these faces; take up your position just outside Charing Crossat, say, eight o'clock of a morning and watch the crowds that come from the real towns, the real cities to this big temple; examine the faces closely and then tell me if you cannot discern the anxious look that one sees on the face of a worshipper.

That well dressed man sauntering out with an easy air, smoking his cigar, is a worshipper in the temple; follow him, if you like, and you will trace him to his favourite corner in the temple, it may be the stock exchange or a business. establishment. He has a little god erected in his own corner of the temple, and you may see him adore it. His is the god of gold. He walks quietly through the temple for his. thoughts are concentrated on the one duty of his life, he plans and makes ready sacrifices for his god.

It may be a young woman you see, perhaps still in her teens, clothed in all the latest novelties that Dame Fashion ordains at that moment; she has an abundance of what we call good looks (and perchance she knows it) and there is: the careless, eager, eternal smile of radiant youth in her face. She is whirled out and into the temple. Where is her particular corner? What is her god? Oh, Mary, Mother of us all, draw such as these to thy feet! Lead her gently from the reach of the money changers to where "the lone lamp softly burns, and a wondrous silence reigns." She may halt, and stumble in the crowded way, and her feet may grow tired and sore, but, lead thou her on "o'er moor, o'er crag, o'er torrent, till the night is gone."

There are others too, but why wait longer? We know their bent, or it may be guessed; it is written on their faces; they go up to the temple.

The buzzing noise has left my ears, and these wild dreams of London fade away from me for the moment. I am sitting on a bank with my feet dangling down towards the water which wash-washes in against the bank. The sun is dancing merrily over the wide expanse of Lough Neagh and the blue hills of Tyrone rise up out of its depths. My eyes wander from the water to the shore on my right and left and all I can hear is the breathing of cows as they munch the bright

juicy green grass. One of these homely creatures, the Silk of the Kine, as more than one of our own poets call her, has eaten her way quite close to me, and as I turn round to look at her she stops and looks at me with her big, brown sleepy eyes, and then strides off in another direction.

Away in the distance I can see little white specks, some hidden among the trees, others standing boldly out in the sunshine; they are plain white-washed cottages for I can see the blue turf smoke curling upwards from those that are

nearer.

There, now, is a child of the Lough-a big red-faced, strongly built man with a rocking sort of walk; you need only look at his attire to tell his occupation; the dull monotonous call of the Lough has probably made those anxious lines about his face which is otherwise so open and full of life. Where is his temple? Where his god? Nature herself, in very truth, is his temple; on the waters of Neagh he has to struggle against storm and wind and they very often master him, but he has wonderful patience.

He comes a little closer to where I sit, he comes quietly and patiently smoking an old clay pipe.

"Fine day, Sir!" he says withdrawing the pipe for a moment from his mouth. Then with a leap he gets inside the little fishing boat. Then, ah, then-why do I notice it so much! Why does it attract my attention? Surely it should be nothing strange or new to me who so often saw similar things before in this very same spot when I was a boy! Yes, it is strange, yet familiar. The old man takes off his hat, makes the sign of the Cross on himself and bows his head for a moment. There is a cheery call from him as he pulls away gently from the shore. Where is his temple? Where his God?

To think of it, that only the matter of a few hours' travel could separate two such scenes-the temple of the world and the temple of nature; one the work of man and the other the work of God. If you pause to think of what London means, you will see that it is all too human, it is the puny, feeble work of man and has its early death inscribed all over it; but here, by the waters of Neagh, with the clear blue sky overhead and the green fields all around, here is nature un

spoilt just as it comes from the Creator's hand. But you may tell me that if there is a guiding Hand, it is the same everywhere. To be sure there is always the guiding Hand, but every man's hand and brain is not willing and ready to be guided; it must be so, else the sight of the old fisherman. signing himself with the Cross would not seem strange to me.. Again, when I walk through the streets of London and see young men and young women with pinched faces hurrying to warehouses or business places to drudge there all day for just as much as pays their rail fares back to their homes and allows them enough bread to keep soul and body together and no more, I feel that this is not the result of the guiding Hand. I know the guiding Hand is here in this temple pointing the way as much as it is in any other place, but the pride and folly of man ignores the pointed way, or worse still, rudely pushes the Hand aside and says he knows a better

way.

