ALL SOULS' NIGHT

All Souls' Day we had Mass at morn,
At crow of cock the dear Christ came
Down on the altar, as newly born
To love us and take away our blame.

Crowds of us gathered round Him then,
Ate of His feast and went away

To think of the souls of long dead men
And pray for their rest the live-long day.

What soul's in Heaven, and what soul still
Outside, wandering lonesomely

On the bleak sea-shore or the bare black hill,
Or lashed by the wind in the old thorn tree?

Sure we who loved them live as we please,
The good and the bad of us, walking the road
When the sun is shining, or sitting at ease
By the side of the fire,-thanks be to God!

Mary Moloney, your house is dark,
Only a little bit over the way,

Dead as a corpse, and cold and stark!

My house is as bright as day!

I mind the night that your man was drowned
More than a couple of years ago,

Never was buried in holy ground;
No more of him did you ever know.

My man and our childher seven
Are gone from me these years on years,
And every one of them safe in Heaven.
I have no fears, and I drop no tears.

But still an' all on this blessed night,
When the sufferin' souls are free to come
Into the warmth and into the light

And sit with friends in an old loved home,

I sweep my hearth and I sweep my floor,
And I set a candle in every room,

And a torch of bog-deal at the door
To shine far into the midnight gloom.

Who knows what lonesome souls of men,
With never a friend left now on earth,
May draw to the light and venture then
Over the threshold and sit by the hearth?

So Mary Moloney, shut up your door
That shows no light, and come home with me,
And maybe you'll see your man once more;
Sure if he's in prison to-night he's free!

O Lord! we watched on our knees and prayed,
And Mary and me, we saw them come
Wandering in as if half afraid,

And glad to be welcome to some one's home.

Mary Moloney she saw her man.

I saw not mine, nor my childher seven.
I couldn't, because no spirit can
Come that night if he's safe in Heaven!

R. M. G.

PAUL BOURGET AND IRELAND

Τ

HE historic Latin Quarter offers more inducements to the literary or artistic temperament than any other spot in Paris. In the whole world there is no place to compare with it. Along its broad boulevards, up and down its narrow streets streams a kaleidoscopic crowd intent on their own business. They may wear their national costume and speak their own tongue, they may air their ideas on any topic from Egyptology to Sociology, from Rousseau to Futurism, nobody interferes and somebody is sure to be interested. The denizens of the Latin Quarter like the Athenians of old are out to hear some new thing. They are not in quest of an idea hashed up in Germany, but of one created on the left bank of the Seine. This neighbourhood has always been the home of culture spelt with a C. From Brazil, from Hindustan, from Australia, from Japan and China, men and women have come to be melted down in the great crucible of student life in Paris. many centuries the Latin Quarter has been the international meeting place of the races. Serbs, Bulgarians, and Turks are busy gleaning western ideas, Greeks, Roumanians, Spaniards, and Portuguese are fraternising with Russians, Italians, English and French. The American is more at home there than in New York. Over the scene broods the spirit of la France éternelle and treading in the footsteps of the Masters who have attracted them to Paris, the students go on their way, happy to have pitched their tents under the shadow of the Sorbonne.

For

Strolling down towards the Luxembourg one afternoon the word Ireland in large letters caught my eye on the cover of the weekly. review, Les Annales; I bought the number and took it home to read what Mr. Balfour, Mr. William O'Brien, and M. Paul Bourget had to say on the subject. The first two writers were easily disposed of. Their opinions

were no doubt interesting in France. A Scot and an Irishman with a chasm between them across which, up to the present day, nobody had succeeded in engineering a bridge, were, for a Frenchman, individuals worth studying with attention mingled with amazement. What interested me

was the opinion of M. Bourget of the French Academy, whose psychological novels do not spare the sins and follies of his own compatriots and would not be likely to condone those of another nation. What he wrote about Ireland was certainly not complimentary. It showed unfortunately but a very superficial knowledge of the country and of its history. In his "Memories of Old Ireland" written for the benefit of the French, M. Bourget made the following statements that Ireland was several centuries behind France in the march of civilisation; that murders were frequent; and that murderers went twice a year to Communion in this "Catholic and murderous island."

No reader of Paul Bourget would be either surprised or offended at his pessimism, he devotes his life to flagellating French Society by holding up a mirror in which its sins are reflected in all their crude repulsiveness. He places before his reader the consequences which are bound to follow and which are enough to make the most callous tremble. In this way M. Bourget has fulfilled his high mission to the smart set in France for he is as ruthless with the psychological knife as he is sincere in his effort to heal and purify. This fearless analysis of human nature has won for him respect and admiration as well as enmity and criticism. People who dislike him call him "a political Catholic"; he is also a Royalist and a believer in the Divine Right of Kings. This is the man who thought it worth his while to brand Ireland as "Catholic and murderous." Such a challenge could not be ignored. Would M. Bourget condescend to make any defence or would he offer any explanation for spreading this view of Ireland amongst the French people? His prompt and courteous reply to the following questions cannot be considered as really answering the several points but it is interesting as an unpublished page in the life of a great writer, who lives and works veiled from the public gaze, in the "hôtel entre cour et jardin" which is situated

amidst the aristocratic calm of the Faubourg St. Germain, not far from the Latin Quarter. In my letter I reminded him of Ireland's history, struggling as she has been against robbery and persecution for "several centuries." I called his attention to the following points, how in a small country with few inhabitants it would be impossible for a murderer to escape from justice and go to Communion twice a year, how scarce the ordinary murderer is there, and how the agrarian outrage is committed by the patriot against the man who prevented him from living in peace in his native land. I continued, "You only show up one side of Ireland and that the unfavourable one. . . Long before the arrival of the English the Isle of Saints sent forth missionaries who converted a great part of Europe. . . . In this Catholic and murderous island several centuries behind the civilization of France,' there is no crime to be compared to the murder of Louis XVI. In France, once upon a time they believed in the Divine Right of Kings, yet in France regicides existed. Ireland never believed in the Divine Right, neither is Ireland regicide. For you she remains more mysterious than the Russian Nihilists.' When you have penetrated more deeply into the Soul of Ireland it is devoutly to be hoped that you will add another psychological study to your marvellous novels and that it will be called The Story of Ireland.'

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The following day M. Bourget courteously wrote from his home at 20 Rue Barbet de Jouy saying, "The article to which you allude belongs to a series of notes on Ireland taken in 1881 which were published in the second volume of my Sketches and Portraits' (English Sketches). If you will refer to this series you will find that without knowing your country thoroughly I have frequently visited it and loved it very much. You are quite right in saying what you do with regard to the assassination of Louis XVI., it still hangs heavily upon France. I am sorry not to have by me a copy of these English Sketches to send you and beg of you to accept my respectful compliments."

With some curiosity I read the Sketches which are not so well known as the novels and later works of Paul Bourget. In them he describes his travels in 1881 to "another universe stern and wild, within thirty-six hours of Paris." One

VOL. XLIII.-No. 509.

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