The Catholic bulletin. [volume], August 12, 1911, Image 6

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SOME EAST INDIAN PRACTICES.
There are two Father D'Souzas
down in In(Jia, at least that was the
Impression. Today we find that there
is a whole colony of them, and they
are all related. Father Joseph is the
original Jacob, and he was the first to
discover America and establish his
claim for help. The venture was so
profitable, though we must confess
that we did not send him much, that
his cousins lined up one after another
and have written us letters. Father
Francis is pastor of a place called
Ullal, which sounds soft enough, but
the living there disproves its softness.
This in part is what Father Francis
lias to say:
"My parish covers a territory twen
ty-eight miles in extent. There are no
roads that could be properly called
such. Walking is, therefore, our only
means of getting about among our
people who are scattered broadcast.
Coolies carry our vestments when we
go from one village to another, and
sometimes they carry us when we
have to cross streams. The results of
our hard work are not very flattering
but we must keep on. It is a bit dis
couraging to find on revisiting a vil
lage, where we thought that the evil
one had no longer a home, that some
of the people had lapsed from their
faith and returned to their heathenish
practices. Of course we do not bap
tize our neophytes until they have
given strong evidence that they are
really converted, and will not return
to their pagan rites and idols. The
people are very superstitious and giv
en to the most absurd worship. Have
you ever heard of the reverence in
which the monkey is held by the
Hindus? No doubt this is due to his
likeness to man, both in its outward
appearance and its habits. This cult
of the monkey extends over the whole
of India. The followers of Vishnu
are especially devoted to this diety.
Images of Hanuman, the monkey god,
are to be seen in nrost temples and
public places. They can be found in
forest and desert plains. Wherever
monkeys are to be found in a wild
state their devotees bring them daily
offerings of rice, fruit and various
other kinds of food. This is consid
ered a most meritorious act you can
see from this alone how much is to be
done to save these poor souls."
WHAT THE BATS
SCHOOL.
DID TO A
Sister Kevin, who temporaily re
placed Mother Paul in the work of the
Uganda mission, sends the following
interesting letter. The good results
are being rathered by the Sisters:
"We never needed money in our
lives as we need it just now. Yours
came in good time and in answer to
prayer. The novenas of the Sisters,
children and sick have been answered,
and we feel like singing 'Hard times
come again no more.' We are cheered
beyond description. The last few
months we have had only the pro
ceeds of our bark-cloth work to live
on and keep the hospital and the
school, and lately people are begin
ning to tire of the bark-cloth. Several
times we have comforted ourselves
with Mother Paul's saying, 'Well!
well! we've died a winter yet.' The
wet season preceding this long dry
one had nearly ruined our school, all
the plaster had been taken off the
walls by the heavy rains, and the sun
dried bricks were exposed, and there
was danger in that. Then the bats
had ruined the inside. They came in
through the ventilators and the open
transoms above the doors. At the back
of the school we had no doors, but
just large openings, and now we have
to close them up with door frames
covered with wire gauze. The bats
must be kept out of the school at
any cost. As many as fifty bats with
fox like heads used to hang blinking
at and defying us when we entered
the school. Every morning there
would be a chase, the children with
bows and arrows and sticks, helter
skelter all over the place. Really the
bats seemed to laugh at us, for they
came in greater crowds the next
morning.
"Well, the upshot of all was that the
whole interior of the school was ruin
ed. Extremely nasty looking marks
covered the walls, the pictures and
floors, and lest it should lose its repu
tation for being a fine and clean
school, the whole place had to be plas
tered afresh. We have had wire
gauze put over all the openings and
now we can laugh at the bats. The
men are still plastering, and thank
God they need not be stopped for a
month or two for 'our ship is in.' It
takes a lot of money to keep our
buildings up, but it must be done.
HINDU PRACTICES.
st. Patrick's College, Jaffna, Ceylon,
is the most progressive and best
equipped educational institution in
the island. It has 600 students, of
whom 200 are pagans. These are
kept in a boarding school of their own.
They are permitted to practice their
religion, but must lay aside all ex
ternal signs of paganism, such as the
sacred ashes, when attending class.
These pagan boys are most zealous,
in fact fanatical in their religious
practices. All good Hindus meditate
about an hour every day, and these
boys follow with great fidelity this re
ligious obligation. Often these boys
are found squatting on their beds
during the night lost in meditation.
I MB***. .Slferfi.'
i
MISSION FIELDS
JAPANESE CATHOLICS.
