and Worcestershire tells us, of a purely local saint. "There are,' "There are," he writes, "several saints of the name of Catharine besides Catharine of the Wheel, but the legendary saint of Ledbury is one who has so far penetrated, as far as the present writer is aware, into no menology, and affords an interesting example of the purely local cultus of some holy person. Catharine Audley, who lived in the time of Edward II, is the person to whom this chapel is said to be dedicated. The tale is that she settled down at Ledbury because she was told to re

be called, seems to have attracted a great deal of attention on account of her piety and good works, and Camden tells us that the king "on consideration of her birth or piety, or both, granted her an annuity of £30. " Near the town there are still two adjacent pieces of ground, known respectively as "Catharine's Acre" and "Mabel's Furlong," and there is also a Hospital of St. Catharine in the High Street, which seems to have been founded by Bishop Hugh Foliott in 1232; but if the ascription of that building is contemporaneous with its founda

Bailey, a corvisor (shoemaker), aged a hundred, who died in 1674, and on the floor of St. Anne's chapel we read the following:

"The world's fashion defied
Our Lord's Passion applied
His bliss only in this descried
Ould Richard Hayward died
An. Dom. 1618."

A quaintly worded epitaph is also inscribed on the pillars by the organ:

"Say Paternoster for Sir W. Callow, Who loved God well and All Hallows. Dead, yes, and worm'd; admit to be, what then?

He lives enclosed within ye harts of men. Earth myst to earths, and here that part's confinde;

His purer part by Angells is enshrinede."

Alas! times are changed in the old church of Ledbury; no "Paternosters" are murmured nowadays for the souls of those whose dust lies within its walls, and England can no longer claim the proud title of the "Dowry of Mary."

The tower, as is more usual in Herefordshire than in other places, is separate from the church; possibly to avoid damage if the spire fell, or, as some say, for purposes of defence. The base is Norman, and the steeple two hundred and two feet high. The peal of eight bells chimes by machinery, and Ledbury is one of the very few places where the custom of ringing the curfew is still continued.

Another interesting memorial of the past is "St. Katharine's Hospital," a picturesque almshouse founded by Bishop Foliett about 1232, reestablished under Elizabeth in 1580, and re-regulated by Act of Parliament in 1819. The chapel, part of which was used as a stable by Cromwell's soldiers, is a fine specimen of the early English style. Several ancient mansions, one with carved lintels supposed to have been the

Bishop's palace, ornament Bye Street, and in the Homend, Abbey House, a half-timbered building, remains in excellent preservation. Time was, we are told, when Ledbury produced a wine of its own, probably much appreciated, as in the year 1288 "Vinea de Ledebur" was valued at eight pounds a pipe.

At the corner of the Lower Cross once stood an old tannery, as well as various half-timbered houses, but in 1892 these were destroyed in order to make room for the Barrett-Browning Memorial. It is a handsome structure consisting of a clock-tower and institute with library reading-room. As my readers are no doubt aware, the celebrated poetess spent her girlhood in this part of the world, and the memorial to her genius was chiefly raised by the efforts of Mr. C. W. Stephens, of Ledbury.

The town forms a capital centre for excursions. Birts Morton Court, a moated grange of the sixteenth century, connected with Wolsey, is six miles off, the ancient Gothic church of Bromes Berrow is at a distance of four miles, and one mile out is the Hazel Farm which is alluded to in the Domesday Book. Eastnor Castle is about two and a half miles from Ledbury, and there are other points of interest in the neighborhood too numerous to mention. Even the principal hotel, "The Feathers," partakes so far at least as its outward appearance goes-of the prevailing mediaevalism of the place. It is a gabled house of Tudor origin which has been in existence for over three centuries, and was one of the ancient inns of the coaching days. Several of the rooms are furnished with old oak, and the black oak staircase will prove a joy forever to the artistically inclined.

