Thus to the exertions of Father Gallagher, hundreds of parents, whose hearts had been wrung by the fall of their daughters, whose hoary heads were hastening to a premature and dishonored grave, are indebted for the Asylum, where their lost ones have been sheltered from the attacks of their enemies, protected from the cold and ofttimes cruel charity of the world, and trained in the glorious paths of virtue and morality. This is effected by the pure, simple, devoted, self-sacrificing lives of those heroic Sisters, as well as by the words of learning and divine charity in which they are daily instructed. As there is

joy in the celestial mansions among the blessed spirits which surround the Throne of Grace, on one sinner doing penance, so here on earth the parental hearth and heart have been gladdened, when the poor, weak, frail one has sought refuge in the Magdalen Asylum. A warm, fervent prayer, gushing up from the bruised and bleeding heart, has ascended like the fumes of sweet incense to the footstool of Mercy, in thanksgiving for the return of the prodigal, and in earnest supplication that blessings innumerable should be granted to the Sisters of Mercy, and good Father Gallagher.

It is not our purpose, nor is it necessary, to enter into further details of the labors of this indefatigable divine. Firm and consistent in all the teachings of the Catholic church, zealous and exact in the discharge of his duties as a minister of that church, he has not only secured the approbation and affection of his ecclesiastical superiors and the congregations committed to his care, but has conciliated the respect and esteem of those who differ from him in religious tenets. CATHOLIC in all the feelings of head and heart, he pursues "the even tenor of his way," intent alone in extending the kingdom of his Heavenly Master, and diffusing on earth peace and good will to men. His zeal in the ministry, his distinguished ability and learning, his labors for the promotion of education, his efforts in the cause of morality, and the general success of all his undertakings, entitle him to be classed among the Representative Men of California.

The various articles furnished by Father Gallagher

while acting as editor, prove that he wields a facile pen with force and vigor. Earnest and impressive, he also ranks high as a pulpit orator. The extract which follows this sketch is a specimen of his descriptive powers and style.

Extract from a Lecture on Rome,

Delivered in St. Joseph's Church, Tenth Street, San Francisco, in 1862.

BY REV. FATHER HUGH P. GALLAGHER.

Towards evening of the 13th April, 1854, the Padrone, as he is called (that is, the conductor of our conveyance) directed my attention to an object just dimly visible from that point of the road leading from Civita Vecchia to Rome: it was the great dome of St. Peter's! I felt with gratitude that the day-dream of my life from boyhood was at length promised an early realization. I was soon to stand within the city of Romulus and Remus-the Eternal City, the works of whose historians, poets, and orators, had been the labors of my early years. As I conned each stubborn line of her ancient classics, whether prose or verse, I had to become familiar with her feuds, wars, conquests, treaties, conspiracies, revolutions, changes of government, and laws-even her very topography. It seemed as if I could find my way through the streets of ancient Rome at midnight without a lamp; that I could recognize her heroes, officials, and authors, at sight, and hold familiar converse with them without the formality of an introduction. Whatever fourteen years' companionship with one of the most distinguished graduates and professors of the Propaganda left undone in familiarizing me with the very arcana of Christian Rome, was more than supplied by the accurate description of Baron Geramb; and since I became an ecclesiastic, Christian or modern Rome has been ALL to me.

From the moment I got the first glimpse of the city, I could scarcely withdraw my eyes from it for an instant. Such were my unfounded fears at that moment, that only by identifying my companions could I reassure myself that I must not again experience the disappointment of the morning dream: as the exile far away oft in visions of slumber revisits the home of his childhood, but wakes to disappointment-the loved ones disappearing with his sleep-he refuses to withdraw his eyes or to relax his grasp, determined, this time, from more vivid phantasm to force reality.