Two-thirds of the Catholics of Japan
are in the southern part of the coun
try, principally in the Diocese of
Nagasaki. While the gains from con
versions are encouraging, the most of
them come from the lower classes. It
is only lately that the Catholic mis
sion has made any important con
quests among the educated and in the
higher aristocratic, learned and mili
tary circles. Mission work was ham
pered formerly by lack of workers,
and even today, when the number has
been increased by about a third, there
is a cry for more priests and Sisters
and catechists.
THE LADY OF'THE CHURCH.
Dillon had deep feelings and deep
prejudices. One of these was against
all people connected with the theatre.
He was twenty-eight years of age, and
his prejudices were intollerable: he
sometimes mistook them for prin
ciples. His father, a charming Irish
man, was very genial and easy-going.
His mother was dead she had been
very cultivated, very scrupulous, and
rather Jansenistic in her rigidity. It
was rather bad for Dillon that his
parents had been so different. He
had his mothers point of view, and
he rather patronized his father. Dil
lon, now that he had finished his law
studies, occasionally went to the play.
"I should hate to see anybody I
know—especially any girls—on the
stage," he said one night, when he
and his father were dining at the
club, preparatory to one of those rare
visits to the theatre, to see a version
of Sir Walter Scott's "Kenilworth
"though there is a very nice looking
and clever young woman in the play
—an Irish girl, they say—and I am
taking you, dad, as a birthday treat
just to see her. She does 'Amy Rob
sart!"'
The elder Dillon was a ruddy, white
haired man, over fifty, who did a
great deal of work on the Stock Ex
change every day without showing
traces of worry.
"There is no reason why she should
not be a nice girl," said his father
think it is a horrible scandal to con
demn a whole profession. In France,
before the Revolution—"
"Oh, dad, here's her name," inter
rupted Dillon, knowing that his father
would begin about Adrienne Lecouv
reur and then perhaps the Irish Bri
gade. His father's way of making
excursions into old France was only
more terrible to him than that gentle
man's habit of quoting Tom Moore's
poems. "It's Moira Livingston."
"Moira Livingston!" repeated the
elder Dillon. "Why, I knew her fa
ther. He was old Dr. Livingston of
Lexington Avenue—great man in his
day, and a good friend of mine. He
came from the same part of Ireland.
His wife was a very beautiful woman
and very exacting about the religious
duties of her husband's young friends.
Many a time she took us before din
ner to confession to St. Stephen's."
The elder Dillon laughed, his blue
eyes twinkled. "She died, the doctor
made some bad speculations—where
he is now, I don't know. He must be
rather old. He married late in life,
I remember, I'd like to know whether
I could be useful to him or not. I
wonder if we might get Aunt Susan to
call on this little actress and find out
something. You don't know, Barry,
what I owe to the dear old doctor
and his wife."
Dillon fidgeted with his necktie,
he was uneasy. He never could tell
what undesirable acquaintance his fa
ther would acquire in his benevolent
moods, which were frequent.
"Aunt Susan's out of town," he said,
coldly. "And it wouldn't be proper
for a map of my age to go hanging
about stage doors. What would peo
ple thintf?"
The elder Dillon frowned.
"I should never have done a Mad
act in my life if I had stopped to dis
cover what people thought. I shall
certainly find out something abbut
Livingston and his daughter. Has the
girl been on the stage long?"
"She has made her entrance in this
part, the newspapers say. Besides,
she may not be your friend's daugh
ter."
"We'll see. If she is I'll write to
her for her father's address tomor
row."
The elder Dillon finished his coffee
in silence. Ah, those were pleasant
days, when, a high-spirited, reckless
generous lad, he dined twice a week
with the kind Livingstons!
"It's time to go," said his son.
Dillon would have been called a
prig by some persons who did not
know him well but he was not a
prig—he was only inexperienced, in
jjf ?|ijerant, and he had acquired a horror
of all effusiveness, because his father
in his opinion, was much too effu
sive. It is true that his father did
jaany kindly things on the impulse
of the moment, and forgot them at
once, while Dillon himself made all
kinds of inquiries and hesitated and
very often lost the opportunity. The
most undesirable people would stop
his father in the street, and shake
hands with him and tell him about
their families. Dillon, who was much
with his father, hated this sort of
thing but the elder Dillon was in
s corrigible. He was quite capable of
inviting anybody who wanted a din
i
ner to dine with him. As a young
lawyer with a settled social position
his son fett that he must he careful.
•Ct
1 1
The
verie.
THE CATHOLIC BULLETIN, AUGUST 12, 1911.
The father and son were about to rise
from the table, when a gust of sleet
and snow struck the big club window
near which they had been sitting. The
elder Dillon looked at the glowing
grate fire with a humorous twinkle in
his eyes.