Nature can teach many lessons to those who will be taught.. Betake yourself into the wide open country with the grass. at your feet and the blue skies over your head, or if you prefer it, seek a quiet spot by the sea where the waves come racing in on the sands, and then let your thoughts play freely and you may learn many lessons. But there are those to whom the country or seaside does not appeal; they cannot find content away from the big temples of men. Why is it I wonder! Is it that the guiding Hand through nature in her quiet moods draws comparisons and makes the consciencesore and restless? It may be SO for some. But as we are not all made alike in character and disposition, neither are we led to the great main road by the same by-paths. Yet we all must reach it, the road that leads up into the mountains. Some are faster travellers than others; some miss the way, and very often have to retrace their steps. Even when we reach the main road and we think we are quite safe, we sometimes become jubilant; and then very often a mist gathers over the mountain top and we falter for the moment. Let it be but for a moment; the sun will soon drive away the grey mist and the mountain top will show up clear against the blue sky.

JOHN A. FITZPATRICK,

SOME NEW BOOKS

1. Thomas Davis, The Thinker and Teacher. The Essence of his writings, selected, arranged and edited by Arthur Griffith. Dublin: M. H. Gill and Son, Ltd. (Price 3s. 6d.)

This collection of his thoughts in prose and verse was issued to commemorate the centenary year of Thomas Davis, the nobly gifted, the wise and generous hearted man whose early death at the age of thirty-one robbed Ireland of one who promised to be one of the greatest of her sons. Being Davis's thoughts they cannot fail to be high-minded, inspiring, and intensely patriotic; indeed the editor has practically limited his choice to those that are directly calculated to awaken and strengthen the national spirit and inform the national mind. But why, we cannot help wondering, did he not arrange them in definite groups according to subject, and provide a table of contents? The extracts succeed one another in unbroken series through 273 pages. The alphabetical index at the end is good, but does not supply for the absence of classification. Again it is a pity that in his preface he minimises the worth and work of O'Connell in contrasting him with Davis; it surely is not true or fair to say that O'Connell's ideal Ireland was "a smaller and happier England"; we should remember how singular Davis was at that period in perceiving the essential importance of nationality of mind and character. We must, however, in gratitude to the editor, admit that he has given us a rich and telling collection of extracts, and one that is bound to bring more vigorous national health to the mind of its readers, who we trust will be very numerous. The book is well got up and well printed and has a judicious number of suitable illustrations.

2. It is very gratifying to find that we have now in Ireland a really high-class review which aims-and successfully-at applying thoroughly trained intellect to the discussion of those problems of thought and action which confront us here

at home. The present number of Studies is quite an admirable one from this point of view, and contains an array of articles of really exceptional merit. The war naturally and necessarily comes in for much attention. The Ethics of War are discussed by Father Edward Masterson, S.J., with his usual firm grasp and well ordered, vigorous thinking. Socialism and the War by Henry Somerville is an interesting and arresting contribution. A. J. Rahilly handles powerfully The Gospel of the Superman. Notable too is the article by J. P. Boland on The European Crisis and Ireland's Commercial Interests. A very stimulating and suggestive paper is that by the Rev. T. Corcoran, S.J., on National Purpose in German Education in which he shows what great things. education that is genuinely national in spirit can do for a country. W. F. Butler deals with the first period of Confiscation in Irish History in a finely worked out and valuable article. The Social question is not forgotten: the Rev. P. J. Connolly, S.J., gives us very readable Memories of Reims as a Centre of Social Action, and the Rev. E. Boyd Barrett makes practical and interesting the subject, Working Boys' Clubs for Irish Cities. The Chronicle department contains some striking notes; one in particular we may mention, Irish Associations with the Battlefields in France by the Rev. John MacErlean, S.J. Without touching on other good things in the number, we have said enough to show that thoughtful, educated Irishmen will be doing well for themselves if they subscribe to the review. It appears quarterly, costs a halfcrown, and is published by the Educational Company of Ireland.

3. An Tobar Naoṁta.

Searlot ní Dúnlaing do sgríob. Dublin: Gill and Son, Ltd. (Price 4d.)

This booklet contains a charming religious play for girls. The name of Miss Charlotte Dowling as the author guarantees that there is no "béarlacar" disfiguring either the dialogue or the stage directions. The play is written in the vigorous. and richly idiomatic Irish of West Munster, which “An t-Atair Peadar" has made us familiar with in "Séadna," and it may be hoped that what Padraic Mac Piaras has done for the Western Irish, Miss Dowling will do for the Irish of Munster-that she will weave it into fine literature