The Irish standard., 1895-05-25
TALK WITH MRS. S ! 4 R
How 6hs Game to Write Hsr Stories
That Havs Done 90 Mach to s.S.
35ts Preserve the Faith.
OTHER DAYS AID OTHER TINES.
Har Rec elections OF Thomas uAroy No
Gao, That t'Nob,e, Warm Hsartsd
MAN.

I sward that fringed a little Irish river,
reading the Fate of Father Sheehy,
says Walter Lecky in the Catholic News
His story runs that he could hardly see
the priat for tears, and SO great was MS
emotion that he thought his little heart
would break. Since those days he has
wandered far, and read much, but the eff
feet of the heroic life of a priest In the
penal times, sealing faith with his life,
still continues the most vivid OF BOOK
Impressions In bearing such tale, II
the listener is as the writer, given to the
curious, he will naturally ask, Who
wrote the book? To this my friend
would reply, with an ominous headshake
and the sad intelligence that the author
had long since joined the majority; to
use his own phrase had doomed the white
robe.'
This was convincing. Imagine my sur
prise, few months ago at dinner par
ty in Montreal, to be told that my friend
was deceived, and consequently dece1v-
ing others; that the author hale and
as in. the old days when, in burning
words and hearty patriotism she told the
'Fate of Father sheehy." would like
to see her." said one of the company,
who evidently had notion that my
smile of surprise was one of scepticlsm.
Here confess to a weakness. A recent
critic has noticed it, and OF course has
demanded that say mea clrlpa, etc. l.
say it here That weakness is to see
those who have made life less hard to
bear. There are many ways of doing
this; very many. Writing books-good
books-is one Of them. would like to
see herr" 1 turned the phrase up and
down in my mind and without any par
ley answered: II would like to see her
II your kindness will allow you to make
an arrangement to that effect A few
minutes later I rang the door-bell or
Mrs Sadlier's modest little home. NO
sooner was the door opened than genu~
warm hand clasp made me at nome.
NV host was more than seventy, yet
her skin was fresh, the tinge of the rose
still fingered in her cheeks, while the
gray Irish eyes lit UP the face with
sweetness that rarely accompanies old
age. Despite her years She is still &C
tive, activity rounded with grace that
makes you forget her age. 1t is when
she commences to speak OF the long ago
that you realize her years. AS we sat in
the little dining room, what flood OF
memories she evoked. She had known
the most prominent Irishmen OF her day.
She was the dearest friend Of the ill
fated Darcy MCGEE, whose poems, as
labor Of love, she edited. Brownson was
q "dear friend who had kept herself
and husband to the dawn, listening 'to
his delightful talk" Her house was
Bronson's home in his flying lecturing
trips to Montreal. The memory of one
of the most original thinkers of Amer
lea, one whose thoughts We're ever high
and noble, is enshrined in Mrs. Sadlier's
heart.
Listening to her converse, the Brown
son of the Review, strong, self-Willed,
interchangeable ledge-hammering the
pigmies, strewing the ground with their
armament, is forgotten for the calm,
scholarly kind-hearted gentleman in an
easy chair, talking de omni scibile In
the course Of our desultory chat l asked
Mrs. Sadlier how she became writer.
presume you know I was born in Ire
land" and the eyes flashed merrily. "My
maiden name was Mary Anne Madden;
my birth place Cooteville, county Cavan,
and the year, oh! its SO long ago, 1920.
Before leaving Ireland, in 1874, had
written few sketches for London la
dies magazine. On my arrival In Amer
itaI became conscious of my work. Ev-
cry ship was freighted with emigrants
and the best and noblest Of Ireland's
children. Amid the snares and tempta-
tions of their new land, would they hold
fast to the faith and love of country?
Distance not only lends enchantment to
the view; in many cases it wipes it out.
lies SO full of faith, piety and love for
the land that first greeted their eyes,
would (alas! that there was such prob
ability become careless, callous and
anchor weighted, drift away from the
old mornings. You must remember,
those were the days of poverty for our
race Banished from Ireland, they
landed penniless on these shores. The
safeguards of today were then unknown.
Credit to these exiles for their building.
Priests were few, churches far apart,
converts a luxury, while q bitter preju-
dice was rampant against all things
Irish and Catholic. Our own people, ow-
ing to the penal laws, had little educa-
ton. They felt its lack, and the giant
effort they made to build schools and
colleges for their children, show how
they appreciated what was through no
fault of their own, wanting to their life.
Could not help? In 1916 I married the
New York publisher, MIR. James Sadlier,
who was asking himself similar ques-
ton. He urged me to write.
What was to write? What! had
long solved that question. ] was to help
the priests in their work OF saving souls.
] would write for, as my friend MCGEE
called them, the poor exiless of Erin: In
a simple, easy style would painK the
land OF their love, the gray Irish sky,
with as you have written somewhere,
doctor, that spirit bird, the Irish lark,
dropping the songs the angels have told
him, the green fields the heath clad
hills rivers, lakes, peat boys, everything
that responded to q touch on memory's
key. Amid these scenes would paint
that glowing Irish faith, which like
Erin's shamrock's, as sung by McCar-
thy, Nj 81 353s Ut
ssIsThe more they're trod, rebound the
# more, 5s@k.i n u II
en- weaving the past, sad and lonely. I
That lesson. my life work, was the pres
ervation Of the old faith, and a bit OF
their heart for green Erin. You cannot
understand. doctor, how the exiled Irish,lI
cling to tCush AGREE. AL How my friend /