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Mgr. Benson was a sincere and fearless man. From his boyhood he had looked about him at things good and evil, not denying himself the joy of the former, nor sparing himself the pain of the latter. He remained throughout life something of an enfant terrible-how many of his friends he must have shocked when he confessed his inability to appreciate the Waverley Novels ! But in this confession, and many another, he proved the sincerity of his thought and utterance. He could not like a thing, nor persuade himself that he liked a thing, because others liked it: still less could he say he liked it, because such a saying was expected of him. In this, let us hope he was not singular; his claim to distinction lies in the fact that though he held his own opinions, and could give good reasons for their justification, he did not set them out as canons for the ordering of public taste.

This in matters of lesser moment. In the graver issues of life, though this habit of mind steadied him, and prevented an aggressive dogmatism, he did not shrink from stating and re-stating with his utmost power, his firm convictions, and the grounds on which they rested.

And those convictions were all in harmony with, if not actually derived from, the teachings of the Catholic Church. To the many perplexities that vex the human soul, he found, where a solution might be looked for, the solution offered by the Catholic Church to be the most satisfying; where an immediate solution could hardly be expected, he found again that in her suggestions, and her directions, or in her wise prohibition of certain methods, or certain lines of research, lay the path of peace and of progress. Not that the Church was to him mainly an intellectual code, still less mainly a social club or confraternity to which he belonged: the Church was to him on a higher and wider plane, what nationality is on a lower and narrower plane, to every true patriot. He was an Englishman through and through, English of the English; but while a man's nationality is not co-extensive with a man's soul, the Catholic religion is.

To say that religion is a life, savours of that superior way of talking, that has little to distinguish it from cant. But Christ in the Church has shown even the "Plain man" how

intelligible that expression may be made. To Mgr. Benson, his individual life was but one among the many millions of living cells, whose union, through the grace of God, builds up the mystical body of Christ. Hence his appreciation of his life's inestimable dignity, and priceless worth. When this is understood and remembered, it is easy to see why such a man could not but speak and write as a Catholic.

His reception into the body of the Catholic Church did not stifle a single interest or narrow in any respect the range of his active mind. On the contrary, a fuller life was opened out to him, with greater scope for energy, and diminished danger of unnecessary waste. Yet this great step, the turning point of his life, meant to him no complete break with the past. In his Confessions of a Convert, as in Father Maturin's Price of Unity, the sanctities of life in the Church of England meet with full and generous recognition. It was not in either of these two men to ridicule, still less to revile, the Church to which they owed so much.

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With regard to the novels themselves, while none will deny their brilliant cleverness, opinion will greatly differ as to their individual merits. Of them all it would seem to be a safe generalisation to say that Mgr. Benson was an interpreter rather than a creator. He has made no contribution to the enduring characters of English fiction. He took the men and women of his day and of his class, and showed us the innermost workings of their mind. Then setting easily in motion the simple machinery of life, he confronted his puppets with those world-old difficulties and problems, that vary from age to age only in external circumstance. Social ambition, disappointment, pain, fear, sickness, death, vices whether of drink or drug, uncanny dealings with the world of spirits, a sudden or a clearer call to God's more special servicethese and many another humorous or tragic happening were skilfully brought into play, that he might once again tear aside convention, usage, subterfuge, hypocrisy, and lay bare the real struggles of the soul. Then the story ended. There was no moral. Only one's own brooding fancy was left to regret the chance missed, or rejoice at the right course chosen; but the chance or the right course were always what the dictates of the Catholic conscience would have approved.

To some the analysis at times will seem too cruel, the situations too painful, the bitter reality overstepping the limits of a right appreciation of the artist's rôle. As Cardinal Newman delighted to state a difficulty with exquisite precision, setting it to the best advantage, giving to it the last ounce of its due weight, before entering on the task of demolition, so Mgr. Benson with loving fingers would paint-and how well he knew them the most perfect pictures of human happiness, a home where nothing was wanting to complete contentment, a character whose powers and charm gave promise of a glorious future, before he showed the skeleton in the cupboard, or the little rift within the lute of poor human nature.