Τ

HE object of my present sketch is one which should be especially interesting to readers of THE ROSARY, for Cardinal Pierotti has worn for many years the white habit of the Dominican, and is altogether a shining light in that always luminous Order. Raffaele Maria Pierotti was born at Sorban del Vescono in the smiling Tuscany valleys and not very far from the picturesque and historical old town of Lucca. At a very early age he evinced marked symptoms of a vocation to the religious life, and when he was sixteen he became a son of St. Dominic, and made his novitiate under the care of Father Colles. One of his companions in the novitiate was Cardinal Zigliara, now dead. His studies were begun in Perugia, one of the most beautiful towns in Umbria's fair province, and completed in the Eternal City. He was professed on the 9th of January, 1853; in 1860 he took out the degree of Lector in Theology, and between that date and 1870 we find him officiating as Master of Novices in Rome. The present General of the Minerva, by the way, was a novice under Padre Pierotti in the year 1869. From 1870 till 1873 he acted as Regent of Studies at the Minerva Theological School, and then took up the manifold and arduous duties of parish priest of the Minerva parish, which office he retained for several years.

It was in the month of May that he succeeded Cardinal Bausa as Master of the Sacred Palace.. This post is one which can only be filled by members of the Dominican Order; it includes amongst other things the spiritual supervision of the Vatican officials, and the priest appointed bears the title of the

"Pope's Theologian." It is related of Cardinal Pierotti that once in his student days he defended a public thesis, not only with great eloquence but also, which is rarer, with a thorough knowledge of the point at issue. Amongst his audience was one Guiseppe Pecci, afterwards Cardinal Pecci, who now occupies the throne of Peter. He also took part in the spiritual debates which followed young Pierotti's speech, and formed on the spot a high opinion of the youthful Dominican's talents and opinion, which after events fully justified.

On the 30th of November, 1896, Raffaele Maria Pierotti received the red hat of a Cardinal, an honor which was unanimously pronounced to be well deserved. He belongs to the following congregations: Bishops and Regulars, Propaganda, Index, Rites, Indulgences and Sacred Relics, and is, moreover, Visitatore Apostolico dei Luoghi Pie, Protector of several religious and pious institutes, and Cardinal Deacon of the church of Saints Cosmas and Damian. His Eminence combines the humility and unassuming manners of a Dominican Friar with the dignity due to his lofty position as a prince of the Church. And the result is very charming. He is a clever theologian,-but that goes without saying of a Friar Preacher "c'est son metier"-and he is also exceedingly pious in the deepest, most significant sense of that much abused word. He is tall and imposing looking, with the face of an ascetic, but his health is at the present moment causing his friends and the public in general a little anxiety.

Owing to the recent death of Cardinal Pierotti, this sketch, which is full and authentic, is reprinted from THE ROSARY MAGAZINE of May, 1903.-[ED.

HERE is a narrow path up and

T across the steep hill, a field

dimpled with tiny hollows,

whither, in autumn, the leaves are carried by the wailing winds for burial. Through the valley below, a broad, shallow stream curves, its murmuring voice and the song of the birds alone breaking the country quiet. I climbed the hill one morning while the flowers, lifting their heads shyly from the leaves and grasses, were still adorned with gleaming dewdrops, and I roved through the old wood where I had played in childhood and where each tree was a friend, well-known and loved. In the deepest part of the wood-where the hill slopes on the other side to a dell where the undergrowth is thick and a grove of young birches lift themselves, questioning, with youthful imperiousness, what are the great secrets which the oaks and ashes, towering over them, hold in their enduring bosoms-a brook, tiny, silvery, wanders.

Here I paused, gazing silently at the thread of water curling past my feet. It did not chatter as it flowed, but slipped on noiselessly to join "the brimming river." Further up was a miniature cataract, and the water falling over this into the basin below sent back iridescent reflections of the dancing sunbeams, as a woman's grateful heart transforms the love it receives into a thousand tender joys for the giver. I pushed aside the tall grasses, and, crouching on the bank, fell to watching this tiny stream which, for aught I knew, had been forced ages agone from its hidden place to find a passage to the

sea or be lost irrevocably. Now its channel was smooth and certain, but I thought of the rill's first feeble, and at times seemingly futile, effort to mark out its pathway. How the tall, thick grasses, like these growing on its bank, obstructed its path and appeared like obstacles insurmountable! And the pebbles! pebbles! I wondered were there not times when, meeting them, the brook would fain turn aside and wander aimlessly among the grasses or lie stagnant at their roots? But it durst not waste itself, so, dividing, it passed around the stone over which to-day it glides.