•You don't want to go out to-night,
fad," said Dillon, smiling. "And I'm
not very keen about it, either."
The elder Dillon gave a sigh of re
lief.
"I should like to, see how the
daughter of my old friend looks on
the stage," he said, "but we can go
again, can't we? This isn't the only
night of the play. Let's stay at home
and talk."
Dillon led the way to the smoking
room. It was empty, yet the warm
moving color of the fire and the soft
light from the carefully shaded lamps
gave it an air of occupation—-a friend
ly air.
"Let's stay at home and talk," re
peated the father, a little sadly, as he
sank into one of the arm chairs near
the fire. "If your mother were alive
I shouldn't be talking of a club as
'home.'"
The son took the other chair and
lit a cigar.
'Dad, do you know I often wish we
had a home—of course we have rooms
and very luxurius rooms—'but a
home is different."
"You might have a home if you mar
ried." The father smiled with his lips,
but his eyes became serious. "But I
suppose a busy young man like you
has no time to think of that. At your
age I had been married two years. I
remember the day I first saw your
mother as well as if it were yester
day."
The elder man's face lighted up, and
for the moment he looked as young
as his son. And I tell you, Barry, I
wasn't a rich man's son, as you are
and when I saw the girl I liked—
and I knew she was intended for me
from the first—the thought of mar
riage meant a long consideration of
the money question, I tell you! I was
not only poor, but my father, with his
six children and his rack-rented Ker
ry farm, was poor, too. It was in
Dublin I first saw her. She was com
ing out of the confessional in the Jes
uit's church, and she passed me, and
I passed her again going out. Your
mother's face was a picture, Barry.
often think of that fine passage in
'Evangeline,' where—"
"You saw mother in church first
at confession!" said Dillon, his color
rising and his eyes becoming lumin
ous. At a time like this, the younger
Dillon showed his real nature. He
was no longer the impassive, cold,
conventional man, with the laborious
ly acquired manner of his college set
destroying all spontaneity. "On my
word, dad, it's queer!"
"Queer?" repeated the father, a
slight irritation in his tone. "Queer?
Why should it be queer? She turned
out to be the daughter of one of the
professors of the university, and one
of the priests introduced me."
"Oh!" said the son, rather enigmat
ically. "I don't mean that that was
queer."
father had drifted into a re
There was the sound of crack­
ling coal, of a servant drawing the
curtains, for the snow was beating
against the window panes, of a pas
sing automobile.
"I meant," the son resumed, with an
effort, "that—" he was not in the ha
bit of making confidences to his fa
ther, though his father made many
confidences to him, "that I have had
almost the same experience!"
He paused, his face flaming in the
light of the fire. His father awoke
from his reverie, and his eyes
twinkled. He was tempted to laugh,
but he saw by his son's face that the
moment was very serious.
"Yes?" he said.
"Yes," said his son, shading his face
with his hand. "On Saturday I went
to confession at St. Stephen's, for
your anniversary, you know—and just
under a blaze from the sunset came
in a young woman I made way for
her, and opened the door of the vesti
bule. She thanked me. I saw her
again as she was going out—and, dad,
I thought of those lines from 'Evange
line,' too—you've quoted them often
enough! She had the loveliest face
and the loveliest voice, and—"
Tears came into the elder Dillon's
eyes he was sentimental and he
wanted this only son of his to
marry,
and here was a glimpse of hope. Hith
erto his attempts at matchmaking had
failed.
"It is queer," he said, "but you
couldn't see a good woman in a better
place. You remember the meeting
of Dante and Beatrice, in the 'New
Life,' don't you?"
"Oh, dad, you're always making lit
erary allusions—you know we young
er people don't have as much time to
read as you have had. But this girl
was exquisite, and, if ever I find out
who she is, I'm going to be intro
duced. She is the girl for met"
The elder Dillon laughed.
"God bless you," he said.
find out I don't suppose the priests
at St. Stephen's are as keen about
matchmaking as the old Dublin Jes
uits were—but we'll try! I've al
ways thought somehow or other that
I'd like you to marry a woman like
my old friend's wife—like Moira
Livingston."
"If her daughter's an actress, she
can't be much like her mother," ans
wered Dillon. "I'm pretty sure of
that."
"You're too intolerant, Barry." His
father had begun' to think of some
thing else. "By the way, I'll go into
the writing-room and dash off a note
to Miss Livingston, asking her if she's
the daughter of my old friend, and
offering my services in any way."
The elder Dillon went into another
room. His sou's eyes followed him
with an utterly dissatisfied expres
sion. In the fullness of his heart, the
elder man wrote a long letter of kind
ness to the supposed daughter of his
old friend. He signed it with a flour
ish, "Barry Dillon." And the effusive
signature, big and black, was very dif
ferent from the precise script with
which the younger Barry Dillon signed
his letters.