One last word of praise, where to praise is such a pleasure. Mgr. Benson only wrote of what he knew. There are no typical characters; not even among his many priests, a typical Irishman. The more fantastic novels and essays, such as The Light Invisible and Papers of a Pariah are so suggestive -some of them so provocative-that they demand, in justice, full and separate treatment. So too the plays and poems for children, and the books of prayer and devotion-perhaps the sweetest legacy of all. Even now the catalogue is not complete, so versatile was the genius, so indefatigable the energy of this devoted priest.

After the many labours of his holy life, may he now rest in peace.

LETTY ON THE SHORE

The ripples came with freight of sand
And, ere they made a last retreat,
Beside the bound of sea and land
They hid the traces of her feet.

One day perhaps, long ages hence,

Some probing sage shall find them there,

And argue from such evidence

The small and dainty race we were.

J.W.A.

I'

CHRISTMAS IN ROME

T is only natural that the ancient home of Christianity should celebrate the natal day of Christ with exceptional joy and devotion. We may travel far, but in no place shall we find such an absence of intemperate pleasure and withal such natural gaiety as marks the great season in Rome. The days are fresh and sharp without being piercing, the sun warms like that of an Irish May-day, and when darkness comes it comes peacefully, without bluster; for the four hundred church towers have erewhile uttered the city's good-night to the Madonna in the evening Angelus, or Ave Maria," as Romans call it. Right happy days are these: amid endless merry-making the great lines of booths are being erected in the Piazza Navona for the sale of Christmas toys. Merry times are at hand when the old shall become again as little children.

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Christmas Day is a feast for soul and body. It opens at midnight in many churches throughout the city with a solemn High Mass. After breakfast the town is alive with people hurrying to and from their three Masses. Those whose household duties can be neglected for the time make a point of seeing the Infant Jesus deposited in the Crib in some church or other. In no church is this ceremony so popular as in that of Our Lady in Ara Cœli on the Capitoline Hill. The history of this shrine is well known; the building is supposed to have been erected by the pagan emperor Augustus to a "God whose coming was foretold by a Sibyl." The name means "Altar of Heaven." We climb the 130 marble steps among a crowd of youngsters and old people and dealers in pious objects, all in the cheeriest of spirits. We enter the quaint old pile, one of those structures supported on pillars which were taken from various palaces of the ancient pagan sovereigns; some show signs of burning, some are inverted, all are quaint and venerable and majestic. On our left a Crib has been prepared, flying angels, shepherds and beasts, straw and a manger, and trumpets and glory over all. On

our right stands a platform breast-high facing the Crib. High Mass is going on, attended by crowds, far down at the high altar. After the Gospel is sung a strange procession begins: fully a hundred men appear dressed in blue-and-white and with red-and-white surtouts; ecclesiastics follow, carrying a dazzling little figure on a small platform. This is the miraculous Bambino, the Holy Image before which all Rome bows down, at which the people have prayed for centuries that they may be shielded in time of sickness; the image they have loaded with their choicest jewels-watches, bangles, necklaces on every part of it. The procession stops at the Crib and the chief minister solemnly places the Child in the manger, confident that none will approach to despoil it.

At this moment a curious scene begins. On the platform opposite there mounts a child, perhaps eight years old, and he begins to speak with rising fervour of the glories of the Incarnation, or the sufferings of the Holy Family. He is followed by another, and another, sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl. I well remember two tiny children, two little sisters, the elder being not more than five, holding a dialogue in which they knelt down with joined hands and prayed aloud. These Italian children would be called prodigies amongst us: no hesitation, an impassioned eloquence and a touching simplicity that thrills the hearer. These sermons end with High Mass, but go on again each day at the same hour till New Year's Day.

The evening finds us at Saint Mary Major's, a grand quaint old church with ancient mosaics and a precious side-chapel containing the incorrupt body of Saint Pius the Fifth. A service is held in the growing dusk during which the piece of wood, said to have been taken from the true Crib at Bethlehem, is carried in procession with the singing of psalms and hymns a stately Cardinal officiating. The true Romans are a race apart; their ways are those of children. For whilst the procession is literally elbowing its way through the swaying crowds you may see a priest in his confessional-box and one of the faithful falling on one knee a yard or two before him, whilst he brings down a long rod upon the penitent's head. This old custom, with its simple humbleness of soul, is very touching when performed by a member of a noble family and in the presence of such a concourse.

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