other, perhaps "The Fifth." But, if it is anything, it is over-feditis. I don't think he is given to sleep, anyway I have never caught him napping. He must have seen better days, and been accustomed to soft cushions and armchairs, for when he came first, his favourite resting place was a Queen Anne ottoman in the library, the only thing approaching a cushioned seat in our possession. How he discovered it is a mystery and I am quite sure the librarian never brought him there! But, as we did not wish to see our one antique spoiled, it became someone's painful duty to escort him nightly to plebeian quarters. Now he is quite content to remain in the kitchen, and has probably come to think it better to reign down there than serve upstairs. From all this you will see, his habits are quite conventual.

His innocent affections are altogether centred on two old nuns (I write the epithet in fear and trembling), the one who feeds him on luscious scraps and the other who gives him nothing but kind words, and whom he follows into refectory. Here he squats on the ground opposite her, content to see her eat and get nothing himself. Consequently we cannot but believe our Dandy to be neither greedy nor

mercenary.

I sometimes wonder what will be the end of poor Danobesity and gout, I fear. But, after that? Will there be no "happy hunting ground" for good little dogs, where their joyous shades may fit around, safe from the tantalising attentions of their former admirers, and where they will not have to watch their opportunity to dive round the corner to see their best friend-some big home where all are on equality and pedigree counts for nothing? Shall Dan and all the other pets whom we have grappled to our soul with hoops of steel disappear for ever from our ken? "Twere sad to think so, but while we are crossing the bourne it is not with such trifles our mind will be occupied. And, afterwards, when we grow accustomed to our new surroundings, we may find the problem solved in some way.

TH

CANON SHEEHAN AT HOME

IN DONERAILE

HE series of admirable and edifying Irish priests whom Canon Sheehan has finely portrayed for us in his novels must have been to some extent studied from life. The priests among whom he lived, or whom he had met or heard of must have supplied him with many a hint and many touching or diverting incident. But we may be sure, too, that the priest characters whom he imagined and made to live in his pages are to some extent a revelation of Canon Sheehan himself, that he made them act as he would have acted, that he was often lending them, without knowing it, his own virtues, his zeal and charity and love of prayer, that he was embodying in them his own high ideals of the priesthood.

How he himself put those lofty ideals into practice we may learn in some measure from the following brief and unpretentious record of his daily life at Doneraile. It was

put together originally in the form of a letter to a friend, and the friend kindly secured the writer's consent to its appearance in our pages. As the little memoir itself makes evident, it is written by one possessing the knowledge that comes of frequent intercourse, by one to whom Canon Sheehan stood in the position of pastor. The enthusiasm of the opening lines will be better understood and probably be shared by the reader when he has reached the end.

Our late revered Canon Sheehan was so estimable in every way that it is hard to single out any trait in his character more deserving of praise than another; however, his charity in word and act and his admirable humility came most frequently under our notice. His gentle tender heart went out to everyone without exception in time of trial or trouble,

but most of all to the poor and those who had few friends. He made great allowance for the weakness of human nature, and if he found the greatest criminal to be straightforward and honest and ashamed of his crime, and prepared to make amends, he would be very easy with him. But he could have no patience with double-dealing or deceit in anyone, especially in educated people; for he felt more was expected from them than from the poor. We have often heard him marvel at the decency and uprightness of the destitute respectable poor who are ashamed to let their wants be known. For these he many times found means of sending relief without their knowing that he was the donor of the charity. He would give the money to the nuns or to a friend, who would pass it on to the deserving object as a present; in fact, he always tried to dispense his charity through a third person. Wherever there was a large young family he never failed to make sure whether they had all necessaries of food and clothing, and, if not, he always arranged for a regular supply to be forwarded from one of the shops in town, under the strictest secrecy. It is now that all his good works are coming out, works often known to God alone during life. Since his death it has been discovered that he frequently helped, without its being known, two well-known characters in the town whom everyone else refused, owing to a little weakness that got the better of them. Our beloved pastor could not bear to think their children should suffer on that account, and besides they never denied their failing when he sent for them to reason with them. Their open acknowledgment strongly appealed to him.