That night I slept within the city of the seven hills-the city of the Cæsars-where dwells the visible Head of the Church, the direct

successor of St. Peter, the reigning vicar of our blessed Lord! Betimes next morning, I hastened to gratify my anxious eyes by beholding him. For this purpose, I sought the Sistine Chapel, and was not disappointed. My success, however, in gaining admittance there, where so many were unfortunate, was the result of a lucky expedient. To avoid crowding, tickets of free admission to the Pope's chapel are issued to those who make timely application. This privilege is sought to be monopolized by members of royal families visiting there, foreign ambassadors and their suites. Clergy are admitted, but they must present themselves in ecclesiastical costume-a sutane and clerical hat. In my impatience to be there, I neglected these requirements, and presented myself in my usual apparel. With many others, I was refused admittance by the Swiss guard, who, under the command of Capt. Schmidt, sentineled the entrance. To the remonstrance of a member of the Pope's household in my behalf, the captain's answer was that "his instructions were peremptory." As the rest retired disappointed, I addressed the old commander, now at leisure, quite familiarly in stout Teutonic, his mother tongue. The gallant and warm-hearted old veteran, thinking it too bad that, having journeyed from the uttermost bounds of the earth, I should be disappointed, politely allowed me to pass in, remarking that my slight foreign accent, in the pronunciation of some German words, was doubtless caused by emigrating from Fatherland when young. It was a slight mistake. To have corrected it, would not have helped my purpose; so he enjoyed his theory and I my choice seat in the Sistine chapel.

In the sanctuary just before me sat the sovereign pontiff, Pius the Ninth, surrounded by cardinals and prelates, celebrating the Mass of the Presanctified-the most solemn commemoration of our Lord's passion and death-for it was Good Friday. His hands were joined, his countenance turned gently upwards, and those large, lustrous eyes fixed immovable, as though rivetted on objects beyond the clouds-on the dread mysteries of eternity.

At the proper signal, all engaged in the ceremonies formed in solemn procession, and passed just by me to the Pauline chapel; whence they returned in a few moments, the Pope bearing the Most Blessed Sacrament under a gorgeous canopy. I was but too happy in being permitted to join the procession in which were corporeally present the visible and invisible Head of the Church-Peter and his Divine Master. How amply did the weather-beaten, way worn pilgrim from the distant Pacific feel rewarded in finding himself, at his journey's end, in the company of Peter, and the Apostles, and the Lord himself! What powerful incentive to his cherished faith, that alone explains the supernatural, to find himself in physical contact with the living link of that unbroken chain that unites him with the Deity! In the consolations of that moment, he felt his holy faith enkindled, intensified, illumined, and rewarded: in a word, the nearest approximation to penetration behind the veil of faith-to the fruition of vision, the realization of the promise, "I am with you."

At three o'clock P. M. of the same day, the same sacred edifice was

thronged by crowds to witness the office of Tenebrae, and gratify their love of the marvelous by hearing the world-renowned Miserere sung by the Pope's choir. The Tenebrae is the ordinary office of those three great days of Holy Week, performed solemnly in the larger churches. The triple or triangular candlestick is placed, having fifteen candles lighted. As the office proceeds, fourteen of the candles are gradually extinguished, indicating the death of the prophets, or the extinguishing of those lights of the people of God. The fifteenth is finally removed behind the altar, indicating the death of our blessed Lord, and the fulfilment of all the prophecies. On its removal, the clergy knock gently on the cover of their books, representing the earthquake that occurred at the moment He expired on the cross. This done, the candle is brought back unextinguished, and replaced, representing that He has arisen, to die no more-the unfading light of the world! This psalm commences as the wailing of a guilty world and its suppliant cry for mercy. Mid the earthquake's rumblings, a solitary voice is heard in deep, pathetic, plaintive tones, crying, "Have mercy on me, O God! according to thy great mercy!" Numberless voices just then become audible, as the spirits of a thousand worlds catching the tone of supplication: "And according to the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out our iniquities!" At the verse, Averte faciem tuam ("Turn away thy face from my sins") the petition is caught up, and wafted higher and higher by different, shall I say relays of voices, as though these souls would carry their supplications to the very feet of the Most High.

While these plaintive notes are dying away in the distance, the tone is caught up by a solitary voice, as of an angel bending down from the skies to receive that petition and lay it before the Throne of Mercy. That voice is listened to, as it flies heavenwards, until it becomes inaudible in the clouds. At that moment, you hear the rapt audience endeavoring to supply by a long inhalation the exhaustion they experienced in following with bated breath the angel's flight. As you enjoy this celestial chant, you hear the full vibrations of the dulcet-toned string and the clear silvery ring of the wind instruments; but it is a deception. There is naught there but the perfected harmony of the human voice: there are no sounds in the Pope's choir but the voices of men!