on, We shall not from Thy mercy stray. Grant that we may the Father know, And feel the love of Christ the Son, Through Thee, and in Thy holy glow Forever see the Three-in-one. Be glory to the Father given And to the risen Son, and Thee, NOTE-This celebrated hymn is generally believed to be the production of the Emperor Charlemagne. The earliest record of its use is contained in the annals of the Benedictine Order. The occasion was the translation, in the year 898, of the relics of St. Marcellus, but the hymn was probably written many years earlier. There is no reason to doubt the ability of the great Emperor to produce the poem; and there is a record of a letter by him to his Bishops on a similar subject. As he died in the year 814, the poem must have been written not far from the beginning of the ninth century. Veni Creator Spiritus, Quae tu creasti pectora. Donum Dei altissimi, Dextrae Dei tu digitus, Sermone ditans guttura. Virtute firmans perpeti. Credamus omni tempore. Sancto simul Paraclito, Nobisque mittat Filius Charisma sancti Spiritus. Amen. For more than a thousand years it has been constantly sung throughout Western Christendom as part of the appointed offices for the coronation of kings, the profession of converts, the consecration and ordination of bishops and priests, the assembling of synods and other great ecclesiastical ceremonies. It is notable as being the only Breviary hymn which has been retained in the services of the English Church. I have attempted to make my translation as close as a strict adherence to the spirit and strength of the original would allow.D. J. DONAHOE. G By J. E. COPUS, S. J. (CUTHBERT) Author of "Harry Russell," "Saint Cuthbert," "Shadows Lifted," etc. I. GERALD. ERALD ALBURY, aged twelve, sat cross-legged in a deep seat in a bay window, oblivious to the noise his brothers and sisters were making in the room. He was reading a tale of knight-errantry. Gerald had the faculty of becoming absorbed in a book, and of living with its heroes for the time being, to the complete exclusion of any consciousness of his immediate surroundings. His active imagination had seen, as vividly as if he had actually been present, Sir Launcefal tie the scarf of his lady fair on his arm, take from her the stirrup-cup, and then ride off in search of adventures in her honor. The boy could see the weeping lady retire with her maids to her hall, with a heart so full of sympathy for her grief, that he actually found himself shedding a few tears over her sorrow at parting with her knight. Just at this critical moment, Willie, a brother who was younger than Gerald by one year, pulled aside the curtains of the window alcove and saw the subject of this story brush away a tear with the cuff of his coat-sleeve. "Oh! look, Blanche," said Willie, to his sister, "Gerald is crying over a book. Silly! silly! silly!" Blanche peered at Gerald as if he were a living curiosity, and then remarked: "Isn't he stupid! my! I can't see how boys can cry over people in books." Little Johnny agreed with her. Blanche, the vivacious, was not more than nine years old, and so she could not be expected to know much about story-books, and heroes and heroines. Gerald paid but little attention to her. He turned, however, upon Master William. "You just shut up," he said, rudely. "I am not silly. How would you like to be a lovely lady left all alone in at big, big castle with ghosts, and dragons, and robbers, and murderers, and chains and rumbles and everything when her lover has gone away to fight?" "I wouldn't cry one bit," said Willie, the obdurate. "Nor I, either," said Blanche. "That's 'cause you are hard-hearted," replied Gerald, "and can't feel for the sorrows of others, and can't see things in a book, as pa says, and 'cause you haven't got any sense or feeling. People as haven't got any sense never read books. You would rather go and play with Blanche's dolls, that's what you would do." Gerald made this rather long speech for two reasons. He wanted the younger children to forget they had seen him in tears-no boy likes to be caught in that condition-and he desired to continue his reading unmolested. He was partially successful. Blanche dropped the curtain and slipped away. William, boy-like, would not give up so |