One of his favourite occupations was gardening in the cool of the evening. He sometimes helped at the bedding out, and he liked to plant the flowers according to his own taste. He liked roses very much, and gave directions that his two favourite trees-Scotch roses-should be transferred and planted on his grave. It will surprise many, perhaps, to learn that the distinguished author devoted very little time to writing. He rose at seven o'clock, said Mass at eight and read his post after breakfast and meditation: he never opened a letter before Mass. He afterwards took a walk for nearly an hour in the country, where it was his

delight to chat with the old people about old times and the Ireland of long ago. It was music to his ears to listen to them telling of the Fenians, or the Doneraile Conspiracy, etc. Returning from his walk he wrote for half an hour: at twelve o'clock he made a visit to the Blessed Sacrament, and immediately afterwards went to the schools. This was the happiest part of his day: he told the grown girls interesting stories and gave them instructions suited to their age and needs. Into the very youngest he was particularly careful to instil devotion to Our Lady, to the Church and the Motherland. He was most anxious that the older girls should be impressed frequently with the great necessity of preserving their self-respect and avoiding giddy, frivolous company, and most of all the reading of silly novels. When he got to the baby school he was in his element. One of his favourite customs there was to sit for half an hour in the midst of a class of about twenty five-year-old girls, telling them a story; they would listen in dead silence, and when he was finished would assail him with a volley of questions. Some of these were so quaint and put him into such fits of laughter that he would be forced to remove his spectacles in order to wipe the tears which rolled down his cheeks from excessive mirth. He would then appoint a day on which he would return and bring a prize for the child that could best reproduce his story. When leaving the school he often looked back at the innocent mites after a day of great amusement and say: "Oh! if I could only keep them in their innocence always: the thought of what some of them may yet come to almost sickens me."

When any of his flock met with misfortune it weighed so heavily on his mind that we could know by his manner for weeks that something was wrong; but he always tried to throw the cloak of charity over genuine regret and shame. If he were talking on the most important subject in school he always ceased speaking should a youngster walk up to show him a new dress, or any new garment she had on. He would be profuse in his praise of the article, and when he knew the baby was fully satisfied, the subject would be resumed.

His love for children was part of his inmost

soul.

After his visit to the school he attended to parochial affairs. He always managed to have part of his Office said before dinner at 4.30. After this meal he walked in the garden or saw visitors up to seven o'clock, when he invariably went to the church again to spend nearly an hour praying before Our Lady's Altar: in the winter time he was always to be found kneeling there in the dim radiance of two candles which he lit before the shrine. He went home for tea at eight o'clock, after which he wrote a little or read (unless he had parishioners with him) till 9.30, when he retired to bed. Of course he visited the sick constantly, and the country schools occasionally. He was most genero.s in supplying the teachers with school requisites, such as stoves for cooking, up-to-date desks, etc., and was a true friend to them with the inspectors. His successor says he left his church, schools, and parish in most perfect order, the only thing he neglected being his own comfort. His house could have been made far more cheery and bright, but the poor Canon never thought of his own ease. His garden, as a result of his efforts, was all that could be desired, and that satisfied him; so that he put up with the dreariness and damp of his house, which was otherwise kept in perfect order. His books were his greatest treasures. On wet days he took down each volume and carefully dusted it with his own hands: he would trust them to no one; consequently, they are well preserved, and the greater number of the two thousand which he possessed are now stored up at the convent, waiting for a purchaser who will take all, as the Canon did not wish to have them sold in small lots.

He was very reticent about the characters in his own works; some were real in this sense, that he combined the characteristics of many persons in one. The locality of Glenanaar is in his own parish of Doneraile, but the match described in it was played at Mallow.

Luke Delmege's last days were almost an exact vision of his own. The Canon received his death-warrant in September, 1910, and so bravely did he take it that no one suspected he was ailing in the least. His spirits were brighter than ever, and though he often looked ill his cheery manner deceived us, and his breakdown took us by