The elder. Dillon was in great
spirits.
"Barry, my boy," he said, "you've
given me hope to-night, though it's
not much. Come, we'll drink to the
health of that unknown lady you saw
in church!"
Dillon laughed and blushed.
A few days after this a man who
served as general domestic utility to
his father and himself brought in his
letters in the morning. They were,
except one, all addressed to "Mr.
Barry Dillon, Jr." He opened them
all without looking at the signatures.
One he discovered, after he had read
the few lines, that made it up, was for
his father. It was a short note, dated
the day before, under an address very
plainly written. It was from Moira
Livingston, who, signing it, put "Miss"
in parenthesis. It simply said that
the writer thanked her father's old
friend, and added that this old friend
might help her, as she was in urgent
need.
Dillon's lip curled.
"She wants money, of course," he
thought, looking scornfully at the
pointed writing on the thin blue pa
per. He was about to touch the elec
tric button to send the note to his
father's room. "Dad will be an easy
prey—his father's daughter will make
him pay for his friendship in the old
days. An actress!" He pushed the
note under the blotter of his desk. He
would keep it until he saw fit to give
it to his father, who was so foolishly
soft-headed. Nevertheless, he did
touch the button, and when the man
appeared, he asked him to get two
tickets for "Amy Robsart," the play
in which the designing young lady
was appearing. Turning over his pa
per lazily, his eyes caught a paragraph
announcing the funeral of Dr. Living
ston, aged sixty-five.
"She will not play to-night," he
thought. He compared the address
given in the funeral notice with that
in the note. It was the same. "We'll
go, at any rate," he said. "I hope that
dad did not see the death notice and
hunt up the designing young lady.
If Dr. Livingston hadn't enough inter
est in my father to look him up in
all these years, the approachment
would be useless now."
The theatre was crowded. The play,
a very dramatic one on an old theme,
had so far succeeded, mainly because
Moira Livingston's acting and per
sonality carried it. Dillon was as
tounded when she appeared.
"What!" he said, "she on the stage,
and her father gone scarcely a day?
And then, to his horror, he saw that
she was the lady of the church and
his dreams! His father grabbed his
arm hard.
"Ah, Barry, it's Moira Livingston,
my friend's wife and my benefactress,
to the very life! I wonder why she
hasn't answered my note!"
Dillon did not answer. How beau
tiful, how gentle, how appealing she
was! His heart beat fast. His fa
ther had left him, but Dillon thought
only of the beautiful creature who
crossed his vision like a star, a lily,
yet how cold and calloused she must
be.
She had acted the night before, she
was acting tonight, and her father
was scarcely cold in his grave! Still
her beauty and gentleness drew him
toward her. The curtain fell.
"She must have a bad heart," he
said, turning to his father. He no
ticed for the first time that the seat
was empty. The wait was a long one.
There was much bustle behind the
scenes, and some dull thuds heard,
the building of Kenilworth Castle in
ten minutes was evidently a difficult
undertaking. At last the curtain rose
on the beginning of Licester's splen
did pageant for Queen Elizabeth.
Moira Livingston was not in the
scene. The elder Dillon came back
to his seat. His son furtively watch
ed his father's face—it was pale,
drawn, perturbed. The second act
ended with a tremendotis scene be
tween the queen and Amy Robsart,
as set down in history, but neverthe
less most effective. Moira Living
ston was called for again and again,
but she did not appear.
The father and son went out into
the lobby.
"Well?" Dillon asked, not conceal
ing his anxiety.
"I saw her for a moment. Her
manager knows me and she gave per
mission. She was very cool, and then
she began to sob. 'You're too late,'
she said, 'too late! You might have
saved me from this. Do you think
that if I had money enough to pay for
his poor, poor funeral, I should be
here to-night? You said you were his
old friend, you might have saved me
this! It would have cost so little—
and I could have repaid you in time!'
She bewildered me. 'Go! Go!' she
said. 'He needs no friends such as
you—go The elder Dillon wiped
his forehead.
"She will not see me again—and
yet she did not answer my note. Heav
en knows that I would have sacri
ficed my last cent to save her from
this. It seems that her father died
two days ago, and they were terribly
poor—I wish I had known, I wish I
had known. But it's all over now."
"Yes," said Dillon, wearily, "it's all
over let's go home. Daddy," he
added, after a pause, during which he
struggled with something in his
throat, "she was the lady of the
church but it's all over now."—
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DIRECTORS:
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President National Bank of Montana, Helena
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