In places the channel was deep, and here the water gleamed in the light like plates of polished silver. In other places it was shallow, and here the few broad blades of grass, pushing themselves up from their sandy bed, caused the water to break into ripples, which, catching a straying sunbeam, would make one think that a crowd of baby goldfishes were playing at hide-and-seek underneath. Sweet woodland flowers decked the bank on either side, their fragrance and beauty giving the last needed charm to the place. It was too beautiful a spot, I thought, to be hidden here in the heart of the unfrequented wood, shrinking into insignificance before the majesty of the ancient trees. It was like a tender, sweet-faced child, roaming through a ruin where sat grave Chaldean sages wrapped in awful mystery. Why had it not been sent through more congenial scenes, some lady's garden, where its loveliness would receive the admiration it merited, or through some low meadow-land, where the bare

footed children would love its silvery waters? Here its beauty, and utility, also, were wasted.

As thus I thought, a long-eared rabbit hopped out from its nest and coming fearlessly to the edge of the bank sipped leisurely of the cool water. The creature, so timid when near the habitation

of man, SO cautious when passing through the fields where his fellow animals peacefully abide, showed here no sign of alarm. The hill's rich bosom gave it food, the stream, drink, and the undergrowth, a home. As it left, a redbird, whose glad, wild song had been filling the wood with music, fluttered down and cooled its tired throat with the sparkling water, then perching on the swaying bough of one of the young birches, caroled its gratitude to the hidden stream. After that other birds came and drank and bathed, and carried off a mouthful to the little hot throats in some shrub or lofty tree. Was there waste of beauty and utility, I now questioned. And my heart answered: No, not while there were eyes to gladden, tongues to cool, albeit they belonged. but to birds and rabbits.

Like that brook flowing in the dark wood is the life of a woman I know. Her home, a rambling, quaintly built house, still suggests the prosperity and ease of the Southerner of the past, who, though possessing rich plantations and numberless slaves to till them, shifted the responsibility of his wealth onto the shoulders of another and spent his life pleasantly and carelessly. Wholly unlike the members of that aristocracy, so gradually but none the less surely being displaced in the South, is the tall, graceful woman who at my entrance rises from an old-fashioned armchair and clasps my hand in welcome. Her hair is snowy white, her face is colorless, and there is a transparency about it that suits the form from which grief has chiseled all youth's roundness. Her

mouth is large but perfect in shape, and when she smiles, as she often does, one sees teeth, white, small and even.

Like the outside of the house, the room in which she generally sits bears. traces of better, happier days. The carpet, in whose velvety softness the foot once sank, the painting of walls and ceiling, and the few pieces of rare old furniture, all tell of a departed prosperity. There is a great fireplace, which in summer is a mass of foliage, a high carved mantlepiece, above which hangs a portrait of General Robert Lee. There are other pictures on the walls and a few pieces of precious bric-a-brac scattered around; but the numberless scarfs and cushions with which so many women love to surround themselves are not found here. But what holds the attention longest in this interesting room are its many bookcases. It was the local fame of her fine collection of books that first made me anxious to know her, but in after days, when she admitted me to her friendship, they became a secondary matter.

"The Compiers were always a studious people," she observed one day, as we sat there, she busy with her darning and I engrossed with an ancient Shakespeare. "Some books in the collection were brought by my great, great grandfather from Maryland, but my father and brother Joseph, who now lives in Mobile, purchased the greater number of them. For my part, my life was spent among them. On evenings when Nell and Lettie would be in the parlor, singing or dancing, I would be out here reading with father and the boys. They used to tease me unmercifully, call me old maid and bookworm, and sometimes Charles would snatch away my book and bear me off to the parlor to waltz with him. A happy family? Ah! yes, my dear. There were seven children; now there are only four, and two of them separated from themselves and