the chemical forces which enter into the phases of our hourly existence, are invisible, noiseless, intangible; and who among us thinks of questioning their reality? But, while acting constantly on the strength of such trust as this, men doubt the very existence of angel or spirit or of God himself. Into our turmoils and our doubts the story of St. Stanislaus Kostka comes like a lull in a tempest. And let us bear in mind that all we read and think of him must be read and thought in fair faith. We are not accustomed to go to a ploughman to learn about as tronomy, nor to a philosopher to be taught about farming. By that same token, we go, not to unbelievers, but to the saints of God, to learn of the things of God. Before we call their ecstasies mere dreams, and their miracles a delusion, let us ask if our hearts are so clean and our lives so pure, that we are fitted to judge what the sight of God is, or what it can effect. Men dare to tell us that what we read of such saints belongs to an age long gone by; that simple or blinded races craved the marvellous, but to our free and enlightened people these stories are only stories, and we must adapt ourselves to the need of our day. It is the very need of our day which is met thus. The boy of to-day pores over the story book which tells of a runaway's doings by sea or land in search of adventure, or he seeks his heroes in the world's history upon the battle-field, or in the cabinet, or on the exchange; and he turns away from prayer and church and holy books,-they are tiresome and womanish. The secret lies simply here. God never gave more than one Church to men, and that Church alone can win and keep them for him. In that Church Christ the Lord is revealed to them, more real than anything on earth, hero, leader, conqueror, glorious King, with the wounded heart that wakes the loyal fire in all noble hearts to suffer and bleed like it. In that Church the Communion of Saints is an actual verity, and the Mother of God cares for us, and the angels of God walk beside us by night and day. There the voice of Christ still calls to souls to leave all and follow him, and there still are the men and the women who take that "all" in its full meaning, and leave at once their homes and their riches, their nets and their father, to follow Christ alone. And there still are lives like this saintly one, which bid our turmoils cease, while they remind us that God is glorified by and delights in the life of praise and peace and prayer which men term useless. Stanislaus The Story of St. Kostka, which we have been noticing, is beautifully but very briefly told. The life of the saint in the library of religious biography, edited by Mr. Edward H. Thompson, while it records the same events in the earthly existence, surrounds them with a larger mass of detail, and devotes many more pages to the intercessory work of the saint after death. Then this boy who, as men would say, "did nothing useful," worked with God in Heaven by a marvellous and loving and steadfast power. Through his intercession the plague ceased its ravages and fire its work of swift destruction, sight was granted to the blind, health to the sick and dying, life to the dead, and so great and signal was the aid which he rendered to his native country, that the title of Patron of Poland was awarded to him by Pope Clement X. And after a long catalogue of these wonderful deeds, "few as they are in comparison with those detailed by his chief biographer, Bartoli, which again, as he says, are scanty as compared with those recorded in the processes,' come the following touching words: "We have limited ourselves to citing those miracles which, from their external character, admit juridical proof; but it would be a great injustice to the saint, and an unpardonable omission, were we to fail to observe that the miraculous assistance which Stanislaus has rendered in the order of grace, has far surpassed in abundance even his temporal interventions. P. Bartoli, who wrote ninety-seven years after the saint's death, asserts that instances were daily occurring, and doubtless many more existed, known only to the individuals themselves, of relief from every species of horrible and afflicting temptation; from scruples, aridity, desolation of spirit; from inability to excite contrition in the heart, and even to offer a single prayer; from danger of despair; in short, from every peril and internal suffering which can menace or oppress the soul, all through the effectual intercession of Stanislaus." And Father Coleridge gives a letter written by the venerable Father Nicolas Lanciski, telling in detail certain great spiritual graces granted him through St. Stanislaus. "So small a boy and so great a saint;"thus he was spoken of in days that are past, and thus still his praise rings down to us for our profit in this country to-day. There will come a time when it will be known that America is owned by a mightier power than banner of England or France or Spain or the widespread stars and stripes denote; there will come a time when from north to south and from east and west the King of kings, immortal and invisible, shall claim his own. But for this, and for all his work, he has other weapons besides those plain and tangible ones which impress the world. Among his saints are princes and counsellors indeed, souls of flame like holy Xavier's, and souls of steel like holy Loyola's, and the soul of the seraph like the great saint of Assisi; but he has also flowers in his eternal garden, who serve him by their lowliness and loveliness, their praise and prayers and penances, their very living. Against other holy ones the powers of the world can struggle hard, but before these they are impotent. No human weapon can fight prayer; no human strength can hurt a holy life; no human subtlety can cope with the simplicity of those who, secure from all evil, are hidden with Christ in God. What a check to our eager pursuit of wealth and our wild political excitements, is the thought of this boy's calm seventeen years of life on earth, and his prevailing power with God afterward for the benefit of his people! Have we no need of saintly intercession in the seething chaos of our new world? Ever since the second holy Christopher bore Christ across the stormy waters to the much-desired land, holy men and women have lived here who loved and died for Christ alone, and many of them have died for him the martyr's death. Is there nothing for us to do, either by the active hand or powerful prayer, to rend the veil of falsehood from the past, and raise these soldiers of the great King to their true places nobly won in his Holy Church? Derided and neglected though they be on earth, they live this day and plead this day for us and for our country before the Eternal Throne. What added force would be given to their pleading, were we fervently striving that God should here be glorified in his saints! What truer, tenderer love would be ours for our country, if far and wide the truth was known and prized, that this land was sought for and found and claimed in the Name of names for the Cross of our Lord! Will the boys of America be the worse men of America, when they know that the discoverer of this western world was more than a discoverer; that he was truly Christopher, the Christ-bearer, a Bayard among God's soldiery, a great-hearted crusader yearning to win the world for his Divine Master? Will they be the Then said she to her Spouse: "Of all these dear Which is Thy best beloved?" Thro' the gloom, Through many a dusky crypt and corridor, V. Here lay upon a pallet, small and hard, With her strange thoughts; her hidden, helpless air, More than a hundred souls that owned her sway, VI. No broideries on jewelled silk her hand And liquid Latin; moulding flowers and fruits VII. But, when the foul distemper on her fell, VIII. And thus the weary suffering years had trailed "Oh! love to be unknown, unknown, unknown !" Albeit that her very bed was shaken Whene'er the ponderous chimes began to waken, She only seemed more strange and silent grown. IX. For all those mighty throes and shudderings A crucifix upon the whitewashed wall. X. The stigmas on the Christ were rude and brown, The list'ner heard with awe; and often stood— XI. Forgotten? Yea, by all save One alone; |